Fredericton

ikky water. yuck. maybe it needed more ribena to take the taste away.

I packed up the tent in Quebec, and headed out. The GPS insisted on taking me the wrong way while I defied it until we agreed. We seem to be falling out a lot at the moment, maybe I should buy it an accessory as a peace offering, or maybe one of those snoopy air fresheners to keep it company on the dash board. Suggestions please.

Driving along the transcanadian highway I found myself singing in French along with the radio, an experience I’m not prepared to reenact. My singing in French is only slightly better than my singing in English, but only because the words are sexier. As we crossed the border into New Brunswick the signal died and I re-tuned to a English speaking station, phew!

Then I almost ran out of fuel! My good for nothing GPS had lead me to a corner store on the outskirts of a village. I entered cautiously, the screen door twanging back and violently shoving me forward into the darkness. From somewhere within a small girl appeared. I uttered my well practiced ‘Parlez vous Anglais?’ to which I gained a nondescript gesture and a grin revealing a beautiful set of train tracks. Mostly using puppets I communicated my story, and she responded with detailed instructions, I nodded intently and then left having understood nothing.

The car spluttered back into life on its few remaining drops of fuel, and I rolled off to the next gas station.

After a refueling I drove off and found a picnic site. The water I had brought from Quebec tasted weird. PoD thought so too, so we cracked open a can instead.