You know how some people snort when they laugh uproariously? The sudden intake of air, that's what does it. Well, Marie makes this suction noice with her cheek.
She admits it to me (whilst laughing) that her face sometimes emits this obnoxious noise. I vow to get it out of her. I soon do.
After paying for my food, Marie and I decide to leave Dick's and breathe in some Bell Island.
It is dark. Lighting is shockingly sparse.
Roads are narrow, and all look the same.
We meander.
We encounter a very large building and turn around in its parking lot. It is the same colour as the post office in my hometown, so I speculate that it is the Bell Isle post office.
I have a habit of sometimes asserting things I know nothing about. It is a trait I have inherited from my father.
My father is rarely wrong.
I am rarely wrong.
I am wrong.
Marie points out that the Bell Island post office would probably not be two stories, and that it is more likely a school.
Marie's such a know-it-all.
We wander more. It's not getting any lighter outside.
We pass the actual post office. It is the approximate size of a shanty, or lean-to.
We encounter an establishment that looks open.
It is a curling club.
We decide to get a drink and rub elbows with the locals.
I desperately want batteries for the camera. We still have none. We see no electronic kiosks to buy more from. I hope to get batteries from a TV remote inside, or perhaps a clock of some sort.
The bar contains three men. Please keep in mind how strange we must look to the patrons.
"What did missus have in her hair?"
It is a small-town bar. Ever been to a small town? Go in a bar? You've been here, then. The Mariner? Same thing.
There are indescernible sports jersies and past Bell Isle victories lightly dusted behind glass.
We sit at the bar.
We order Black Horse.
They take an imediate, friendly interest in us.
We tell them where we are from.
Black Horse isn't even that bad.
They ask why we are on the island.
I lie instantly and tell them we are in the midst of our two-year anniversary, and we've always wanted to see the island.
No one reacts. They likely do not buy the story.
I'm in my first year of university. I'm on the phone with my mother. The lovely Nadine Wood
walks into the room. I tell my mom that my girlfriend just walked in. Nad laughs and leaves. I say to my mother, "She's not really my girlfriend."
"I know," she replies.
Mothers know best.
I ask the bartender if he has AA batteries that I could quickly borrow.
He looks very thoroughly through cupboards and on countertops. He opens a drawer and says, "I have tea bags."
Of course he does. He eventually quits his (legitimate) search. I feel bad for lying.
We finish our bold, Newfoundland ales with its crisp finish, and leave.
We find a lighthouse. Out on Lighthouse Road.
We walk the cliffs.
I act like I am not terrified.
Death is the worst, but heights are up there (unintentional pun).
I am terrified.
She tells me of her first driving 'incident'. It was her fault.
She tells me about her dad.
The view is vast and comforting.
We look at it.
Many people were late for work the day we visit.
500 people leave the island by ferry every day to work in St. John's.
In Bell Isle's 2006 census there was an approximate 2800 inhabitants. It was once 16,000. Its mine once employed 2300 men.
People would ferry over from St. John's to shop.
"We had three theatres. St. John's only had two."
The bartender was once a teacher.
33 years.
He said his experiences could fill three books.
One of the patrons (Gary, or Rod) was a former student of his.
...and I'll get summers off.
Our drive home is quiet. We are tired.
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