The laughter and chatter came from the a dimly lit corner of the house; the small living room had about seven people there just chatting away. Some were roommates of that home, others former/current couchsurfers who had come to visit and have decided to stay awhile and some neighbors. I introduced myself to everyone as questions raced through my head: What first impression do I give? Do I look crazy? How do I break the ice? Thankfully everyone there was of great spirits and before I knew it, we were talking about a range of topics from traveling, our origins, personal tidbits and so on. There was something special about this house, a uniqueness that's hard to describe. I remember chuckling at the moment that I was told I would never leave the house, yet something in the energy of those present resonated with me.
When all was said and done and conversations slowly turned to yawns, I grabbed the blankets and pillows I was given and snored the night away in my new bed for the week. How can I describe a day in the life of this house. Firstly, it is very communal living. Meals are shared if there's extra, food, towels, you name it; communal seems to be the name of the game in this home. For me, this whole being considerate of others, was a bit new to me; whenever I've had pseudo roommates live with me or better said on my couch, I can count on two fingers the times that everyone was considerate of each other. It was great to see such a diverse group of people sharing a tight space so comfortably. Secondly, they seem to be very self sustaining and granola. They didn't grow everything they ate, but the amount of veggies and spices they did grow amazed me. I remember telling some of my housemates the train wrecks that were my attempts at gardening in my patio, and these people have a year long garden and greenhouse that they built! The granola (aka hippie) lifestyle to me also was such a great thing to see. All were accepted in that house and all were treated well. I joke around that I'm the hippie of my friends, but these guys blow me out of the water. Thirdly, everyone seems happy. I'm not talking about rainbows and flowers shooting out of their butts and smiling like crackheads all the time, but just happy with life. Everyday there was something going on there or just people hanging out and going off to do something. I sort of wanted to join in more activities, but at the same time, I came to understand that they were probably just giving me autonomy to do with my time what I pleased; as the week went on, a very happy and healthy balance came of that.
In between days of sunshine and rain, I decided to hike. Alot. And the miles I put in added up quickly. I made it a goal of mine to try and hike every major trail I could find and make time for; unfortunately, St. John's is filled with such natural beauty that it would take me a month just to do that. So I settled for the next best thing and more in my fashion... I just played it all by ear. The one place I did intend on going to was Cape Spear. For those who don't know, Cape Spear is the furthest eastern point on the whole American continent. In other words, it is the very first spot that the sun greets in our whole land. There is something humbling about finally making it to that one point; you don't realize how small you are until you're faced with the infinite presence of Mother Nature. From the top of Cape Spear, I could look into the endless horizon of water and fury. The ocean from a distance seemed so calm, but the impact of the water hitting the coast could be heard all around. At that very moment, the point of my trip had been accomplished; the rest of what I would end up doing was just living.After taking in the beauty of that moment, I decided to hike down a path behind the lighthouse to a spot called North Head. This trail a gorgeous yet quiet hike to the other end of the coastal cliff, about a 5-6 mile hike roundtrip. It was as peaceful as it was eery. The wind started to pick up halfway and my right foot felt like a frozen anchor because I had stepped in a puddle earlier. I finally made it though and the sight and sounds again, were worth the trek. I don't know how anyone else has dealt with this, but since my foot was a paperweight, I decided to spend the rest of the night at home in a perpetual frozen state of exhaustion critiquing one of my house mate's gaming strategy; nothing like a good simulation game to promote male bonding.
The next day I was introduced to another Newfoundlander who got to give me a true taste of a calm day in town. We started off at a local bakery, Rocket, which was uber delicious. After our meal and chat, a stroll through town allowed me to see the more everyday life outside of the trekking and hiking I had been doing. Unfortunately for us, it was raining and we sought eventual refuge at the art museum, The Rooms. From what I could tell, the museum is gorgeous; we tried to finagle our way around not paying and what should've been a scolding by security turned out to be a rather pleasant hour and a half chat ranging from art to life in Newfoundland and beyond. Unfortunately, the next security guard wasn't so pleasant and we decided to skedaddle instead of wasting more time waiting for the free admission to kick in.
After our brush with art gallery loitering, I was shown a peculiar spot close near the base of Signal Hill, called Cabot Hill. What made it such an interesting spot is what I was told about it. Back in the early days of the town's history, rapists were hung from some kind of man made pole or ledge tarred and skinned in view of the whole citizenry below. Even though it's got some morbid origins, the views at night are incredible!!! That cynical mindset of mind was probably the cause of my well deserved backlash. While walking down the wooden steps from the hill, I ended up careening down a few flights. When I mean slip, I mean feet going airborne, butt landing flat on the edge of a step and arms flailing like a bird. What did I do in that situation? The same thing anyone else would do after having their pride and butt hurt like that. I laughed!! With that laughter and bruised ass, we ended up grabbing a bite to eat somewhere I had been wanting to go since I first arrived: Tex Mex!!!! If you can't tell, I have an unhealthy addiction to Tex Mex food, if I'm almost 2,000 miles away from anything remotely warm, only to have some chips and salsa. Regardless, the laughs continued over our surprisingly good (I'm really picky about my salsa cuisines) dinner followed with a movie at the house. The next day I decided to take on Signal Hill part deux. On one side of the Hill is the monstrous trek that you can see senior citizens zoom right by you on their morning jogs; the other side however is another path that continues across the coast line. So that day I hiked up the roadway to the Hill where the cars go, and started my adventure. After an hour or so of hiking through the coastline, I made it to a gem called Cuckold's Cove. It's just an inlet that that if you go down close enough, you can almost get to the ocean shore. I'm sure there's a way of touching the water, but I wasn't that courageous. I continued on to a HUGE mountain called White Hills. What is it with these island folk calling their mountains hills?? I was determined to make it up the whole thing, but the path that I chose eventually pitted me face to face with an almost completely vertical wall of wet rock. I started to work my way up until I came across a flimsy rope banister held together by what looked like straw thin branches and I doubled back. When I looked down from where I was at that point, I realized how high I was! I wanted to climb that mountain, but reality set in, and I could imagine falling off the face of that "hill" and no one hearing me scream. I was in no Indiana Jones mood, so I decided to head back home; besides, I had a party to attend to.
I was invited to an annual Xmas/political fundraiser party which was a great experience. I met so many kind people, ate delicious food, learned a bit about this political party, and drank a wee bit much. I don't know if it was the elevation, my lightweightness or that I wasn't eating as much, but alcohol would just run right through me. By the end of this party, I walked in with one friend and left with seven. Destination: Christian's, a must-go bar to get screeched in. Getting screeched-in is pretty much a toursity way of becoming an honorary Newfoundlander. After drinking copious amounts of alcohol, you have to manage to repeat some lines, eat some ham and kiss a frozen codfish. What's your reward for dealing with a killer headache the next day? A certificate proving your honorary title of Newfoundlander. On a side note: your liver will love you in the morning. After that interesting group event, we meandered to a more subdued bar that had some great live music and where I was christened the "L.A Guy/" No one knew my name, but for whatever reason, many people thought I was from LA. Maybe it's the hair? Before I know it, I wake up and it's morning. No certificate. No gloves. No beanie. And no recollection of how I got there. After stumbling out of bed and making my way to the breakfast table, I was treated to a great organic morning meal that helped with the hammering going on in my head. I should've gotten the recipe for that meal. After a 45 minute walk home, I decided that I would take it easy that day and cook my house mates red beans and rice (how stereotypical I know). After what seemed like a good few hours, I headed to downtown with one of my housemates and did some shopping.
As the day passed my hangover went away, only to be replaced with board games and my first sampling ever of fish and chips! Soon to be followed by with more drinking. Hey now, it's true! Nothing cures alcohol faster than more alcohol. I was invited to see a Grammy winning band live with some housemates and another friend I had made. The night went by surprisingly quick but consisted of great music, company, bar hopping and karaoke. I saw it as a fitting way to bid farewell to a city that met me as a stranger and had given me so much in return.
I woke up the next day, my bag was for the most part packed. I strode across the street for my last shower here, returned to thank my couchsurfing host once again for the experience and generosity, and quietly left. My pace when I left the house was a little slower than usual; it carried with it a contemplative stride, thoughts racing through my head. I had just now started to open up to everyone and felt closer to all around me, and I found myself leaving. It was a bittersweet moment to say the least. I had one more stop to go, and that was breakfast with another couchsurfing host. We bonded immediately and I truly enjoyed our meal together. We chatted about anything and everything while I chugged mug after mug of coffee. I knew what laid before me and had to stock up on caffeine provisions. She took me to Fort Amhurst which stands on the opposite edge of the harbor of St. John's; it was pretty much the last place I had to go to before leaving. I bid her farewell and thanked for the conversation and tour.
I turned on my car which by this time was accustomed to the climatic torture and headed out. I made it over the bend and waved goodbye to St. John's from my rear view mirror. I don't know if it was more of a see ya later than a goodbye, but as I slowly made it down the descending highway, the town disappeared into the distance. I took one sigh, said a silent prayer and continued on. I knew what awaited me on the way back... then WHAM!!!
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