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The last bus to the airport is at 5:20pm, but the connecting bus will take you most of the way there, and call a cab to pick you up at Tim Horton’s! The drivers are quite chatty and will note points of interest along the route.

Two bartenders asked my name and offered theirs, along with a handshake. Very friendly, and seemingly quite genuine.

The concierge at my hotel was Chinese-Canadian perhaps, but still had the Newfoundland lilt… I love that not just white people have the accent, that it’s a part of our multicultural nation, and I’m reminded of Shaun Majumder.

The most Newfie-sounding guy I met was a waiter at the Duke of Duckworth, who remembered what I’d ordered the day before.

I was only there for two and a half days, but I think about it a lot, and can’t wait to go back.

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This ought to be a TV commercial.

I was sitting at the bar of the Celtic Hearth on Water Street in St. John’s, Newfoundland watching the game when a retired couple came in and sat beside me. The gentleman asked for a Guinness and was shocked to hear they didn’t have it, but rather Kilkenny.

Surprising that they didn’t, but moreso that they usually do but were somehow out, and most surprising that this wasn’t the first bar on the strip he’d asked after a Guinness, only to be denied. He turned to me and asked could I believe it? His people had settled the damn place and they didn’t have Guinness?

Where are you from? I asked. Originally Ireland but lately Sudbury. We talked a bit about the footie and then he left, off on his appallingly quixotic search for Guinness in a city more Irish than Ireland.

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