Donkey Shot

The locals call it No Nova Scotia, due to its resistance to change, and I must say I found things pretty much as I left them four years ago.

With a couple of exceptions—Halifax has grown vertically, clearly trying to emulate its bigger sisters in the US and Canada. The two- or three-story buildings remain and then suddenly there’s ten more glass and steel floors above them, which makes the downtown rather dark.

The other change, which certainly makes up for the darkness, is the proliferation of a new construction material—grass. Surfing the wave of legalization, Halifax has embraced cannabis culture with a vengeance—everyone walks around with a big smile.

A classic from the late Winston Hubert McIntosh (who knew)

I marveled at the way the weed stores are set up, advertising products such as Skosha Lemon Dory, Good Supply Jean Guy, and Back 40 Wedding Pie. Only Durban Poison rang a bell from the old days—the Halifax stores are squeaky clean, with brightly lit displays and bright-eyed attendants, very much the wholesome image of the Maritimes.

Just like any other pharmacy, a Cannabis dispensary in central Halifax promotes its wares to eager tokers.

Later on in my journey, I saw dope stores in Toronto’s Chinatown that were considerably more seedy, if you excuse the pun—very much in line with what’s on offer in the alleys around Amsterdam’s Dam Square.

Down Spring Garden Road you see a procession of homeless people—many of them young—then as as you cross the park into the Dalhousie neighborhood you see properties—and not on big lots—selling for over one million Canadian, which brings home the universality of haves and have nots.

Canada is dear to my heart—I rented a guitar in Halifax for three dollars a day, and when the store guy offered me insurance I had to keep a perfectly straight face—it cost four bucks. Now, you might be thinking that’s fair since it was obviously a worthless instrument, but no—the axe had a sticker price of two hundred bucks, so what this attests to is on the one hand the volume of rentals and on the other the minuscule crime rate.

The hop from Halifax to Montreal may be trivial in miles—certainly by Canadian standards—but the two burghs are worlds apart. Sin City, as it was known in prohibition times, makes a point of being froggier than the most ambitious anurans.

There is a certain irony to this, because French-Canadians are despised by the French, who make fun of their language, accent, and the general audacity they have in attempting to be French without actually being French. In that sense, Montreal could be twinned with Mons, since the hapless Belgians share the same predicament.

But like any minority, the Québécois (or Quebeckers in English, which is less romantique) are besotted with their nationality (Je me souviens) and they defend it to the hilt—even the traffic signs say ‘Arret’ instead of ‘Stop’. France, on the other hand, doesn’t have to worry about that—Paris doesn’t have any stop signs.

Montreal seems to live very well with itself—it’s a fun, confident city, and although more raffinée (it’s definitely a lady) than the Scots-Irish Halifax or St. John, I didn’t feel any snobbery whether I spoke English or French to the people I met. Some were distinctly happier to speak French, but only because that was obviously their first language, and no one snubbed me, as has often happened in Paris.

In short, the people of mount royal seem to shrug off this slight from their faraway homeland like ice off a moose’s back.

One of the most beautiful sights in the world—a boat decorating a church.

Whenever I’m in Montreal, I walk east to the church of Notre Dame du Bon Secours and light a few candles for those who are now in a higher place. The church is amazing—partly because it is the church of Our Lady of the Harbour (with a u, blame Canada), indelibly stamped in my brain by one of Leonard Cohen’s classic tunes.

The other remarkable thing about the church is that its strongest feature is at the rear. The statue of Our Lady of the Harbour looks onto the St. Lawrence, as if the architect was conflicted about worshipers coming in city-side and tried to show the maritime mysticism to travelers on the other side.

In my mind, the woods south of the St.Lawrence and the waters winding from Lake Ontario remain full of the war cries of the Iroquois—called Maquas by the Dutch and Mingo by the Delaware Indians. It was here that the colonial part of the Seven Years War was fought, culminating in the defeat and death of France’s Marquis de Montcalm, in a battle that also claimed the life of his British opponent, General Wolfe.

My time in Canada was punctuated by a number of machine gun massacres in the US—Buffalo, which is just across Niagara on the Ontario side, set the scene, shortly followed by the shooting of nineteen kids at a Texas elementary school, followed in turn by yet another set of murders in Tulsa, Oklahoma. In the middle of all this, the NRA held its brilliantly spoofed annual convention in Houston, Texas, no less.

Meanwhile, on my last day in Toronto, Canada fought back with its own unique brand of gun violence—at two schools, pellet guns were used by students on classmates—no life-threatening injuries were recorded. Along with the NRA thoughts and prayers, I too offer a solution to the scourge of semi-automatic weapons in the United States.

Peter Tosh’s M16 electric guitar—a musician’s answer to all your thoughts and prayers.

You might be wondering what on earth the title of this piece has to do with its content.

The answer is nothing whatsoever. It’s just a terrible Spanish pun I fell in love with.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

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