RTW 56. Any sore spots?

Sunday, 27 June 2010

St John’s, Canada

Have ordered a bus transfer to the airport that picks up from the front of the hotel. CA$20 for the half hour journey. Exit hotel and greeted by a couple of taxi drivers touting for business. Told I’m waiting for the bus in ten minutes, they offer to take me to the airport for the same price.

Done deal.

Transfer in comfort rather than a cramped public bus.

Small airport with hardly any other passengers. So go straight through the scanner. Only to be stopped for a full on search.

My belt is loosened by the guard who then asks if I have any sore spots.

WHAT?!?!

Bloody hell, what’s this search going to be like?!

Rucksack is emptied. And I mean emptied of everything.

And bomb swabbed. To check for all those explosives I’m not carrying.

Clearly bored on account of no passengers am being given the full treatment.

Nail scissors confiscated. Notwithstanding the three flight security checks they’ve already passed through on this trip. Two small jeweller’s screwdrivers for my glasses just about pass muster after a lot of deliberation.

Having relieved me of my scissors am allowed airside.

Terminal takes all of a few strides to see in its entirety. Heathrow it isn’t.

Short flight to St John’s. Newfoundland. And not far from the easternmost point of North America at Cape Spear. Very rugged coastline enroute reminds me of the flight I took from Newquay to the Isles of Scilly a few years ago and the northern Cornish coast.

Utterly clapped out taxi to the downtown Delta Hotel (https://www.marriott.com/hotels/travel/yytds-delta-hotels-st-johns-conference-centre/). A sign of things to come.

Rapidly realising that St John’s is crap. No other word for it. Think Grimsby on a wet day. Yep. That bad.

Walking to the quayside merely reinforces initial view. More grimness. Plenty of undesirables about.

Enquire about a whale tour. Not guaranteed to see whales and forecast is for it to be a bit choppy. Don’t do choppy. Not since a four hour deep sea fishing expedition off the coast of Cornwall with my Dad in 1984. No. Not to be repeated, dear reader. Will give whales a miss.

Am assured the best restaurant in town is ‘Blue on Water’. Need somewhere quiet to catch up on diary, dear reader. Am way behind.

Sit and scribble away. Surprisingly busy for a Sunday night me thinks.

Persuaded to try the local delicacy.

Cod cheeks.

And.

Cod tongue.

Very tasty.

Continue scribbling. Quietly minding my own business.

Party of six on the adjacent table. Clearly here as part of a conference in town. One of the women asks what I’m doing.

Explain my around the world in 60 days tour.

They’re very interested.

It starts a chain reaction.

Another woman, who is much more extrovert, is, apparently, the niece of a famous Canadian Prime Minister. Whose name I have forgotten. Though had never heard of him. So not Trudeau.

The lone man in the party is actually English. From Lincoln.

Oh really, I say. I’m from Nottingham.

Really? My sister lives near Nottingham.

What do you do for a living? Says he.

I’m a Quantity Surveyor.

Really? My sister is married to a Quantity Surveyor!

No way! Who is it?

And tells me the name of a well known Partner/Owner of one of Nottingham’s quantity surveying practices.

Such a small world!

They’ve all had a few bottles of wine by now. It’s getting messy.

First woman that spoke to me says she has a very good looking 30-ish daughter. Who loves travelling. Who works in London. The whole party of six is now trying to fix me up with her daughter. Mother is now trying to get in touch with her for daughter to meet me when I arrive back in the UK on Wednesday.

They insist on photos.

End up with the Mother and the former Canadian Prime Minister’s niece, who, it turns out, is daughter’s Godmother, sitting on my knees for photos.

To send to daughter in London.

So.

There I am.

Two strange women on my knees. Drunken arms slung around my neck and shoulders.

Being photographed.

You. Couldn’t. Make. It. Up.

Taurean charm you see.