A haitus ends… and I’ve surfaced somewhere strange


Well, I’m back, from a lengthy hiatus from my blog-writing. I actually kind of forgot all about it, for numerous reasons, most pertinently the fact that the internet here on ship is so bad that I’m going to have to invent a new word to describe it: “Horrishiterrible.” Basically, someone (someone old, who doesn’t appreciate the tantamount essential-ness of internet in a twentysomething’s life) decided that it would be a great idea to have internet on a schedule, whereupon only a few hours a day are alotted to internet, and the rest for satellite TV, so all the geriatrics can sit around in the lounge and commisserate on the local Newfoundland news, which typically revolves around the debate on whether the Trans-Canada highway should be fenced in its entirety to prevent moose accidents. (I laughed until I learned that the statistics are actually pretty horrific — and even a Ford F-350 stands little chance against a surefooted one-tonne brick of moosemeat). If you’re detecting a little bitterness here, you are not mistaken!! I’m going nuts!! Joni had it figured out when she yodeled, you “don’t know whatcha got till it’s gone,” because all you people out there, who have limitless, never-interrupted internet, cannot possibly understand the frustration, the apoplexy-inducing rage, that comes from having your one umbilical cord to shore and the sane world, to have this one tenuous fibre severed on a regular basis, often before I am able to log into facebook. I try to restrain myself, because I complain about this ALOT, and all the aforementioned geriatrics on here kind of roll their eyes and wonder what is wrong with the wierd “mainlander” girl now.  A mainlander, to a Newfie, is kind of the ultimate insult, but not in a mean way, per se, just kind of like the way we would say “Oh, but don’t you know she has Down’s Syndrome,” or, “yes but she was dropped on her head when she was a baby,” as if it’s a handicap that nobody can really help. Newfoundland is a really different place, like I shake my head frequently, wondering if I am still in Canada, or whether I am stuck in a part of Ireland that drifted apart from Europe while it was still Pangaea and has had no contact with the rest of the world since? It’s quite bizarre.  I had a bit of a paradigm shifter the other day when I was spewing my tribulations about booking a plane ticket out of here for August, and figuring out a schedule that would work, and whether to buy cancellation insurance, this all taking place over a meal of Turkey Necks (I kid you not — Newfie food would be a whooooooole other chapter), and the engineer that I was talking to just kind of looked at me and said, “I wouldn’t know I ain’t never been off The Island.” And it kinda stopped me in my tracks and made me feel like a huge snob. Who am I to fly in here with my highfalutin’, West Coast ideas about food quality and technology and all that? After all, I am the stranger here… the “mainlander,” in this wierd, colourful, barren, salty, lichen-encrusted province.


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