and there was this man and his little kid there - the kid was probably around four or five, and very friendly, adorable little guy, and he kept saying things to me and Tom, and it took us quite some time to realize he was speaking French. he was a teeny little French Canadian boy who probably thought we were a pair of aliens for not being able to understand him. (and Tom, who is his father's son and can never understand why anybody besides his absolute closest friends should EVER talk to him, trying to just smile and nod at the poor little guy, absolutely no clue what's going on.) and eventually the dad realized what was going on and explained to our mum, and they had a good laugh, and then he explained to his kid, and that was that.
it's weird, because I don't remember a lot else from that trip. I was ten, or maybe nine. I know I wore a lot of sleeveless basketball shirts, boys' shirts of course, and we went to a beach with nearly white sand dunes and water so cold it turned my legs purple within a few minutes. (Canada: Orlando it is not.) there are a couple streets that I think I can picture on the Island, or somewhere in Maine on the drive up, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the image in my head is actually from Colorado, two years ago (or potentially Washington, two years before that). I hardly remember Maine - just some touristy shops with lobster keychains - and I don't remember New Hampshire at all, even though I was most certainly there. it's a strange feeling.
well, this is a self-indulgent post. I guess that's kind of characteristic of blog posting in general though, so nbd.
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