Sardines & Crackers

Sardines and crackers, some cheese, and a shared bottle of beer — LaBatt's Blue, as I recall. I've had fancier and more interesting picnics, but in this case I was smitten with my traveling companion. There was something almost unbearably romantic about the two of us, perched on our respective guitar cases just outside of Halifax, Nova Scotia sharing this simplest of meals before putting our thumbs back out to catch our next ride

We'd sit around the fire eating supper — good solid French Canadian fare — and afterwards sip hot chocolate or coffee.

It was the summer of 1972, I was 18, and I'd known my traveling partner for two days — a slender, dark-complexioned girl from Brooklyn with an accent you could cut with a knife and a wonderfully clear singing voice. We'd met at the tented youth hostel on Prince Edward Island a few days before and the people sharing her tent "conspired" with the people sharing my tent to get us together. We only had a few songs in common, but we managed a couple of impromptu concerts.

I was on my second great adventure.

The summer before I'd hitchhiked through Europe eating pastries in Venice, schnitzel in Salzburg, wurst (and the most amazing French fries I'd ever had in my life) in Munich, amazing cheeses and wine in Switzerland. Croissants and espresso in Paris, and Cornish pasties in England. I was 17 and I liked to cook and could turn out a decent meal, but I wasn't looking for food. It found me - but, clueless post-adolescent that I was, I didn't realize how much the food had formed my memories.

When the dark-haired girl and I discovered we were both planning to go to Nova Scotia next we decided to travel together and so we found ourselves, on a gorgeous summer afternoon, brushing cracker crumbs from our shirts and trying to avoid dripping oil on them.

Back in those days, hitching was fairly safe for single men, but less so for single women. So it behooved a woman to find a male to travel with — a choice that carried its own risks. On the driver's side, picking up men was considered somewhat risky, but not picking up women. Picking up couples was also considered reasonably safe so both the girl and I benefited from our partnership. In fact, in our case it paid off almost immediately that day.

We only been trying to get a ride for about 30 minutes when a ramshackle old army bus pulled off the road for us. We grabbed our packs and guitars and piled up the steps to be greeted by a man in his late 30's. The bus had been converted to an camper (this was before the days of off-the-shelf RVs) and there were bunks in the back, a small galley, and seats in the front. There was also an older woman (50's perhaps?) and two small, blonde-headed girls about 9 and 10. It turned out we had the girls them to thank for the ride.

The youngsters had spotted us and our guitars and convinced their father to stop for us. We learned they were on vacation from Montreal and the mother/wife had ended up having to work at the last minute and was joining them a few days later in Halifax. The older woman was the man's mother-in-law.

We'd barely sat down before the girls, excited as they could be at this adventure with hitchhikers (and chattering away in a mixture of French and English), insisted we pull out our guitars and play for them.

Our plan had been to circumnavigate the Nova Scotian peninsula and this was also what the family was doing, so we ended up spending a leisurely three days with them. Each evening we'd find a campground, my companion and I would pitch her tent to sleep in, and Madame Belle-Mère would cook dinner in the galley while the father built a fire. Then we'd sit around the fire eating supper — good solid French Canadian fare — and afterwards sip hot chocolate or coffee and practice some of the songs the girls knew. Eventually we arrived in Truro and went our separate ways. The girl and I spent another day together before she had to head back home and I began my trip to Vancouver.

I seldom eat sardines and crackers these days, I just never think of it. But when I do I can still feel the guitar case under my butt and hear the cars passing us on the road while the girl and I shared lunch. I can still taste oily fish and the saltines. I can also still taste those fries in Munich, the gruyere in Switzerland, and the pasties in England. Almost 40 years later my memories of those adventures is reduced to a sparse collection of flavors and scenes. Actually, that works for me.