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Andrew Stowe - Watson Project 2006-2007
The moon is bloated and bright, a real full orange moon, and I'm walking down Casey St., a real steep hill heading down towards the water, and I'm in Newfoundland!, and I feel grand. A month in the tundra and a few days in Winnipeg broke in my not-too-old new shoes, and they make soft-slap padding sounds as I stretch my legs down the hill with a smile. I whisper the name of the place under my breath, "Newfoundland", and am filled with excitement, the word like the moon in my mouth, round and full, and tasting like the sea-salt spray blowing in off the harbour water. I only enjoy the name for a half second, though, before the brisk wind whisks it out of my mouth and away from my ears. I began my journey from Winnipeg to St. John's while yesterday's moon was still in the sky, and the day included delayed flights, last minute scrambles, over-booked planes, and, on the last of the day's three flights, a mistake that somehow landed me in Executive Class with a massage chair, a nice dinner, and an immense glass of Pinot Noir (thank you AirCanada). By all rights I should be exhausted. But I can feel the cool breeze off the ocean, an elixir for my airport-numbed mind, and my restless legs, cooped up all day like anxious racehorses in the stable on the day of a race, enjoy the feel of the road under my feet, and I'm free, really free, totally cut loose, for the first time since my journey began more than a month ago. There is no Study Centre waiting for me here, with everything I might need under one wide roof, full of researchers, a safe haven for living and working. No friends here (not yet at least), no traveling companions, no family. One could call it 'alone', but I prefer 'free'. 'Free' is less depressing and inhibitory. This is where an adventure begins, a real adventure, an adventure different from the one in Churchill that involved very large threatening creatures (in very small numbers) and very small threatening creatures (in very large numbers).
Now I'm sitting in Kelly's Pub on George St., sipping a Red Ale and writing this all down, listening to three young Newfoundlanders playing traditional songs about sailors, cod, and drinking (and the relationship between all three). With the bodhran, irish bouzouki, and accordion, the musicians give the streets and the sea and the harbour air a rolling lilting voice, entertaining an audience comprised almost entirely of Newfoundlanders with at least 50 years under their belts. If their hair wasn't gray and their cheeks lined with wrinkles, however, their young-woman jigging and young-man twinkling-of-the-eyes would beguile their age. And if it weren't for the self-proclaimed 'Newfie' chefs whose expertise kept the hungry lion-like mob of Churchill researchers well fed at the study centre, and whose music filled the kitchen at all hours of the day (and of the night during long games of cribbage and contact rummy), I might feel out of place in Kelly's, like a foreigner listening to a local language in a strange land. Instead, I find I already know all of the songs and can sing and clap and slam my beer glass and join in the sociables at all the right times.
Midnight, and Tuesday has slyly become Wednesday without anyone noticing, or at least pausing to care. A break in the music, and as the night slows, the mind begins to follow suit. The Red Ale gone and I head back up the Casey St. Hill while my legs still have the strength to carry me. Like the horses on the short tracks, they have speed and strength on long days like today for short distances only.
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