Whenever I told friends that my family was embarking on a road trip out East, the most vocal proponents of the Maritimes were those who once lived there. Their eyes would light up as they proceeded to share one of their favourite memories… digging for clams, tapping their toes to folksy tunes, or sitting at the beach watching waves roll in. It certainly helped fuel my own excitement about the wonders of this culture of which I’d been so deprived.
They proved correct, in most instances. The beaches were beautiful from Nova Scotia, to Cape Breton, and of course, PEI. Buying lobster straight off a boat topped our list of seafood thrills (of which there were many.) Bon fires at night, mussel bakes, and the gentle Gaelic lilt of soft spoken Cape Bretoners were just a few of the experiences that painted a charming portrait of maritime life. However, we were never convinced that these simple Eastern folk were a friendlier breed than the rest of Canada (or, at least Ontario.) Sure, the hotel staff was courteous (it’s their job) and we didn’t come across a snooty waiter at any restaurants. But based on what we’d been told, we’d expected personal invitations inside people’s homes where they would share their family’s history over a bowl of homemade chowder.
About five days into our trip, we both came to a similar conclusion: the friendly scale remained static from Ontario to Nova Scotia (well, it did dip slightly in Quebec City, but isn’t that part of their culture?) We’d been slightly disappointed after all that we’d been promised, but shrugged our shoulders and patted our Ontario backs. Torontonians weren’t so miserable after all, it appeared. But then I drove through a small town called Liverpool.
Liverpool is a five-minute drive from White Point Resort, where we stayed. It boasted two grocery stores, a liquor store, a few fast food restaurants, and a thriving telemarketing business (where employees loitered outside the front door with smokes every time we drove by.) We attempted a stroll along its small downtown but quickly realized the stores weren’t all that quaint and that there seemed to be a general contempt for visitors. The local Home Hardware sold derogatory “Caution: tourists” signs a few feet from the checkout counter. I guess they’d never heard of the term don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
The early evening that I’d set out to Liverpool, our wine selection was quite diminished. I was elected by my husband to drive the minivan to town to pick up a few bottles, along with some groceries. While most of the route was quite straight forward, I was unsure at a couple of intersections and found myself having to make a three-point turn a few minutes from the grocery store. As is so often the case, when I began the u-turn, there were no cars in sight. However, at the “second” point in the turn, a car emerged. It was gunning toward me, as if to ensure that I would force it to slow down, thereby offer the driver an opportunity to be pissed off.
As I completed the third point in my turn, I lifted my left hand in thanks to the driver who’d been forced to slow down. With my thule carrier atop the minivan, coated in bumper stickers from various cities and states, I figured he could appreciate my predicament – ”We’ve all been there! Hope you find what you’re looking for!” Not so.
As I waved with a smile, my periphery vision caught a young man’s face sticking out of his window as he yelled as loud as he could, “Fuckin’ Foriegner!” I slowly lowered my hand and kept driving. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed the cargo carrier on my van. Or the Ontario license plate – y’know that province that is part of Canada? Maybe he’d mistaken my wave for an ancient language only known to a dwindling Zimbabwean tribe. I don’t know. But for one who has travelled through Europe, Asia, and the United States, the first time I’d ever been called a foreigner was in my own country. It was disheartening.
I realize I cannot and should not base my impression of all Maritimers on this one particularly miserable individual, but he certainly eliminated any residual romantic notions of meeting those fine, chit-chatting, small town Maritimers that I’d heard so much about. Or maybe it was just Liverpool.
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While there are many good people,you are quite correct about the myth of East Coast friendliness.
I live in Nova Scotia and can attest to the underlying “meanness” and small world view held here.
Just try flying an American Flag! (Yes along side a Canadian).
In my opinion, Maritimers simply need to grow up and realize there is whole world beyond Liverpool or Brookfield.
Interesting that you’ve noticed that, living in NS. That one incident really bothered me, as I like to feel that all Canadians support one another. Thanks for your insightful thoughts.