Memento Mori - The Secret Sausage

Stepping out of the hostel in Halifax I was determined to put the bad luck of the previous days behind me. Initially I had planned to take in a hand full of typical touristy sites like Pier 21 (Canada's version of Ellis Island), the Citadel, and a few others but after spending some time gathering up some necessities like a new charger for my phone and something to wear that wasn't going on its third day it was lunch time and I hadn't eaten anything since dinner at Newark the night before. Chance had me standing in front of a brewpub called Hart and Thistle so i rolled with the flow and went in for a pint and some food. I sat out on their waterfront patio and started sampling some local beers and chowing down on a plate full of local steamed mussels. The brewpub's own double IPA was surprisingly good, though the Propeller Pale Ale was extremely weak and bland, and the Granite Peculiar (a strong English ale) had decent flavor but was just OK. It was midway through the second beer when i realized the date, the 24th, and that it had officially been 10 years (almost down to the hour). It was also then that i realized something that hadn't dawned on me in the midst of all he chaos of the last few days - not only had the airline lost my luggage, they had lost my dad. Somewhere floating around Newark Liberty International Airport was the little baggie of ashes I had brought with me. I immediately just started laughing out loud, looking every bit the crazy drunk. My mom had always hated it when people would tell her "I'm sorry for your loss" because he wasn't lost. We knew exactly where he was...only now I didn't have a clue. I decided instead of visiting touristy places I would celebrate my loss by touring as many pubs as I could hit, starting my own little pub crawl.

While I was standing in line at one of the ticket counters at Newark after being bumped from one flight and trying to get on the list for the next one I ended up talking briefly to a Halifaxer in front of me who told me that his favorite beer was a local brewery called Alexander Keith's, that they did brewery tours, and they had a pretty decent pub on site as well. A quick check with my waitress and I found I was only a 15 minute walk away. I wasn't terribly disappointed when i found out hey were still operating on winter hours and only did tours on weekends, afterall I was really just there for the beer. While I was there I sampled a great Scotch ale they call their Tartan Ale, a good pseudo-stout (its got the flavors but none of the heaviness) they call their Dark Ale, and then their flagship brew which they claim is an IPA but is a complete lie and tastes about as boring as a Bud Light. Their IPA is shit...don't ever drink it. While I was there I talked to a fellow beer lover from Boston, and between him and the bartender, who I decided was an unabashed part-time alcoholic, they pointed me to a few other places to check out.

By the time I was done I had added The Lower Deck, Garrison Brewing Co., and The Old Triangle to my tour and was on my way to the Rock Bottom Brewery when I got a bit lost and sat down on a bench next to a guy who was supposedly a psychic observer for the Mormons. At that moment he was observing a group of police officers who were having some kind of function at an elementary school. He began to explain how he was in constant communication with the head of the church, how he could feel the pressence of something big happening behind closed doors across the street, and how he could tell that i had some psychic powers as well. I asked him several questions, all of which he answered calmly and reasonably, even if they didn't make any sense. And then suddenly he said "Well, now that you think I'm crazy I should go" and awkwardly power walked down the street. After having sat down I realized that i was tired, my feet hurt from walking in shoes that weren't meant for much walking, and decided the reason I couldnt find the brewery was because I already had too much to drink so i went back to the hostel, climbed up on my uncomfortable bunk bed and passed out. Incidentally it wasn't even dark yet. When i woke up the next morning, and yes I slept all the way through from sundown to sun up, I had a terrible but well deserved hangover. I had also accumulated so much crap along my tour that i had bought a messenger bag at some point and decided to take inventory. Along with the clothes and charger I bought, I had picked up a couple of shirts from the breweries, a growler of delicious Raspberry Wheat beer from Garrison Brewing, two different maps with Rock Bottom Brewery clearly marked but at completely opposite ends of the same street, a cool rock I had found by looking out the bathroom window of one of the bars , the phone number from a waitress at The Old Triangle that i remember had several tattoos of sharks on her legs and Celtic knots shaved into the sides of her hair, and then at the bottom there was a small package wrapped in butcher paper that said "Argentinian chorizo." I remembered all of it...except the chorizo. The chorizo had gotten a bit warm and was beginning to smell just the slightest bit funky and I ran to the bathroom and violently wretched up everything I had ever drank in my entire life. And then I felt fine, thanks to the secret sausage.