Halifax Dispatch

The water in the lakes and in the ocean is always cold here. That is what my wife told me before I got on the plane. Now, banking at below eight thousand feet above the little finger lakes surrounding the final approach to Halifax airport, I believe her. Even from this height, the water looks cold. And clear. I can see the bottoms of the lakes, we are so low now. It is actually quite an uncomfortable way to arrive somewhere, this low to the ground while still in the air. The descent is bumpy. I am glad to be on the ground.

Ahead of me in the border control line a man juggles and drops the duty-free bottle of Scotch he had carried from the airport shop in Newark, where we all got on the plane. In the brisk aroma of the aftermath the man, a religion scholar like myself (most of us were, on this flight), opined simply that "Shit happens."

Every time I fly North, I get the old Thomas Dolby song, "Flying North," stuck in my head - partly because it is a catchy song, and, well, I'm flying North. If you've never heard of Thomas Dolby, you actually have. He's the dude that did "She Blinded Me with Science, back in the '80's, and everybody has heard that. If you've never heard "Flying North," however, don't feel bad. I am one of six people on the planet that has actually heard that song (We have a club, which meets semiannually, usually somewhere in the tropics, like Tahiti).

There are no seagulls in Halifax. At least none that I have been able to find. Again, my wife tells me that this is likely because Halifax is so far North. Same basic reason, for the birds and the water. North. I am wondering if this also would account for the wireless internet reception, which is spotty, it seems, no matter where I go.

Everyone makes eye contact here. Most people smile when you walk past them. If you say "hello," they respond in kind. Evidently, no one here has gotten the Great North American Memo on Standoffishness, which seems to have such a firm hold on the lower 48. Needless to say, for the next two days, I am, for almost the first time, not out of place. These Nova Scotians seem to engage, quite naturally, in behaviors for which I have been scolded and teased for over three decades. Friendliness. Who knew? It is a reasonable substitute for the lack of seagulls.

Apparently, according to a debate I read about in one of the local free papers, Halifax has one adult club where topless dancing is permitted. Only the club is not actually in Halifax; it is in nearby Dartmouth. I noted this because the debate reported was over whether or not local entrepreneurs should be allowed to open Halifax's second topless adult club. Which will not actually be in Halifax, but rather (again) in nearby Dartmouth.

Last night I took myself out for dinner. I had the Surf and Turf at a local establishment that came highly recommended. It was a very pleasant meal. It is reassuring to know that, much like the skill of riding a bicycle never really leaves you, I can still navigate the innards of a crustacean. That being said, the Turf was a lot better than the Surf in this arrangement. When I comented about this to my wife, she reminded me that, traditionally, Maine lobsters are considered superior to Nova Scotian lobsters, whose meats are used primarily in derivative dishes such as bisques.

As a side note, I find myself wondering how my wife seems to be so confidently knowledgeable about the ways and means of Haligonian geography and lifestyle. I think it is because she went to Alleghany College, and received a very good liberal arts education there. Memo to self: start college fund.

This is, without a doubt, the most socially pleasant conference I have ever attended. At the reception last night I was invited to join tables of scholarly strangers who, apparently, just liked the looks of me and wanted to say hello. I am not used to this; I am used to the much more bellicose receptions at the American Academy of Religion. Everybody has an angle there (even me), and the Memo is in full effect. Not so in Halifax, and, perhaps, by extension, not so in the Catholic Theological Society of America. The proof of the pudding will come at next year's conference. Not for the first time are the hopes of a continent riding on the sturdy shoulders of Cleveland. O, sainted land of the Great Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame and the Flats, do not fail us again.

I can only imagine, from the examples I have seen, that the kilt is a difficult fashion choice to accessorize. All or nothing, really, the kilt is. Can't be half-assed about it. Not, at least, without looking a lot sillier than you look already, wearing the kilt. One of the many reasons Alec will always have my undying respect. That man can wear the devil out of a kilt.

Halifax has a surfeit of art galleries and used book shops. Both are a great pleasure to me, but I have not seen many patrons frequenting any of the ones I have visited. However, it is clear that both the galleries and the bookshops have been in place for a good, long while. Now that's an invisible hand I can believe in.

It interests me that the online spell check system for Blogger flags "pungence," which is a perfectly good word, and one I had considered using in a paragraph above (the one referring to the broken bottle of Scotch), but seems to bat nary an eyelash at "Haligonian." Obscurity, like rank, hath its privileges.

Halifax is an hour ahead of Eastern Daylight Time. I have never been in such a timezone, and I think it is adversely affecting me. When going to Europe, the shift is so dramatic that everything is naturally unnatural. Traveling across the US is a known quantity, so I don't think my body has trouble adjusting. But this slight inching ahead in time is just unnaturally natural enough to completely bollix up my circadian rhythms. I am a night owl by nature, and that is a recipe for dead-of-night disaster here in Halifax.

Speaking of disasters, there is no need to mention that a great many of the victims of the Titanic disaster are buried here in Halifax. I have searched in vain so far, but I am still hopeful that before my visit is over I will locate the grave of Leonardo di Caprio.

I got up last night and wanted to wash my hands. The warm water took a very long time to reach the tap. This is because the water is always cold this far North.

This morning, waiting for my taxi to take me to my airport departure, Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" played over the in-house stereo system in the hotel. I found myself warmed and, by turns, a little tearful.

My Father, thanks to the Army, traveled the world, though he had little taste for the circumstances he was in and what he saw. My Mother cared little for the world outside America, but America she loved fiercely and explored fiercely, at least when she was younger. In both cases, I know of these travels mostly through the pictures I have inherited. They sit in my well-ordered boxes now, these photos of my parents - pictured here together, here singly - along with nameless faces and locations I can only hazily identify by landscape and geography. I find myself wishing I had the stories behind those photos.

Somewhere between my Father's forced marches and my Mother's hermetic isolation, there are my travels. It is, I think to myself, a wonderful world. Halifax ain't bad, either. Here, in my own way, are the pictures.