After a pitched battle with Magellan, who -- in what was obviously an abortive attempt to make me circumnavigate the globe -- kept sending me down unlit surface streets (obviously moose-infested) instead of putting me on the Trans-Canada Highway or other large sounding roads, I arrived at the Sheraton Newfoundland to be checked in by an Irish girl with a great brogue. At least I thought she was Irish and it was a brogue (hold that thought; more on it in a later post) because I couldn't fathom any other country or any other accent that would lead a girl half my age to say, "Have a g'night, luv, y'hear?" Truth be told, I couldn't get past the "luv" part. Unexpected terms of endearment from strangers always give me the willies (and the wanna-slaps if they're from strange men). I've even talked to my psychiatrist about this (whose mother is from...drumroll...St. John's, Newfoundland) and didn't get very far, as the conversation went something like this:
ME: I'm not good with random terms of endearment from strangers. Or acquaintances, actually. Or, come to think of it, friends...or family.
PSYCHIATRIST (with a blank look on face): You're from an Irish-American family on Long Island.
ME: Yes, but shouldn't I be able to accept affection from people --
PSYCHIATRIST: You're. From. An. Irish. American. Family. On. Long. Island.
ME: So you're saying I'm frigid?
PSYCHIATRIST: I'm saying you're from an Irish-American family on Long Island.
Which I guess means there's nothing I can do about it, luv. I'm from Long Island. It's a handy-dandy excuse for a multitude of sins.