You know what keeps me addicted to the road? After hitting all 193 countries—the entire UN roll call—you’d think the surprises would dry up. But no. There’s always some geopolitical curveball waiting to slap you in the face.
Like this: France. In North America. And no, I don’t mean the usual Caribbean suspects—Martinique, Guadeloupe, Saint Martin—been there, done that, had the rum. I’m talking way up north, past the maple syrup line. Two cold, stubborn little rocks clinging to the edge of Newfoundland: St. Pierre and Miquelon. Still French. Still flying the tricolor.
So of course, I had to see it for myself. And here we are.
Second time flying WestJet—San Diego to Calgary, then eastward to the edge of the map: St. John’s, Newfoundland. Cold, quiet, beautiful. A place that doesn’t beg for your attention—it just is.
Get There
Most folks don’t think much about Saint Pierre and Miquelon. Fewer still know how to get there. Yeah, you can fly in—tiny planes, a few routes from France and Canada—but where’s the romance in that? I’ve always been a sucker for the long way ‘round. Give me the ferry every time.
The drive from St. John’s to Fortune? It’s not dramatic. No winding cliffs or cinematic coastlines. Just trees, sky, and a kind of calm that makes your eyelids heavy. I actually pulled over for a nap—realized I was enjoying the drive a little too much.
Rolled into the ferry terminal with minutes to spare. Snapped a few shots outside, then got waved in—“We’re leaving early,” the lady said, like that’s just how things work around here. So yeah—if you’re taking the boat, don’t cut it close. This place moves on its own time. And honestly, that’s the whole point.
Non-Stop to Miquelon
The ferry was clean, modern, comfortable—maybe a little too comfortable. It lacked the rust and character I usually root for. Too cold out on deck to pretend I was some grizzled sea dog, so I stayed inside, jet-lagged and half-conscious, drifting in and out somewhere over the cold Atlantic. Ninety minutes later—boom—we’re in France. Not “French-speaking Canada” France, but actual France… dropped like an outpost from another dimension into the corner of North America.
In Like Flynn
The passport stamp alone was worth the trip—a rare little trophy for the travel-addicted. I walked through the little customs shack, a quiet and unceremonious arrival, but inside I was screaming with joy.
Next stop: the rental car. Which, apparently, is the only rental car. Except today, it’s in the shop. So the guy hands me the keys to his own car—because this is that kind of place. Straight out of an alternate-reality Mayberry, where everyone speaks French and no one’s in a hurry.
They Left the Light On For Me
My guesthouse, L’Auberge de l’Ile, was just a few steps away. I tossed my bags on the bed, didn’t bother to unpack, and walked “downtown.” Calling it that is a stretch—it’s really just a few streets with sleepy charm and maybe two open businesses. More Mayberry. Fewer people.
The corner store was open. I grabbed a bottle of water, a yogurt you drink instead of spoon, and an Oh Henry! bar, because why the hell not. Ate it all on a bench facing the church in the town square. Fog rolled in like a slow exhale. Cold. Silent. Beautifully bleak.
A Quiet Storm
I felt like I’d been dropped off the edge of the continent—and finally, I could hear myself think.
I jumped in the car to explore before sundown—though up here, sundown’s a loose concept. Ten p.m., maybe? Who the hell knows. Time gets weird in places like this. Within 30 seconds I was out of town, swallowed by an empty, twisting ribbon of road hugging the sea like it had nowhere else to be.
No traffic. No people. Just me and whatever wildlife bothered to show up.
Every time I spotted a horse, I’d pull over, roll down the window, and have a little chat. “Hey there, Mr. Horsey.” Like some aging weirdo on the brink of full-blown eccentric. I’m dangerously close to becoming the guy who carries peanuts in his pockets and lectures squirrels in the park. And honestly? I think I’m fine with that.
There’s a kind of peace that comes with not needing to explain yourself.
Eatin’ Good in the Neighborhood
Someone told me, “You have to eat at the inn.” Normally I’d be skeptical—recommendations are a dime a dozen. But this one? Nailed it.
Dinner was a toss-up between lobster and scallops—classic maritime dilemma. I went scallops. No regrets. These weren’t just good; they were life-altering. Perfectly seared, buttery without being cloying, kissed by the ocean and plated like someone actually gave a damn. Best I’ve ever had. No contest.
And in true small-town, Norman Rockwell-on-a-wine-buzz fashion, I was invioted to share a table with fellow visitors Sherry and Ron from Toronto. Salt-of-the-earth, good conversation, no pretense. A lady named Patricia runs the place—owner, chef, probably bartender if needed. She’s the kind of person keeping civilization intact, one plate at a time. Total badass.
Slow Ride Take it Easy
Last morning in Miquelon. I did it right—slow, simple, French. Bread. Croissant. Coffee. No rush, no noise, just the kind of breakfast that reminds you life doesn’t need to be complicated. Then I wandered—deliberately slow, like I had nowhere better to be. Colored houses—orange, purple, red—faded like old postcards. A few boats marooned in front yards, half-swallowed by weeds and time. Gardens, horses, clotheslines like flags of quiet resistance. No people, though. Maybe at work. Maybe asleep. Maybe just… gone. Maybe it gets crowded in July. Maybe it doesn’t. Who knows? Who cares?
It’s tourist season—if you can even call it that—but the silence still hangs in the fog. You can almost hear the island breathe. I drifted into the town square, sat on a worn bench facing the island’s lone church, then stopped by the only bakery on the island—just “BOULANGERIE.” That’s it. That’s the name. That’s the vibe.
There isn’t much to Miquelon. But maybe that’s the point.
Work and Play
Content from the morning wander, I made my way back to the inn—time to face the laptop, pretend to be productive. I set up at a corner table in the empty restaurant, tapping away while the place slowly came to life around me. Lunch hour in a place where time barely matters.
I hadn’t planned on eating—just coffee and emails—but then came the lobster I skipped last night. No regrets. Sweet, rich, cooked like someone actually cared. One of those quiet meals that sneaks up on you, taps you on the shoulder, and reminds you why you travel in the first place. Patricia had done it again. If she was closer to my age and single I might consider…no, never mind. Moving on.
A couple hours left on the clock, and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet. So I threw my gear in the rental, pointed it toward the unknown, and took one last aimless cruise. Thought I’d already seen the whole island. I was wrong.
This time, I veered left out of town—past the familiar—and minutes later hit a dead end. A sign: Sentier Belliveau. A trailhead. Coastal path, then planks through the woods like some forgotten slice of Disneyland built for one. Quiet. Eerie. Perfect. Just me, the wind, and the occasional bird rustling the brush like nature’s stagehand pulling the curtain.
No people. Not one. The kind of silence that humbles you.
I’m Gonna Head Out
Then: a spider. Massive. Black. Crawling up from between the slats like some tiny demon from the underworld. My brain started doing the math—how many more were down there? I kept going. Brush closed in. The air got heavy. More webs. One across the face and that was it. Game over. I’ve eaten guinea pig in Peru and dog soup in North Korea, but spiders? That’s where I draw the line.
Retreating back to the coast, the trail paid me back with a moment of grace: sea lions. Laid out like chubby aristocrats on the rocks, bobbing in the water like they owned the place. That walk? The reset button I didn’t know I needed. A hard reboot of the soul. Whatever weight I’d carried here—emails, deadlines, the static hum of real life—gone. Just gone.
Closing Time
By the time I made it back to the car, the clock had run out. Time to return the keys, head to the port, and catch the next boat—bound for Saint Pierre, Miquelon’s louder, more put-together big sister.
I liked Miquelon. Can’t give you a checklist or Yelp-worthy bullet points. It wasn’t about “what to do” or “must-sees.” It was the stillness. The quiet hum of life at half-speed. A place that doesn’t care if you show up or not—and that’s exactly why it stays with you.
And hey, being in France while still technically in North America? That’s a pretty great trick. Up next, Saint Pierre.
This entry was posted in North America
