I'm jogging along the river with the sun shinning through the maple trees and the spider webs. Two bluejays startle me flying off through the bush while a squirrel whistles from a tall branch, and suddenly I see a bright green tuft of grass swimming against the current in the river. A beaver! I whisper to myself not quite believing it. I run faster to catch up to it as it turns into the current. Running through some fallen pine cones, hoping I won't twist my ankle, I notice the creature's long thin tail. A river otter! Maybe not as exciting as a beaver, but still a treat to see.
The train rumbles by with a long tow of multi-coloured containers on flatbed wagons and I hear it too-toot-ing as it goes across the bridge. As I haul my tired body up the super steep hill back to my brother's purple house, I unhook a furry black and orange stripped caterpillar off my shoulder and pass it along to a leaf on a tree bordering someone's driveway. The street is quiet with a mix of heritage homes and newer properties with large lawns, driveways and garages. If I peek around in the back yards, I see clotheslines full of reusable diapers and family laundry.
The screen door slams as my kid runs outside barefooted with his three cousins in tow. Time to push the toy tractor around on the street or turn on the sprinkler that grand-maman set up yesterday afternoon. Uncle Julien comes out with a mug of coffee in one hand and a peanut butter toast in the other. He walks over to the hockey net in the driveway and without a word, all the kids run over and grab a stick. It's a very quiet street, so it's rare that we have to scream out "car!".
I put up my feet on the veranda railing, sit down in a chair and enjoy a second cup of coffee. Today's a good day to drive along the coast and see the picturesque-postcard perfect fishing villages dotting the Atlantic coast. The century old, brightly coloured wooden homes stand out like a fantasy among the rocks and stunted pine trees while the wind and the fog blows through the bagpiper's kilt. The tourists pay the piper throwing some bills in the hat as they pass, climbing carefully over the rocks in their "comfortable walking shoes" to take pictures of the lighthouse barely visible in the fog. Some of them wander down to the shops to buy watercolours of boats and other maritime scenery, wind chimes, handmade ceramic mugs or lobster fridge magnets. We do the same thing, eating our snack behind a rock to avoid the wind and enjoying the view.
We pile back into the car and stop down the road at a restaurant for plates of grilled cheese sandwiches, fish and chips, and lobster rolls. A pack of Chinese tourists are excitingly buying souvenirs at the counter while they argue about who is going to pay the bill. We finish our meal with ice cream in a cone sitting on the edge of the dock at the end of the parking lot. The fog has lifted and we see islands in the bay, stacks of lobster traps on the beach and seaweed waving at us in the waves. A dad and his boy who were eating lobster rolls next to us in the restaurant come out and jump in their boat to go back home, revving the engine while I wipe up ice cream on the faces of the little ones. Time to go home.
We doze off in the car, listening to the CBC on the radio, and watching the bushes and trees blur along the highway. We pass the strip-malls, the big box stores and we know we are almost home. Just in time for a glass of Pinot Noir on the veranda before the sun goes down.
Tomorrow we're off to the lake to smell the dry pine needles and throw our bodies in the warm, dark un-salty water. We'll sit on the dock waiting for our turn on the canoe looking out at the shimmering water, at the little cabins poking their roofs out of the trees on the other side of the lake, and at the kids in their life jackets throwing inner tubes off the edge of the dock. We'll eat corn on the cob brought in a pot wrapped in a blanket to keep them warm, granola bars, avocado sandwiches and orange slices while sitting on a mildewy blanket great-grand-maman made. Some brave ones will use the outhouse or pee behind a tree. We'll jump back in the lake a few more times before heading back along the bushy highway, with the sun lying low in the sky shinning on the side of our faces and making us fall asleep. The CBC will keep on playing on the radio, the small communities all strung along the road welcoming us and tempting us to stop next time for a visit at the dairy farm or in an antique store. We'll only stop for more corn.
Back at home, up the huge hill, and into the driveway, the kids all wake up as we stop the cars. Time to play Lego while the adults serve themselves a beer from the tap my brother installed in his garage. And so it goes, the lazy days of summer as I remember them as a child, and thanks to my brother and his family, I get to relive again with my son. And as an unknown someone once said: Canada is a giant park, with parks in it." And that's how I feel as I think about my return to Rio de Janeiro, that I've been playing in a giant park for the last week and I will miss the peaceful, wilderness of my homeland.
