Maine to Charlottetown on Prince Edward Island

We drive, with our car loaded to the top, via Maine’s tree-filled landscape, inching our way through the encroaching forest.  Michael describes it as desolate.  And perhaps that is the right word.  It is uninhabited, perhaps uninhabitable. Deserted.  It is just the trees and us and the twisting road. After a seeming eternity, we approach the border and buy gas before crossing over into Canada; whatever the price is, we know it will be cheaper than on the Canadian side. A McDonald’s sign promises a quick lunch, but the sign never delivers the promise; apparently, even yellow arches can hide among the trees.

The only thing different, now that we are in New Brunswick, is that the roads have noticeably improved. The landscape is still desolate. The trees — a tad shorter. We don’t see a sign of life till we exit the highway at Saint George in search of a map, rest, and lunch.  At the information center, we are greeted by a giant blueberry, but not much information.  The blueberry farm, a.k.a. information center, has determined how to get the tourists off the highway and into their delicious grasp.

A quick Canadian burger at the one recommended restaurant — the only one we see — and we are on our way.  The trip seems interminable.  When I am almost ready to give in to exhaustion and sleep, Michael asks if I mind driving. Fully alert, following the wide ribbon of gray, I notice that our GPS has lost the satellite signal.  Mike awakens as I try to use my phone to guide us.

The Lieutenant Governor’s Mansion

At almost 6 pm, we arrive at our fifth new bed in eight weeks in Charlottetown, on Prince Edward Island.  I recognize the old mansion at once, just as depicted on Google Earth.  (Former home of Donald Alexander MacKinnon, the eighth Lieutenant Governor of Prince Edward Island from 1904 to 1910.) Our apartment is on the bottom floor of three.

Walking in through the back door (the main entry I’ve been instructed), we are greeted by the kitchen I remember from the photos.  In real life, it is larger.  Whiter.  The entire apartment is larger, whiter.  I feel like I have walked into the September issue of Architectural Digest; our apartment in Montreal could fit into the living room. White on white.  Cream on White. It is a symphony of seafoam and clouds punctuated with dark wood.  Dark leather. Glass. Mirrors. Chrome.  I have to search to find the master bedroom.

Bigger than I Thought

I continue to walk around in a daze, trying to get my bearings.

Michael says, “Didn’t you know what it looked like?”

“Well, yes,” I say, “but in real life, it is so much bigger.” I feel like I need to change into nicer clothes.

We have a large TV room, a giant living room, a dining room, two bedrooms — one very large, a kitchen, a bathroom with separate free-standing marble-topped cabinets and sinks, and two huge hallways that are as large as rooms.  We have a wide porch with rockers and a French window screen at one end to block the wind from the bay. There is a barbeque pit and tables and chairs outside, but I can’t figure out how to get to them.

I thought I had top-of-the-line Electrolux appliances at home, but these are over the top.  There is more than a six-foot expanse of refrigerator-freezer space; a dual fuel oven.  The individual that owns this place likes to cook.  The books lining the shelves support my theory.  The collection is selective; Julia Child is here, so is Mario Batali. Then there are books on gardening, design, decoration, architecture — no novels.

I have to wonder what took the owner away from this home of the towering white columns and twelve-foot ceilings, with crown moldings and base moldings so wide they seem to go on forever? Only the books show signs that someone once lived here; everything else that is personal is gone. They are bound to return.

Down to the actual issue, I ask Michael, “How will we ever find the bathroom at night?”  

Moving In

We lug in our suitcases, our picnic packs, our duffel bags filled with clothing for our windjammer cruise, our gaudy Mexican shopping bag used for groceries that we bought in San Miguel, and everything else.  I feel like I am defiling the apartment. I’m almost afraid to touch things — my fingerprints are sure to show.

Aside from feeling dwarfed and intimidated, the location is perfect.  Across from a park, the bay down the street, and downtown a bit further than that.  Michael finds a list of recommended restaurants and opts for an English pub, thinking it fits our road-weary appearance.  I have fish and chips with mushy peas; Mike settles for shepherd’s pie.  I was tempted to have bangers and mash — I love bangers and mash — why didn’t I order them?

Sunday in Charlottetown

Last night, while Michael slept, I read about Charlottetown and PEI, and the fact that it is considered a foodie destination.  Beautiful produce.  Abundant seafood. Lamb, veal, beef, pork, poultry, duck. Cheese.  Anything you want, with some of the best restaurants and best chefs in Canada.  And, during the long drive yesterday, Michael and I both agreed that during the last four weeks we overdid the fried seafood and the lobster with butter and the fries and the tartar sauce and the coleslaw and the fine dining in Maine’s beautiful inns, and the wine and the Dark and Stormy drinks. And we had to stop.

Maybe not.

Vowing to take it easy today and let the adventure be finding a store to buy tonight’s dinner, we shrug into our jackets and head out into the wind under an umbrella of gloomy skies. But we do not head for a market; we veer toward the harbor to see the tall ships that will be leaving this afternoon.  Too late, we find they can be viewed only from a distance.  I head to the seafood shop next door and see about tonight’s dinner while Mike studies the restaurant’s menu outside.  It is my week to cook — I settle on twenty of PEI’s famous oysters, over $2 each at home, here they are half price.

Lunch at Terre Rouge Bistro Marche

Back at the apartment, we stash the Raspberry Point Oysters and once again head toward town for a quick lunch at the Terre Rouge Bistro Marche. Upscale and trendy, lunch is heaven; a tiny bowl of leek and potato soup (silky and light, barely kissed by a potato) served with a dollop of crème fraiche, a curl of crisp pancetta and a drizzle of olive oil, and a three beet salad three ways — fried, raw, pickled; red, yellow, candy-striped; sliced, cubed and julienned, served with mild creamy goat cheese and a sprinkling of toasted hazelnuts, atop and underneath perfectly dressed greens.  Superb! Michael opted for a gourmet grilled cheese.

Dinner at Home

We walk next door after lunch and buy Prosecco for tonight’s dinner.  We walk a bit further up the street to a small bookstore and replenish Michael’s dwindling supply. My Nook never runs dry, and if it does, I have more to read with a push of a button.  But I do love the look and feel and weight, and ownership of a real book.

I’m tempted to go hard copy once again.

The clock says 4 pm, and I know there is a lot of prep work in the Alton Brown’s baked oyster recipe that I found on the Internet. So, I walk into the kitchen and start chopping; finely minced onions, celery, garlic, and artichokes — sautéed in too much butter. Michael walks in just as I start the laborious shucking process and offers to do it for me.  I shoo him away and proceed to struggle. He can’t stand watching my ineptness, so he steps in and makes quick work of the process.

The oysters are unbelievably delicious.  I might even be persuaded to try one raw.  Maybe not.  At any rate, we toast to our week here in Charlottetown and Prince Edward Island, agreeing that four weeks went by way too quickly in Maine, and one week here is — well, it is way too short.

Raspberry Point Oysters

It’s hard to imagine a more pristine spot than Prince Edward Island National Park, on the chilly north shore of PEI, and that’s where Raspberry Points grow in off-bottom cages. Keeping them off the bottom gives them lighter flavor and nicely manicured shells. But it’s cold up here at the northern tip of the oyster’s world, so Raspberry Points take a whopping six to seven years to reach their standard 3 1/4-inch size. Raspberry Points are consistently good—salty like a Malpeque, but always nicely rounded and substantial. Raspberry Points are famed for their clean finish. 

9/1/2014 7:02:39 PM