The 'Fax

When the airport shuttle stopped on South Street I had no idea where I was. It was windy as hell as I struggled up the street, my suitcase wheels bumping over the sidewalk. I arrived in Halifax one year ago tonight.

It’s been a strange trip. I spent my first couple days renting out a room in Dalhousie University residence. The room was stark and empty, barely affected by my meagre possessions strewn about. I couldn’t help but feel homesick.

Halifax is an urban oasis among the fogged-in coves and endless forests of Atlantic Canada. It’s a city which treasures its past while remaining liberal and progressive. Every day a cannon shot echoes over the city from an 18th century fortress which overlooks the office towers of the harbour front. At night the fortified hill is a centre for gay prostitution.

The city definitely has a sketchy side. Not that I’ve seen much of it. I spent the past year sheltered in the gentle Quinpool Road area, not in the urban sprawl of crime-ridden North Dartmouth or the recessionary charm of run-down Gottingen St. This is the city The Trews sang about in “Standin’ on the Corner of Hollis and Morris”. It’s the Halifax The Barenaked Ladies derided in “Hello City”.

Maybe the fault was mine the sun didn’t shine on Barrington Street.

The sun never shines on Barrington Street. The buildings are too tall and the street is too narrow.

My experience with lowlife Halifax comes second-hand. The journalism program required me to read the local papers and watch the local news. An old woman was beaten in a park by four girls armed with table legs not long after I arrived here.