chicken flavored chips and a high crime rate: blame canada

And so the journey has finally begun. Thanks to some confusing legalities involving bonds and millions of dollars, Semester at Sea is forced to disembark their voyages from an international port. Enter Halfiax, Nova Scotia.

The trek that brought me here was, in a word, hellacious. Thank god I'm traveling with a fellow SAS voyager, my friend Cam from UMiami, or else I think I might have caused such a scene at Hartsfield-Jackson-Atlanta International Airport (side note: just because we're the country's busiest airport doesn't mean we also need the longest name) that TSA would have escorted me out.

To begin, I awoke at 2AM. Does it even count as waking up if you're not sure if you even slept/you normally wouldn't have gone to sleep yet at that time? I don't know, but it blew. After the car was loaded, my dad had arranged for a classy going-away breakfast: 3AM at the Waffle House on 41 and 285. The clientele in the wee hours of the morning were dressed in their finest ghetto clubwear and still feeling that last glass of Henny; a peaceful way to begin my journey to say the least.

Once I finally made it to Hartsfield, I was stuck in line at the United counter behind a woman who was checking at least 20 full-sized boxes. Why? Once I got to the front and began hauling my luggage on the scale, a number appeared that made my heart sink: 56. Let it be known, I HATE OVERSIZED BAGGAGE FEES. They have been the bane of my existence since I started attending a college that requires me to board a plane in order to get there, and were even worse when I interned in New York City last summer. Why must we fashionable women be penalized for wanting to bring a few more pairs of shoes? Has an extra stack of American Apparel v-necks ever hurt anyone? I think not. Regardless, as my fears were realized and the 56 appeared on the screen, the United representative informed me the oversize fee was $200. I immediately started crying (acceptable), and began throwing jeans and bikinis in all directions to get the weight down. At 51 I was at the end of my rope. I flashed the guy huge glassy puppy dog eyes and he let me go.

Atlanta-DC. Once I found my terminal in DC that would lead me to Halifax, I began noticing likely Semester at Sea participants. My normally bubbly nature would have led me to engage them in most circumstances especially due to the three-hour delay, but one thing stopped me dead in my tracks at Dulles gate D6.

They were all massive nerds.

I'm talking: Sketchers-wearing, weird board game with parents-playing, "how many stamps do you have on your passport?"-discussing, straight-up USDA-certified NERDS. Shit.

Rather, I sat silently in the corner and consumed an entire issue of Vanity Fair (I made sure the nerds saw I was reading the issue with hot scantily clad World Cup footballers Drogba and Ronaldo on the cover and not New Moon) while Cam slept stretched out across three chairs with his reflective Ray-Ban aviators and red Beats by Dre headphones on, fully solidifying our stance as cool kids on the boat.

Finally, after the worst plane nap of my life, we reached the bustling metropolitan area of Halifax, Nova Scotia. And by bustling metropolitan area, I mean I felt like I was an extra in Fargo. Our cab driver was a sweet man, oozing with Canadian hospitality, who informed us of his undying love and devotion to the Ford Taurus (he's never driven any other type of cab!) and pointed out the three Tim Horton's on three consecutive blocks in the suburb we drove through named Dartmouth. Don't let its collegiate name fool you, Dartmouth was fairly destitute and depressing, but once we reached Halifax all was redeemed. The town is downright charming, with stone buildings and pubs on every corner. There's a quaint boardwalk where you can watch the vessels arrive, and I swear only seven people reside in the entire metro area. Spooky. However, our cabbie did tell us to beware of Halifax's high crime rate. All I could think of was that scene in Bowling for Columbine where Michael Moore lists off the number of murders in other countries on a yearly basis in comparison to ours. I think Canada had around four. Most likely in the grittier areas like Montreal, but I'll be sure to watch my back.

Dinner was at Salty's, a cute seafood restaurant right on the water. I had probably the best fish and chips of my life and ordered my first legal drink since Cabo Spring Break '08. It was exhilarating, to say the least.

All-in-all, my stay in Halifax has been pleasant. World Cup games are amusing in French and everyone here is really obscenely nice (other than that bitch at customs who demanded a letter from SAS with my itinerary and reasons for entering the country? Pipe down). But we made one fatal mistake when perusing the late-night snack collection in the lobby of the Marriott Courtyard.

Chicken. Flavored. Lays. Chips. Curiosity got the best of us and we decided to sample what was sure to be a local delicacy. It tasted like the powdery stuff you add to flavor Ramen noodles. Times a thousand. Won't be doing that again.

Boat begins loading at 8AM tomorrow so sadly I will have to say au revoir to Canada and hello to the open seas. I ran into a more normal looking kid my age at the hotel gym today so let's hope he (along with hundreds of others like him) will be going on SAS and offsetting the nerds. A girl can dream.