Community of St. John’s

Newfoundland and no man are islands, and the Province retains insular charm and quaintness: Canadian for sure, but unlike Toronto or Ottawa or Quebec. In fact, Newfoundland didn’t join the Canadian Confederation until 1949.

Newfoundland is to Canada as Poland is to the United States: the butt of jokes. Now that I’m a screecher, having been inducted into this local clan by virtue of putting up with abuse in Gaelic, downing a shot of Screecher rum, and kissing a codfish on the nose, I am not supposed to tell Newfy jokes at all, so I’ll tell only one: Newfies want Quebec to drop out of Canada, for if Quebec weren’t in the way, the drive to Toronto would be four hours shorter.

Screecher induction ceremony

Newfoundland is a special place. St. John’s has twice the population of Berkeley but retains a hometown feel. People leave their doors unlocked. The hype-factor is very low. There’s little glitz because there’s not much need for it: the view of the natural harbour is prettier than a postcard. Houses are almost all minimalist clapboard boxes, but they are painted a rainbow of colors. And the people are straight-forward. People are who they are, friendly, welcoming, approachable.and sans facade.

Compared to the fragmented, unneighbourly societies that are a hallmark of other parts of North America, St. John’s has a strong sense of community. Were I to create a symposium on building community, this would be the place to conduct it. (Of course, I’m a screecher, so I would say that.)

Cod’s tongues, caribou, and fresh cod

The food in St. John’s was uniformly excellent. Everything I ate was fresh. My cod had been caught the day before. The next night I ordered caribou so I could put another item on the list of oddball things Jay has eaten; it was quite tasty – sort of a mix of venison and beef. A colleague chose the halibut wrapped in prosciutto. When the chef had cut open the fish a few hours earlier, he found a whole red perch inside! Cod’s tongues were another item for the list. Once is enough. The tongues taste like deep-fried fish jello and come topped with salty little chunks of fried fish fat called scrunchians.

Last year I took part in a retreat at Marconi Center, the small conference facility on the site of Guglielmo Marconi’s Pacific wireless station. Alongside Tomales Bay ninety minutes north of San Francisco, Marconi had wisely chosen a spot close to some of the best oysters on the West Coast. St. John’s turns out to be the location of Marconi’s Atlantic station; my hotel was on the lower slope of Marconi’s Signal Hill.

The first Europeans to make it to North America settled in Newfoundland. Blue-eyed Inuits are proof that they planted more than one kind of seed. Later immigrants were seafarers from Scotland and Ireland. Old-timers speak with a Gaelic ring in their voice.

One morning at breakfast, a visitor recounted a terrifying training tale. He’d come to St. John’s, for just outside was one of the few places in North America one could be certified for expertise escaping from submerged helicopters. After some practice runs, the machine in the picture below dropped the chopper fusilage into the water. The ersatz chopper rolled over 180 degrees (because the weight of a chopper rides on top.) The fusilage began to fill with water. Our guy counts down 10-9-8-7… waiting for the effects of turbulence caused by the rotors to subside. He shoved open the window and reached to unbuckle his harness. It was jammed. He pulled and pulled. (Remember the drag race in Rebel Without a Cause?) Water was rising. Finally, the latch opened and he swam to the top. I asked what he had learned. “If your helicopter crashes in water, panic.” Clearly shaken, he was taking the day off.

Meta-lessons? I’ll talk about that when I return from my next trip to Newfoundland.