A Cannibalistic Canadian House of Horrors . . . . Or Not.

*** continued from previous post ***


Finally, through the haze I spotted a sign for a 'Tourist Centre'. My hackles were up immediately. Which, with the cold, was quite painful. What abomination was this? What diabolical mind changed the spelling of 'Center' to 'Centre'? Eff'n French Canadians, that's who.

Protip: Never trust a person that lives in one country, but believes they are in another. Aw screw that, I'm just trying to be politically correct here. Protip: Never trust the French. Canadian or otherwise.

In my defense, I may have been slightly paranoid after all the excitement of the day. As we fish-tailed down the road I explained to your mother that this place was most certainly a trap where tourists went in - but they never came out. Much like a Roach Motel. A horrible place of death and exported Canadian pot-pies, (New and improved flavor from THE STATES!"), to which your Mom argued - quite successfully - that it was NOT some cannibalistic house of horrors, merely a bathroom and some brochures. Possibly a Mountie. Certainly a stuffed Beaver or two.

I resisted stopping, but in the end I capitulated to ensure domestic harmony. Oh, it took some convincing on her part, but the phrase that sealed the deal, and made me pull into the 'Tourist Centre Du Death' was, "I want you to stop now. You should know I've fashioned a 'prison shank', and I will stick it hard and quick between your fourth and fifth rib. . . straight into your liver."

I have no idea how, or when, she had the time to fashion a 'prison shank', but that's not really the point. I thought it over for a minute and was going to call her bluff but two things prevented me from taking that action: 1. You're Mom had A LOT of time to sit on the back of the bike and think while enduring the rain. 2. I felt a sharp object, pressing hard against my Frogg-Toggs in the region of my kidneys. I calculated the risk. She may, or may not know exactly where my liver was located, but the point was moot. She was prepared to do damage, and in the end quibbling about whether I was hemorrhaging out of a liver or a kidney didn't seem all that important.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Canada - Prelude To Wierdness

*** continued from previous post ***

Blinded by anticipation, (and perhaps a touch of heat exhaustion), we journed on across the border to Galway Bay.

Beautiful country. The town of Galway Bay isn't far across the border, which is a blessing because by this time we are bushed. It's nearing 6 o'clock. The heat has really taken the spunk out of us. And if you've ever been de-spunked, you know just how uncomfortable that can be. Luckily we've already booked a room at a motel that, while it isn't exactly 4 star quality, received very high-ratings on various websites for cleanliness, quiet rooms, and comfortable beds.

Galway Bay proper is definitely a summer 'cabin on the lake' type place. No central core so to speak, just a collection of businesses and services lining both sides of the highway about a half-mile from the lake itself. As we drive through town we see several restaurants, most of them empty or closed, a good size grocery store, etc. We don't see any chain restaurants - no fast food except for what looks like a family-run drive-in, but that's okay. We try to avoid the chains when we are on the bike, preferring to spend our money locally. You know, like good little world-class consumers.

I decide to allow Sweet Alice the opportunity to redeem herself after her 'petite' foible'. I plug the address for the motel into the little digital bugger, and her soothing voice purrs the turn-by-turn. We have forgiven each other our temper from earlier in the day. Friends again and full of trust, we follow the path she has chosen and soon enough we find ourselves at said Motel.

How best to describe this establishment? It is one of those old 50's strip-type motels. You know, single-story. Faded signs. Whitewashed cinder blocks. Neon that may or may not work. Psychotic maniacs peeking out from behind curtains and giggling. But, we have reservations, and it got good reviews, and we are exhausted and sweaty. Mostly sweaty. We have now been on the bike about 11 hours, 7 of it in 100+ heat. We just want off the bike for the night. Possibly forever. I'm sure you can sympathize.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***