Tales from St Anthony Part X -- Are you Trippin'?

We finally have a car.

After more than a month of wrangling our modus transportus has been upgraded from Shank's Pony to a 1999 Mazda Protege, which can mean only one thing -- ROAD TRIP.

I see you, caribou.

A gaggle/swarm/hive of caribou

For most people registering a car is a fairly simple task and involves the following steps:

1) Roadworthy; 2) Purchase; 3) Insure; and 4) Register.

With the first three under our belts and our hip pocket decidedly lighter for it, we headed for a motor registry office able to fulfill the transfer and registration.

Six hours and close to 450km later we arrived at the cavernous lair doubling as the motor registry. 

Having averted car sickness up until that point as soon as we entered I felt I had been swallowed by a wormhole that spat me out into the hull of a Vietnamese fishing junk used to traffic humans.

I was not however a people smuggler but more a smuglee.

The looks on my fellow sallow-faced inmates at the fore confirmed we were all on the same boat, their joyless eyes conveyed that feeling of being sixth in line to twirl the revolver's cylinder in a game of Russian roulette when all five people are crowding around you all very much alive and all very much wearing grins.

Without the need for guns we escaped triumphantly with registration papers held aloft and to prove we were still strong of spirit and mind we decided to test our resolve and headed for that other pit of human depravity – Walmart.

People in stressful situations talk about the ‘breaking point’ as if it is something you can see coming however I would argue the opposite, that you never see it coming, it just turns up and you are left stunned sifting through the emotional shards scattered on the well-lit and overcrowded aisle sandwiched between the dairy section and its 500 gram blocks of mild cheese on special for $4.59 and despair.

To put the adventure into context, St Anthony has admirable shopping options but there are just some things you can’t get here, items such as couscous or cloves draw looks of confusion, so when you reach a major centre like Corner Brook you have to make sacrifices and head to places like Walmart.

Our bid to extract ourselves from harm’s way worked against us and in no time we were being bashed from all angles by crazed shopping-trolley wielding housewives and teenagers who follow the “more is better” approach to make-up and their clearly uninterested boyfriends.

We had stumbled into the one place you do not want to get caught in Walmart – the clearance aisle.

Much like getting in between a bear cub on its mother, the clearance aisle brings with it a sense of rabidity, so with the coast clear we rushed to the neighboring pet aisle, which apparently is also where two Australians can get in the world’s way.

We escaped Walmart and discovered with glee that our B&B was just around the corner – so after meeting the owner, an interesting story in itself, we plonked our belongings in the room, had a quick shower and headed for a bar that had beer on tap – another thing that St Anthony lacks.

You forget just how nice a beer from a chilled tap tastes.

All dolled up we headed for a lovely tapas bar with live music and a wine list and the rest is history.

Our first road trip was a huge success – 1000km in 12 hours of driving. A registered car, Em now has a Newfoundland licence for the next six years (the minimum amount of time you can get a licence here apparently), we had beer on tap, bought cloves, met some lovely people and avoided all the moose the Northern Peninsular could throw at us.