So Much for Going Straight Home

I had the chance to stay at my brother and sister-in-law’s house while they were in Greece. They needed someone to look after things. The garden, the mail, Miso the cat, Noodle the snake, and so on.

For the first two weeks, I work from the house. That’s an experience in itself. You’re living in two time zones at once. At some point in my day, the working day in the Netherlands ends and the phone goes quiet. No more emails. No more messages. Suddenly, silence.

I work 32 hours a week and always have Fridays off. So every weekend feels like a little vacation before the actual vacation.

On this particular morning, I start with a sandwich and a coffee. Nova Scotia is famous for a couple of things. One of them is fog. And this morning is no different. The house stands high above the rest of the world, firmly anchored in the granite bedrock below.

I sit down at my laptop and get some work done. It’s very, very quiet in the house. My colleagues call me as if we’re in the same country.

Miso comes over. Her steps are slow and elegant. Her tail sways gently behind her. She’s the gentlest cat I’ve ever known. She lets out a tiny meow, brushes against my leg, and disappears into the magazine basket beneath the bookcase. It’s her favourite spot.

I’m finding it hard to concentrate. I write letters and send out invitations for appointments once I’m back in the Netherlands. We use an online printing service at work. I send the documents digitally and they print them for us. I can do that just as easily from a house in Nova Scotia as I can from my desk at home.

It’s the last day of my two weeks of work before my vacation starts. By the time I close the laptop, I’m out of energy and I don’t feel like cooking. So I start Googling places to eat. I’ve seen a few on my drives into town.

Getting into Halifax at this hour is a challenge. But I figure I should experience Halifax rush hour at least once. So I leave at five. The worst time I could possibly pick.

I start the 4Runner and make a sharp right down the slope. Straight onto the brakes. The road drops away as soon as I leave the house.

Another thing Nova Scotia is famous for is potholes. And this road is no different. Drive it often enough and you start to remember them one by one. Eventually you can dodge them all.

One of the places I looked up is in Dartmouth. Too far. I’d have to cross the bridge, and at this hour that sounds horrible. I make it downtown but can’t find the second place either. Meanwhile, my brother calls. The first thing he notices is what a beautiful car I’m driving.

After we hang up, I park at the Citadel and walk into town. Eventually I find a Pita Pit. I have some falafel and salad, jot down a few notes for my stories, including this one, and go for a walk.

It’s a different world. Cars everywhere. Power lines overhead. Colourful shop signs that look like they’ve been there forever. Streets that go up or down. Cracked sidewalks. The city is buzzing.

By now the fog has lifted and it’s turned into a very, very hot day. I head back to the car, thinking I’ll go home. But before I do, I decide to take a walk through Camp Hill Cemetery.

It’s been there since 1844, right across Summer Street from the Public Gardens. It might sound a little odd to go for a walk in a cemetery, but I like reading the old headstones. Some of them tell whole stories. Who these people were, what they did for the community, how people remembered them.

And then there are the husbands and wives buried together, their names on the same stone. I find that beautiful. Love even after death. And some of us can’t even hold it together while we’re alive. Me included.

I walk back towards the car, but then I see the entrance to the Public Gardens across the street. So much for going home.

There’s a whole Victorian garden in the middle of the city. Winding paths, flower beds laid out in neat patterns, a bandstand. People sit on benches. Ducks and geese are on the pond. I decide to have a coffee at Uncommon Grounds, inside Horticultural Hall, just in from Spring Garden Road by the swan fountain.

The hall was built in 1847. It’s the oldest building in the gardens. The horticultural society used to meet there and store vegetables in the cellar over winter. And now I’m sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee.

My mum calls while I’m out there. We have a little chat. As I get up to leave, sirens in the distance break the quiet of the gardens.

By the time I get back to the car, the city has calmed down a little. This time I really do head home.

I don’t feel like a tourist. I feel like I live here. And I could.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m hardly a city guy. I like nature and wide-open fields. But Halifax has something. It’s eclectic. Or is it electric? It certainly feels alive. Maybe it’s both.

So many different faces. Different colours. A country shaped by people who came from all over and made a life here.