Wednesday, October 28, 2009. Sydney? Bagpipes. Where's The Food? Bar City. Mama's. Sydney is in a nice natural harbor on the northern side of the heart-shaped Breton Island, the northernmost part of Nova Scotia. Walking around town, I thought about how unlikely I would have considered the prospect of going to Nova Scotia three times in my life--let alone twice on the same trip.
I had a lot of time for such thoughts. There's not much for tourists in Sydney. I should have broken Mary Ann's Law and taken an organized tour. People told me later about wonderful times boating to this island or that. But I just took another long walk. I am walking a lot on this trip, which will have me in fine shape for the long walks I will take less than a month from now at Manresa.
I saw only one striking building in Sydney: the town's main office of the Bank of Montreal. It didn't look as if it belonged there. I salute the bank for keeping this fine old stone structure, instead of tearing it down as most banks do.
The quest for restaurants was the least rewarding of any port on this trip. Like Halifax and Charlottetown, most of Sydney's restaurants were either sandwich shops, pizzerias, or ethnic--but with far less variety. Only two places looked promising. One looked like a substantial, classy restaurant, close to the courthouse and therefore likely the place where attorneys and judges eat. It turned out to be an enormous pool hall. And a chain, at that: I'd seen another in Halifax. The other was also large, taking up a whole block. Joe's Warehouse and Food Emporium looked more like a rock concert hall than a restaurant. I never found out for sure, because I couldn't find an entrance that was unlocked. Later, a couple of Eat Clubbers told me they had penetrated the place, and that the food was pretty good.
I kept walking until the businesses gave way to residences. Then I was in a park. The leaves were so beautiful that I lingered. I found something I've been looking for without luck for over twenty years. A cluster of horse chestnut trees, dressed in fall colors, with seed pods breaking open. I reached up for one, then realized I might find better specimens on the ground. Indeed, they were all over the place. I collected a half-dozen. At last, I see why they have that name. ("Because they look like horses?" Wick Howard asked me later, knowing full well that they don't.) Horse chestnuts resemble real chestnuts so closely that I imagine more than a few people have barfed them. They're mildly poisonous. People have given them to unwell horses as an emetic since ancient times, hence the name.
From the first time I saw one, in Northern Italy, the horse chestnut has been the world's most beautiful tree to my eyes. I want to plant them at the Cool Water Ranch. I've never seen one anywhere in New Orleans; I'm not sure they'll grow down here. They're very common in the Northeast, but I'm never there when the seeds are on the ground. At last, here they are. But wait! I am in Canada! And it's illegal to bring seeds into the United States! Foiled again! Someday.
Sydney's cruise terminal has a large market for souvenirs, a café, and men wearing kilts. (They don't call it Nova Scotia for nothing.) Upon the ship's arrival and departure, a bagpiper stepped out onto the dock and serenaded us. The emblematic musical instrument of Sydney, however, is the violin. Violins are on banners and signs all around the city. A violin about forty feet tall stands on the dock.
Mary Ann told me not to buy her anything, but there was one thing I wanted: some Canadian maple syrup. Canada produces vastly more maple syrup than Vermont or anywhere else, and the quality is superb. A lady sold syrup in bottles shaped like violins. But it was dark amber--a disappointment. The best maple syrup is the lightest in color. It's expensive, but has so marvelous a flavor that I would happily pay the premium. Why did I wait until our last port to score the stuff?
Last night, on my way up to cocktails in the Spinnaker, I found a large group of our folks having drinks in Bar City. "We like this better than that dark place you go!" said Marilyn Charvet--one of our frequent past travelers. Why didn't they tell me? Tonight, Tom's Six-Thirty Martini Club was pleased to move to Bar City, between "Maltings" and "Shakers." Trouble with that was we were spread all over the place, wherever open tables could be found. But it didn't matter. The friendships are formed, and each coterie has an independent existence. Which is the way I hope things work out on every cruise. Everybody is with friends.
The smaller groups remained intact as we headed up for dinner in Mama's Italian Kitchen. Mama's is the most obvious adaptation of the standard cruise-ship layout into NCL's dozen-restaurant offering. In any other ship, this port-side space would be more or less a mirror image of the buffet on the starboard side. By making it into another restaurant, NCL loses a lot of boofay seating--a problem, but not a terrible one--and winds up with its most popular specialty restaurant.
We liked it well enough. I encouraged everyone to start with antipasto, a reasonably decent variety of marinated vegetables, cheeses, and cured meats. I followed that with minestrone, and a Caesar salad. Most of our table of twelve had osso buco for the entree. This has been the talk of the ship for several days, and although it wasn't the monster tower of veal you get at Impastato's, it was satisfying enough, with a good piece of marrow in the bone. I was up for pasta, though, and made mine cannelloni. That hit the nail on the head, and so did tiramisu.
A number of people at the table wanted to return to Bar City for a nightcap. It was the gang of which I have become part: the Howards, Chris Conway and Ann Lee, and the Charvets. I think we made it nearly until midnight. But that's Atlantic time. It's really only ten o'clock. And we have a sea day tomorrow. Why not? Wish the music in there had been good, but most people probably thought it was. I'm the one with the strange tastes.
When I got back to the stateroom, I found a towel animal on the bed. The room stewards sculpt these cuddlies every night, to add another little touch of fun. The ship offers a class on how to make them. When the kids were younger they loved towel animals. (Of course, nothing impresses them now.) Being in the room alone makes me feel bad that the stewards go through all that work. I told them not to bother, but they make the terrycloth pets anyway. I will tip them an extra fifty dollars over the programmed tip, partly because of the towel animal they left me tonight. I've never seen one like this. I'm not sure what it's supposed to be, but I love its smiling face and big blue eyes. He helped dilute the loneliness.
