During our recent trip to Canada, we established (through the wonders of Facebook) that we had friends who planned to visit Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island about a month after us. Midway through our vacation, I asked Alan, “Any advice for Amy and George based on our experience thus far?”
I thought he’d offer up a highlight, like “They MUST go whale watching with Captain Mark,” or “Dinner at the Red Shoe Pub.”
But after some quiet consideration, he said, “Tell them that this is one place they won’t want to have the attitude that their behavior doesn’t matter because they’ll never see these people again. Because they will.”
So true. Perhaps it’s because Cape Breton has done such a great job creating and marking scenic driving trails that all travelers tend to share the same itinerary?
For example, we drove the full Cabot Trail (primarily scenic, weaving around the highlands national park), the full Ceildih Trail (packed with Celtic heritage and music), and part of the Bras d’Or Trail (along the coast of the huge inland saltwater lake). We didn’t venture to the eastern part of the island, so we missed the Fleur-de-lis Trail, which traces more of the island’s French heritage.
And along those routes? We repeatedly crossed paths with people we’d seen earlier on our trip. The couple from the whisky tour at Glenora? Seated next to us in the restaurant forty kilometers down the road for lunch. The couple who loudly made love (and I’m being generous with that term) in the motel room sharing the wall with our headboard? Sipping coffee across from us at breakfast the next morning – and again outside a restaurant on the other side of the island two days later.
A quick note on that: Cape Breton has limited lodging options. There were no real hotels, so we generally found ourselves choosing between a B&B or a motel that looked like it was plunked from the 1950s – still cute rather than creepy. When we checked into our first motel, Alan looked skeptical. “I’m pretty sure these places rent by the hour,” he commented.
I rolled my eyes. “Did you see any other options? Do you think someone’s going to buy a national park permit so they can drive up here to have motel sex?”
But then, two hours later, we started to hear an odd knock along our wall and our headboard shook. We looked at each other: Seriously?
Of course we muted the television for a minute so we could confirm that a moose wasn’t head-butting the building. If we’d had any question, it was quickly resolved. So we turned the volume back up, trying to ignore our neighbors. But they kept going. And going. If it had been a vibrating bed that took quarters (remember those?), they would’ve needed two rolls.
In the morning, as I stepped out to head to breakfast, their door opened at the same time. I couldn’t help but pause to retie my shoe so I could see what they looked like – I was picturing fake boobs, bleached hair and guy wearing multiple gold necklaces. Out stepped a seemingly conservative couple in their late 50s, looking like they’d just dropped their kids off at college.
All righty then.
So that’s the advice we have for George & Amy when it comes to Nova Scotia: Stalk or be stalked, but always be polite. And also? You can probably save a bunch of money if you negotiate your lodging by the hour. Apparently that’s acceptable.
pithypants 
We had a similar motel experience. My younger son thought the people in the floor above us were jumping on the bed. My older son knew what was going on and has ever since referred to sex as “jumping on the bed”. When we left the next morning there were 2 cars in the partking lot, ours and that of a couple who had to be in their 70s – who got into a red Corvette and drove away.
Nova Scotia sounds lovely – I’m going to have to check it out.
Oh, good for them! You and Alan should have launched a competition! Any time I hear stuff like that it makes me smile. (Only sometimes lecherously.) Unless I can tell someone’s doing a bad job. I once had a downstairs neighbor whose moves I knew. I’d find myself muttering, “Left. No, left. Little more.” (She’d yell) “There ya go.”
PS Excellent job scoping them out with the shoe-tying bit. I hope your shoes actually had laces.