Here I am in Nova Scotia, and although this place is crawling with Newfies, I can’t help but realize how much my accent stands out sometimes. For example, I absolutely cannot say the word “dog” without Cailin O’Neil (and even her mother) teasing me by mimicking my pronunciation, which is “dag.”

So here’s another that often slips into my dialect: the pluralisation of prepositions, and the improper pluralisation of certain verbs.

For example, a normal person would say, “Oh, I like that shirt!”

But when I’m extremely excited, or in a rapid-fire conversation with someone, I lose all sense of proper grammar. I’ll exclaim, “Oh, I likes that shirt!” or “I loves that!”

I knows the difference.

Then there are the verbs. For example, most people would say, “I want to borrow that shirt.” But in the heat of the moment, I’ll say, “I wants to borrow that shirt.” Maybe a little rougher, more like “I wants ta borrow dat shirt.”

If you ever find yourself in Newfoundland, be sure to add inappropriate pluralisation everywhere, unless it sounds awkward. You can’t just throw it out there all willy-nilly. Remember the lesson about flow I taught you from using “b’y.”

Bonus round combination of past three lessons: “I likes them Nunny Fudgers, b’y.”

And for being such great students, I’ll share this video with you. It has nothing to do with this lesson, but it’s a brilliant car commercial that never aired because it was apparently “offensive” (or was pulled from TV, not sure). Honestly, you’re not a Newfie if you can’t appreciate this ad.

Despite all these lovely Internet resources and wanderlust blogs I read on a daily/hourly/minutely basis, I still carry a guidebook or two with me when I’m on the road. It just makes sense, you know? Plus they smell nice. Like new plastic and extravagant expenditures.

So here’s what I read to psyche myself up for the Big Apple.

Frommer’s New York City 2010

I won this book through a Twitter contest, and thought it was some divine miracle of god because I had just made plans for TBEX in New York City. I thought my life was going to change, and in some ways it did, but not by the forces I wanted. Anyway, this is a fantastic resource: lots of practical info, gorgeous glossy photos, and tons of insider tips to get you around the city efficiently.

My only qualm is that it’s not really made for the budget traveller. I’m also a little bitter than I wrote out a full list of activities I wanted to do, stuck it inside my guide, and left it on the damn airplane in my excitement of landing in the city. For shame.

Chronicles of Old New York: Exploring Manhattan’s Landmark Neighborhoods – James Roman

Chronicles of Old New York

I was a little wary about reading this book; I’m not a huge history buff, and I find most North American history to be tedious and boring. On the first hot summer day in St. John’s, I took this book outside on the back deck and started reading it while tanning. I finished the whole thing in nearly one sitting.

The great thing about Chronicles of Old New York is that it doesn’t avoid all the less flattering, sketchy details of New York’s history. I think my favourite part of the book was Thomas Edison’s discovery of electricity, and the landmark moment when he lit the entire city. If I had a time machine, I’d go back for precisely that event.

The book only confirmed what I had thought all along: NYC is the epicentre of the world. Brush up on your history before you get there.

Everyone’s fucking finding themselves. Why? I know myself. I’m a 24 year old unemployed ginger with a peculiar fondness for beards, and I like beer more than wine.

I want to lose myself. Escape the routine, the familiarity. Here’s my map for success.

1. Have a semi-traumatic experience, like being laid off from your career two days before your birthday.

2. Go on a two month bender dubbed “The Summer of Candice,” with highlights including hot tubs and homemade wine.

3. Have a certain amount of tumultuous love affairs with men ranging from 0-10 on the Douchebag Scale.

4. Buy a one-way ticket to a city of your choice.

5. Plan an impromptu, one-day roadtrip with a strange man you’ve only met two months ago for a few days. (Just kidding, Carlo. Maybe.) Also, a ziplining tour and water-park adventure with a girl named Steph you’ve only met last week and all her friends you haven’t met yet.

6. Don’t die.

I fell hard for Cape Breton.

Somewhere on the island of Cape Breton, after Markland Beach and the Highlands with its giant crashing waves and green hills and chirping crickets, zooming down mountains in a car rental and finding another perfect curvy landscape around the next corner, I might have shed a tear of happiness. A thousand miles from home, in a new setting where beer is only sold warm at the local Co-Op, hearts and fragile egos mend, and new beginnings…begin.

Seriously, despite the sunburned arm and the mosquito bites on my ass, I am so blessed.

It’s about that time again where instead of producing any real content, I tell you to go look elsewhere.

Me? It’s Friday. I have a cheap bottle of homemade wine, my friend Ashley is visiting from Alberta, and we’re hitting up the town. Have a great weekend!

Joel of Freedonia Post – Joel used to be a big shot corporate man, but now he is cycling around France and being totally badass. He’s good for a laugh, check it out.

Michael Hodson of Mobile Lawyer - Michael, like Joel, quit his job as a lawyer to travel his face off for one year. His ultimate goals: no planes, and no reservations.

Shannon of A Little Adrift – I met Shannon at TBEX 11, and damn, she’s one sweet lady. Brave, independent and unstoppable. Read her, she’s one tough chica.

Steph of Twenty-Something Travel – Another awesome blogger I met in NYC, she’s prepped to take over the Internet with her killer resources for 20-something travellers. Word on the street is she’s already nailed down 30-somethingtravel.com. She’s quickly climbing the ranks of travel bloggers, and for good reason.

Cailin, Steph and I, representing the 20-something variety.

Rob of Adventure Rob – Rob was one of the first bloggers I started talking to at MatadorU. I’m crazy jealous of his adventures, particularly those from his Scooby-Doo van. Plus he’s a Brit, so he can hold his alcohol with the best of us.

Aye, Jack and Emma at Got Passport - This ridiculously sweet family sold everything in July 2010 and relocated to Thailand. Their motto is: Live Small. Live Green. Give Large. Take Little. Fall in love with them.

Dave and Deb of The Planet D – One of the most fun, genuine couples you’ll ever meet, and they’re living the dream, baby! They spend more time jaunting around the globe than I spend in pubs, which is impressive. Follow them for wanderlust inspirations (or envy).

Dave of What’s Dave Doing - Dave is a New Zealander who’s been to over 30 countries and is now stationed in Australia. I knew I liked him the moment he published Backpacker Bingo, and it’s been an ongoing affair since then.

Jodi of Legal Nomads – Jodi’s become a bit of a legend over the past year or so. Another ex-lawyer, she travels everywhere solo and she does it with flair. Her writing makes me drool, and somehow, somehow, she finds herself in more ridiculous situations than I do. Hence the bird crap counter, and her epic flight to the Dominican Republic. Can’t wait to travel with her someday.

Way to make me look like the jolly green giant, Jodi.

Self Stoke

Before I forget, I’d like to say I’ve made the top 10th percentile of contestants in the Get Rid of Me contest. So please, PLEASE vote! It’s probably my only chance to travel. Plus you get to learn all my dirty secrets, like my infatuation with Lady Gaga and my complete disregard of social conduct when it comes to hot tubs. If you have anything you’d like me to vote, Tweet, Stumble, just ask!

Growing up as a kid in Bay d’Espoir was the best experience ever, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. My summers consisted of biking to a swimming hole at 11 a.m., having fun until supper time, then biking to a beach for a bonfire. I never did get to take ballet or violin lessons, but I had freedom.

Only once did I ever do the trek to Mash Gush Falls, an hour hike from our normal swimming place. Getting there is a pain in the ass, scrambling over embankments and cliffs or having to swim between them. But when I was home last month, I decided to join Dad on a little fishing excursion up the brook (he calls the falls “Swanger’s Brook Falls”…the name is debatable).

The start of the hike.

I slipped and fell in the water, at which point Dad felt it was time to relieve me of carrying a backpack and fishing rod. Dad, who’s nearly 58, easily navigated the sharp drop-offs and climbed over rocks with more agility than a gymnast. I struggled to keep up, too short to reach certain ledges and lacking any sort of grace. At some points Dad had to help me out.

We paused to fish along the way, since the brook had risen with the rain. We caught a few small trout, enough for a small supper later. Several times Dad stopped to point out things I would never have noticed, like the feather belonging to an owl found in its roost, or a bone picked clean by an animal. I feel like Dad should go up against Man Tracker, what do you think?

Fred Flinstone's bowling ball? Wtf?

Finally, we reached the falls. You can hear them roaring from a mile away. Seriously, on the southern shore of Newfoundland and Labrador, 2 hours down a highway through a charred landscape into isolated Bay d’Espoir, then an infuriating hour hike up a brook, you’ll find this waterfall.

The waterfall.

It’s possible to climb over these, but decided I’ll keep that for another day.

Awhile ago, Brooke Schoenman asked me if I was interested in reviewing some P-Mates on my blog. Discover what it’s like to pee my name in the hypothetical snow? Yes, please!

A P-Mate is “like a cardboard shoe with the toe cut off.” You place the wide end under your urethra, and let ‘er go. Make sure the opening at the end is actually open, and aim away from your shoes. No more mess, no more unsanitary public toilets!

Unfortunately, I found the concept difficult to grasp at first. I mean, I’m from isolated, coastal Newfoundland and Labrador. I’ve been mastering the “squat-and-pee” since I was old enough to drink beer in the forest. Thirteen years old.

But early one morning (like 3 a.m.), when some friends and I decided to head to Cape Spear to be the first people to watch the sun rise in North America, I decided it was time to push my doubts aside and attempt to pee like a man.

It wasn’t easy. I still did the squat, it just felt natural. So I half-squatted, and peed, much to the horror of my male companion who then tried to teach me the true way. I even pushed my chest back and whistled.

First I thought I was peeing all over my hand, but I could just feel warm pee through the cardboard. Also, I was a little intoxicated. Maggie witnessed my freak-out first hand. Oh god, have I said too much? Am I too masculine now? Will this pink font eradicate your doubts? Can someone tell me I’m pretty?

Anyway. I really like the P-Mates, and I want to try them again in a more controlled environment. For the record, I later squatted in the old war barracks with my butt exposed, experienced some “splash-back” (I’m not quite the pro I thought I was), and mooned a well-dressed couple strolling along the trail for some sunrise nookie. In these cases, totally worth the stand-and-pee capabilities.

Uhh, I don't know how that whisky got there.

My next test? I’m gonna stroll into the men’s bathroom, whip out my P-Mate at the urinal, wink at the guy next to me and say, “How you doin’?”

George Street Festival ends off with the Royal St. John’s Regatta, the oldest continuing sporting event in North America. We’re all about “old” up in hurr.

When you think about it, it seems a little cruel to put a major event immediately after the most booziest festival ever. Especially when you consider the fact that if the regatta doesn’t go ahead due to weather conditions, people still have to work. We call this “Regatta Roulette” — you test your luck by attending the last night of George Street Festival, getting plastered, and taking a chance on working in the morning.

Lovely day for some rowin'.

My friends took their chances. There were jello shots. I may or may not have cried about my lack of income when I was a few dollars short for a beer.

Anyway. I was surprised to see a huge, busy beer tent in the middle of the regatta completely filled with people. I didn’t venture too close. 3 pm on a Wednesday, people! I love Newfoundland.

So yeah, basically the whole town turns out for a big rowing competition across Quidi Vidi Lake. Races take place all day, and almost anyone can participate if you’ve spent the last year putting together a sweet team. I did not. I admired the cut girls from afar.

My mission was for carnival food, namely giant hot dogs and cotton candy. Candy apples were thrown in the mix.

There's something to be said about my life as I restrain from hurling over the side of the bridge while cheering on athletes.

There’s also games, bouncy castles, food and lots of entertainment. And would you believe that after living in this city for four years, it was my first year attending? Shame on me, I know.

But damn those hotdogs were good.

Insert lewd sexual comment. Photo courtesy of Maggie, whom I apparently envy for her fashion sense seeing as how I dressed exactly like her. People commented.

** In other travel-related news, HostelBookers has a sweet “Summer of Love” sale on right now for over 28 top destinations worldwide. The Greece one makes me drool. Anyway, click the banner for more info.

Somewhere between the last few days of celebrating the miracle of George Street, a lightbulb went off in my head. I hadn’t blogged about George Street Festival yet.

How dare I? One of St. John’s biggest events, the legendary festival that invites people from all over to come and partake in the sacred tradition of Newfoundland boozin’.

That's alotta people.

If you haven’t heard me mention the street before, it’s known for having the most clubs and pubs per square foot than any other street in North America, which we’re proud about because this city has just 150,000 people. Traffic isn’t allowed on the road past 6 a.m., so people wander about freely all day. Plus it’s just a five minute walk from my house. Strategy.

Anyway, the festivals occurs each year at the end of July. The entire street shuts down so that drinkers pay $20-$30 (pricey, I know) to get in, pour their beer into plastic cups, and wander at will. You can drink in the street and enjoy some live music, or mosey between bars without having to pay any cover fees.

The whole thing is ridiculous. Saturday night I stood on the deck of Greensleeves with a beer in hand watching the crowd milling about the street, and I had never seen such chaos and clamour. I loved it.

My only issue is that I missed all the live entertainment because the street filled too quickly and tickets stopped selling. I decided to skip the $30 event of Our Lady Peace’s opening concert, and immediately regretted it. The show was apparently fantastic. Instead, I watched from The Republic just above the street with cold beer in hand. People watching is fun when you have your eye on the military dudes dressed in their camouflage being violated by drunken women. Flawless plan.

The festival has been around for 26 years, and I’ve been attending for four. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen the street so congested. The festival ends off tomorrow night with an old-fashioned kitchen party on stage. Fiddle music and jig-dancing awaits.

Festival kick-off.

Raine gets all the support.

Ah, St. John’s. So many reasons to love you.

(All these photos were taken by the lovely Maggie, as I was incapable of operating any electronics for most of the weekend.)

You’ll be proud to hear I’ve started setting my alarm clock again. I now wake up every morning at 9 a.m., read for a little while, and brew a cup of coffee. Sometimes I roll around on the floor and cry about my lack of income, but generally I’m calm, cool and collected. I’ve even started walking Maggie’s dog for beer money.

Don’t judge.

I’ve applied to two different freelance positions. I have a large project in the works with a few good buddies. But here’s my general plan:

If I don’t have a viable income by the time my EI runs out, and if I don’t get my other projects off the ground, I’ll go teach in South Korea or Japan. I had planned for Busan anyway, and I already have an amazing recruiter connection.

My other ideas are either moving to Halifax or Montreal. The vote is in favour of Montreal, where I know nobody, where I don’t speak French, and where I’m unsure of the job market. I kinda like that.

The other is Halifax where I have more friends than I can handle and I’m also closer to home.

So I did the only thing reasonable.

I bought a one-way ticket to Halifax.

August 26th I leave, with no definite return date. I’m not moving, though. I need a change of scenery, and a change of pace. Although as soon as I posted my status on Facebook, my friend replied, “I’m flying in the next day, drinks?”

Ah, can’t escape the love.

Basically, I’m unsure if I’m ready to leave St. John’s. Halifax, Montreal…baby, if you want me, make an offer. It’s hard to face the fact I may never experience a front-yard view like this again.

Makes the trashy houses look pretty.

Oh yeah, did I mention The National Post identified me in an article? I shit you not. It’s right there, at the very bottom, just scroll down. No, further. FURTHER. Now I have to get my ass in gear to put together this film before Tuesday, and I don’t have the slightest freaking clue what to do.