A few summers ago, my mother and I took a trip up the coast of Maine and into Canada. We drove, and we drove, and we drove though all this flat land studded with pine trees, until we came to a bridge. We crossed the bridge (despite the exorbinant toll. $40 Canadian) and then we were on the island of red soil, lupines, and potatoes: Prince Edward Island.
This place, while bustling and amazingly large for an island, seemed pretty remote to me. My mother and I stayed in a hostel in a little fishing village, from which departed a ferry to the iles de la madeline.
I wanted to go. How far? I asked our red-headed waitress at the Irish pub.
About 8 hours, said she.
We didn't go. But folks, there are these islands out there, french-speaking, that are 8 hours away FROM ANOTHER ISLAND!
There is a direct flight from Montreal. People live there. Apparently, there are some good b&bs.
But can you imagine? I'm charmed and intrigued. You couldn't drive to the mall. You can't go to a great concert a few hours away. No hopping on the interstate and going to another state without ferries or planes.
Eight hours away from another island. Blows my mind.
1 comment:
birds of a feather, we are.
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