Fast-food Circus Midgets. WTF?

*** continued from previous post ***


The afternoon progressed much as it had since we left the ferry. A wet, sodden hell.

There is only one more remarkable thing that happened between the Tourist Center and reaching Carnack, AB.

Some town we went through, (and believe me they all began to run together at this point), had a McDonalds that provided easy access from the highway. It had been a couple of hours since our last stop, and we were both in dire need of warmth, food, and some time off the bike.

Now a McDonalds in Canada is like a McDonalds in the US, only more northerly. Booths are the same, layout of the restaurant is the same, menu (mostly) is the same. That sweet, sweet generic goodness that reinforces the realization that we, as a species, are really not so different from each other pours out of every napkin holder. It is strangely reassuring that we all have the need for a Big Mac and fries every now and then, and if the 'Quarter Pounder with Cheese' is called a 'Half-Liter with Curds', well it's not so far out of your comfort level to be disarming. In fact, it's just safe enough to be charming.

So, what made this stop unique?

We went to the rear of the restaurant to order, and I realized that the staff were all Circus Midgets. No kidding. They could barely see over the formica. I wondered if this was some government program to help the Little People, or if perhaps their Caravan had suffered a breakdown, and they were making some extra cash to get a new distributor for the elephant truck. The thought crossed my mind that I may be, once again, hallucinating, yet strangely everyone else seemed normal size.


*** the journey continues ***

A Cannibalistic Canadian House of Horrors . . . . Or Not.

*** continued from previous post ***


Finally, through the haze I spotted a sign for a 'Tourist Centre'. My hackles were up immediately. Which, with the cold, was quite painful. What abomination was this? What diabolical mind changed the spelling of 'Center' to 'Centre'? Eff'n French Canadians, that's who.

Protip: Never trust a person that lives in one country, but believes they are in another. Aw screw that, I'm just trying to be politically correct here. Protip: Never trust the French. Canadian or otherwise.

In my defense, I may have been slightly paranoid after all the excitement of the day. As we fish-tailed down the road I explained to your mother that this place was most certainly a trap where tourists went in - but they never came out. Much like a Roach Motel. A horrible place of death and exported Canadian pot-pies, (New and improved flavor from THE STATES!"), to which your Mom argued - quite successfully - that it was NOT some cannibalistic house of horrors, merely a bathroom and some brochures. Possibly a Mountie. Certainly a stuffed Beaver or two.

I resisted stopping, but in the end I capitulated to ensure domestic harmony. Oh, it took some convincing on her part, but the phrase that sealed the deal, and made me pull into the 'Tourist Centre Du Death' was, "I want you to stop now. You should know I've fashioned a 'prison shank', and I will stick it hard and quick between your fourth and fifth rib. . . straight into your liver."

I have no idea how, or when, she had the time to fashion a 'prison shank', but that's not really the point. I thought it over for a minute and was going to call her bluff but two things prevented me from taking that action: 1. You're Mom had A LOT of time to sit on the back of the bike and think while enduring the rain. 2. I felt a sharp object, pressing hard against my Frogg-Toggs in the region of my kidneys. I calculated the risk. She may, or may not know exactly where my liver was located, but the point was moot. She was prepared to do damage, and in the end quibbling about whether I was hemorrhaging out of a liver or a kidney didn't seem all that important.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***