What would you do if you were alone, your flight to a foreign country was three and a half hours delayed, making you land at 2am in B.F.E., and all shuttles and taxis to your hotel stop servicing at 12:30am? Well, I’m not sure what you would do, but what I did was hop into a car with three strangers, that I spoke briefly with while waiting in JFK, and somehow, miraculously, making it to my hotel, 30 minutes away, anyway. Sometimes, it pays to be a tree-talker.
Turns out though, it didn’t really matter what time I got into Halifax, because anything important in that city can be seen and done in one day flat. For a country that is crap at war, they have kind of an intense militaristic history; the Citadel is kind of out-of-character for what I perceived Canada to be. They do, however, and this did not shock me, have a shit-ton of bars and clubs, most of which the 741 kids on semester at sea mobbed at some point during the night. Instead of going with the crowd (when do I ever, though), this kid that sat next to me on the plane, who also happened to be an SAS-er, and I befriended some locals who just so happened to be turning 19 (it’s the drinking age there, so imagine a 21st birthday party, but Canadian style), went bar-hopping with them, sang karaoke, hung out at one of their lofts, and got free drinks, shots, food, and weed. Gotta love that Canadian hospitality, but gotta hate that ‘wake-up-after-three hours-of-sleep-still-drunk-and-pack-for-three-months’ feeling.
Anyway, and I never thought I’d be saying this, so I might only ever admit it once, but…. I LOVE CANADIANS.
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