I was born at Grace General Hospital, affectionately referred to as “The Grace,” on the corner of Pleasant Street and LeMarchant Road. It was late October of 1989. I imagine the brisk air swirling in from the bay while snow threatened to pepper the cliffs in the harbor. The window in the maternity ward overlooked colorful houses lined up along narrow city streets. In the distance, blue harbor waters held large ships that sat still, awaiting their next voyage.
But now, The Grace is gone. Disassembled from the top down. I don’t actually know why. They say it was old, outdated, obsolete. All I know is I spent 10 years away from St. John’s, Newfoundland… enough time for me to grow up, enough for me to get married, enough time for an entire hospital to vanish.
In 2013, for our one year wedding anniversary, a dream was fulfilled: I introduced Ben to my birthplace. After a decade of being away, I revisited the island heralded on my birth certificate and it made me realize all over again just how over the top in love I am with St. John’s, Newfoundland. It’s a place that is mistakenly underrated – even sometimes unknown – but it’s so special, so spectacular, and so sentimental. I remember trying to keep my cool as Ben stood and took in the same views I loved as a child – back in the 90s when I peered out from the giant bay window in my grandparents’ home on the hill, neatly nestled near the wild blueberries and bubbling waterfalls. It all came back to me. That decade of distance faded away. Crumbling like the bricks of the old hospital. My foreign home inched closer to familiar.
Just as I remembered, the tundra land was alive with green. The earth, cold…even in July, but the trees, dense…making everything emerald. Little houses sat perched at the base of rocky cliffs with docks that stretched 10 or 20 feet out into the Atlantic Ocean. Thick fog disguised the true reach of the water and kept hidden the hundreds of miles we had just sailed overnight on a ferry. Rain drizzled, mixed with mist. A gray-blue hue hovered in the air. Cascading cliffs cast shadows on winding roads, making even semi-trucks look miniature. Yet, a safeness swept over me.
I remember pushing my forehead against the car window as we tapped the breaks on the steep hills that led us downtown. My far-off memories because alive, little vignettes of conversations, outings, moments popping up like reruns of my favorite TV show. I saw the St. John's harbor come into view below us. Within a few blocks, we were enveloped in brightly painted houses they call “jellybean rows.” Unassuming locals under light jackets strolled the rainbow streets. The scent of fresh seafood came in whiffs, sailing in from restaurants that boasted “the best fish and chips in town.” That feeling of home knocked on the door of my heart. All those times we walked along the industrial dock with the water on our left and First Street on our right. Here we teetered the lowest elevation, where the city of hills climbed down to meet the harbor.
As a child, my mom would hold my hand tightly as me and my sisters stood near the water eagerly watching crew members prepare their ships to go out to sea. We passed Ziggy’s food truck, still parked in the same place all these years later, a nod to the island’s simplicity and predictability. I’d walk down Water Street with my Aunt from her high-rise office building during lunch breaks to get fries (to this day the best I’ve had…maybe because Canadians do it right with the malt vinegar…) I loved going to work with her — a regular activity for me during the summers I spent in Newfoundland. I would write made-up stories on her old typewriter and pretend I worked for a newspaper. I would put my hands against the floor-to-ceiling windows to gauge the chill floating in from the water. I would gather office supplies and charge loonies and toonies to rent them to her colleagues. My very first business co-founded with my older sister, Taylor.
Peering out of the car & pointing out landmarks to Ben, I realized the harbor referred to as “the narrows” did seem a little smaller than I remember, the high-rise buildings a little shorter. It was always larger than life, this city…but now returning, it seemed quaint, cozy….like home should feel.
After that trip in 2013, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.
So when we had a baby last year and began discussing our family vacation, Ben and I knew it needed to be Newfoundland. The safety. Vastness. Comfort. Nostalgia. It’s everything I wanted and plus – we had a new tiny person to make the wonder even more wonderful. Lucky for us, my entire family was itching to return to the island. So we began making plans for the big trip 1,795 miles northeast. Some of us drove, some of us flew, and let’s just say it was difficult (to say the least) to find an airbnb to house 22 people for a week, but we did it! And the timing was perfect for us to once again celebrate our anniversary – this time five years with our almost 1 year old daughter in tow.
We stayed within walking distance to the downtown charm. Morning strolls in 60 degree weather to get a latte was a thing – daily. Our house sat along a neighborhood trail my mom used to walk every week as a little girl when she’d go to her grandmother’s house after piano lessons. We were across the street from a grocery store…and you better believe there was a constant crew heading over for snacks or last-minute ingredients for dinner or to satisfy the regular hankering for a Pineapple Crush (Newfoundland staple).
It was good for my soul to spend the week with family. Our house growing up was always lively and wild…and slowly we’ve grown up, some of us married, and have homes of our own now. It was like the old days without having to get in our car and leave at the end of the night! For one week we did everything together – wake up, eat, play, plan our day, explore. Easily the best perk for me personally was having one of Darcie’s aunts (there are 6!) knock on my door every morning when Darcie made her first peep (could they have been sitting there waiting?!) They’d scoop her up, whisk her away, and…we. got. to. sleep. in. A mama’s dream! I honestly didn’t feed her breakfast one time the whole trip. Sisters are a GIFT, are they not?!
One of our first days together we hiked the East Coast Trail…vast cliffs overlooking rocky coves tucked away from the expanse of ocean waters. We took our time…in no hurry as we scaled the rocks down to where the jutting earth met the water, or climbed to the tallest point to soak in the views, or hopped from stone to stone to cross a bubbling waterfall, or grabbed a hand of one of the nieces & nephews who were experiencing it all for the first time. The trail led down to Middle Cove Beach, a rocky beach where the water stays cold year-round and the wind is always bringing you air that is fresh & free. We hung out there an hour or two…skipped rocks, helped the littles add greatly to their rock collections, found the coolest shaped stones like hearts or letters.
Every day was spent doing something nostalgic. Something that seemed magical even if mundane. Family dates for ice cream where we’d lean in to hear stories of my mom growing up, or wasting time chatting over coffee or meandering through souvenir shops. Visits with our Aunt Frances in the most vintage home you could imagine…and her handing out trinkets from decades past for us girls to display in our own homes…or pulling out clothes from her closet to send back with us (because she is a professional shopper and we get to benefit). Trying traditional food such as split pea soup or fries with dressing or toutons with molasses around the biggest table we could get in crammed eateries on a rainy day. A girls’ brunch with three generations of women sharing plates & stories. Whale watching in the bay (where our instagram videos later got featured on local news channels). Iced mochas in a remote cash-only shed-turned-coffee-shop where my 16 year-old brother spotted everyone because he was somehow the only one carrying Canadian money. Meeting up with cousins for a bonfire on the beach with hotdogs & s’mores, the shore dotted with crackling fires, bundled up bodies, and pots full of boiled mussels. Laughing and reminiscing while the sun faded on the horizon. Large batches of nutella lattes made in a Ninja blender every morning by my big sister. Late night singalongs with guitars and 20 voices. Drives to the easternmost point of North America, Cape Spear, where my brothers scaled rocks and got yelled at by park rangers and the lot of us freezing and shivering because we didn't consider the elevation when getting dressed. Tea time with my sisters in a Quidi Vidi Village, a fishing community with the cutest cottage-turned-restaurant.
Newfoundland is a special place – the cliffs & barrens, the sweet air & foggy mornings, the wildflowers & islanders. It all sweeps you off your feet & keeps you there for a long as you want…it wasn’t long enough for me.
We love you forever, St. John's.
