Today, the snow flies for the first time as fall quickly heralds an early winter in the old port town of Halifax, N.S., where hale and hearty cruise ship passengers scramble down their respective gangplanks in skivvies and shorts. One – and only one – question burns fevered urgency into their one-track minds.
“Where. . .uh. . .can I get a smoke if. . .uh. . .you know what I mean?”
To which the helpful Haligonian – her tote bag of cannabis well and duly tucked away from the inquisitive eyes of the good town’s constabulary (which is already overworked policing the first day of legal, recreational pot in only the second nation on earth to entertain such a thing) – replies:
“Where?” she arches a knowing eyebrow. “Why anywhere you like. After all, we’re all pirates and privateers in these parts. As to where you can smoke it without earning a parting gift, a.k.a. a fine, from these fair shores, try one of our pillars and posts conveniently located at random and for no particular reason along the waterfront, across the suburbs and in the vicinity of some of the finer bus stops we can offer. . .Party on, dude.”
The Bruce Scribes 