I am a Torontonian, and as such I take great pride in proclaiming (with tongue planted firmly in cheek) my hometown the centre of the universe, and fostering an ignorance of the rest of Canada. But sometimes, when the baby is pulled from the warm embrace of the womb, he finds the outside world an equally inviting place. Here is one such story.

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Fredericton first appeared on my radar screen during third grade geography class. We were in the midst of learning about Canada's at-the-time twelve capital cities. And when lil' New Brunswick's turn came, and its capital's name was said, a class full of 8-year olds giggled. "Was it named after Mr. Flintstone," we all wondered, "or maybe Mr. Astaire?" Oh, for simpler times.

Fredericton did not appear on my radar screen again, in any meaningful way, until my oldest and dearest friend (who we shall call 'Alex', for that is her name) was accepted into the law program at the University of New Brunswick. "So that means," she said gently, the better to cushion the blow, "that I will be moving to Fredericton." Ack! There he is again! Only this time he rears his ugly head with malicious intent.

"You must come to visit me," she later added. What, and ruin my perfect record of never having set foot in the Maritimes? You must be kidding! But she persisted, and made many attempts to guilting me into coming out before the second semester started, to help her move into a new apartment.

Of course, I relented. And on January 3rd, leaving behind a crippling Toronto snowstorm, we found ourselves on a plane to New Brunswick.

The first thing I noticed about Fredericton was the size of its airport. Coming from a city of 5 million people, it was a shock to see that Fredericton Municipal Airport's main terminal (nay, it's only terminal) could easily fit inside my old high school. "Where's the cafeteria," I asked Alex from the confines of our 737. "I could go for a lukewarm plate of meatloaf right about now."

So after disembarking (directly onto the tarmac, nonetheless; I had the urge to bend over and kiss the ground, Pope-style, but I figured it was too early to bring out my big-city shenanigans), we took a taxi to Alex' place.

Two quirks about Freddy taxis. First, they tell you the cost of the fare up front. This was quite convenient, and saved us the trouble of digging through our wallets, scrounging for change at the last minute, when the fare turned out to be more than we expected. Second, you can't hail a cab on a Fredericton street. They have to be called to arrange pickup. Alex told me a story of a student she met who, during his first week in town and frustrated by his inability to hail a cab after a night of bar-hopping, sat down by the side of the road and succeeded in getting picked up… by the cops!

Trius Cabs appears to be the U.S. Steel of Fredericton taxi companies. Which is fine. But I also noticed their name on many of the dumpsters around town (which wasn't a lot; Freddy is quite the clean little burg). Are they in the process of monopolizing the town, via such non sequitur diversifications? Is it their goal to take over the media next? I suspect their long-term goals will be thwarted, when the citizenry realizes how evil they are. On the day of the big snowstorm -- we got 25 centimetres that first night -- the Trius dispatcher was a sonofabitch, as we attempted to get a cab to take us to the movies. He hung up on me twice, and Alex once.

So on that night we took the competitor, A1 Cabs, and found them friendly and helpful. Often, when we were saddled with a large load from the move, their cabbies would go above and beyond the call of duty, in helping us load and unload our cargo.

The other alternative was taking the bus. Only there, too, were a certain number of quirks. First, the routes all arrived at the bus depot at the same time, so the sight of a dozen buses leaving, caravan-style, all at once, was not uncommon. Second, the drivers were maniacs. One bus driver, on the snowiest of days, didn't feel the need to slow down. I couldn't see what road she was using, but we did arrive safely. It was a prodigious display of driving that left me with my heart (and a couple of other organs) in my throat. New York cabbies eat your heart out.

We arrived at Alex' safe and sound that first afternoon. She moved into an apartment on York Street, between King and Queen Streets. I suspect every city in the Commonwealth is blessed with a King and Queen streets, for anyone from Toronto will know that there is an identically-named locale in the heart of that city's financial district. In fact, I used to work in a building a block and a half from there. So I immediately felt at home in Fredericton. That is, until the cat pee made itself known (this is a long story, too long and too irrelevant to get into here; I'll leave off by saying that we eventually did rid the place of the pungent aroma of Tabbies gone by).

Fresh from our encounter with feline odors, we decided to get some chow. Despite the fact that Frederick's downtown -- which Alex now lives right in the middle of -- is no more than 20 square blocks, there is a flurry of wonderful eating opportunities. Our first night there, though, didn't impress.

We found ourselves at the King's Place Mall, dining in a restaurant called O'Malley's. My burger (a burger should always be a safe bet in a strange locale) was a sad piece of meat stuffed between an imitation Big Mac bun. And for a Friday night in a University town, the atmosphere in the pub was surprisingly quiet. There were a couple of skids smoking up in the corner booth, but that's about it. Our waitress, not the brightest bulb in the box, kept going on and on about her new belt-clip change dispenser, and felt the need to clarify ("Dills?") when Alex asked for extra pickles on her burger.

We fared a bit better the next night, when we found ourselves at the Regent Mall, in a restaurant called Smitty's. It reminded me an awful lot of Swiss Chalet (do Americans know of the wonders of Swiss Chalet? It's a pity if they don't…). One interesting quirk: they put bacon bits on their Quesadilla. I noticed this same phenomenon repeat itself a day later when, in the PitaPit for lunch, they put two strips of bacon on my Turkey Cesar sandwich. Is there a surplus of pork in the Maritimes that I'm not aware of?

Walking along Regent Street one afternoon (Regent Street appears to be the main drag; think Yonge Street in Toronto, or Broadway in New York. On second thought, don't. Regent has not nearly the size or scope to compare to those two behemoths), we passed by Mei's, which Alex noted was the only Chinese food restaurant in downtown Fredericton. I glanced in the window and noticed that the entire wait staff was Caucasian.

Now, maybe this is my bias, living in a city that prides itself on its ethnic diversity and communities, but that just struck me as all wrong. I am used to seeing Italians running Italian restaurants, Greeks running Greek restaurants, and Indians running Indian restaurants (Alex and my favourite quickie Indian place in Toronto is called Kathmandu, which is run by a friendly family just arrived from Nepal). And, most explicitly, Chinese running Chinese restaurants. In writing this I can't help but wonder if it’s destructive ethnic stereotyping, but, then again, that's what my city has taught me.

Regardless, the food at Mei's is quite tasty. They offered up an authentic take on the Hot and Sour Soup (different than the Westernized version I'm used to) that was a spicy alternative. The problem was that they kicked us out at 8:37pm. Not because we were rowdy (we weren't), or because the place was closing (the sign out front said they were open until 10:30). I am still baffled by this one. Be forewarned.

We tried a couple of Mexican places while in town. The first, Mexicali Rosa's, was more a Mexican-themed pub. They hold the dubious honour of featuring a strawberry-banana daiquiri where the bananas are rotten. Not recommended. The other place, called El Burrito Loco, managed to, with its ambience and small-time charm, transport us from the chilly cold of Freddy in January to vibrant and lively Tijuana. And, as an added bonus, they didn't surprise you with bacon on the quesadilla. The one problem: our waiter, a burly amigo who was also the chef and the owner, had some trouble explaining the difference between a burrito and an enchilada. It's all refried beans to me.

By far my favourite Fredericton restaurant was called The Blue Door. "It's new," said Alex, itching to try it. Also on Regent Street, it grabs you right off the bat with its cheeky menu: "Please, no cigars, pipes, or bonfires"; "We accept cash, credit cards, debit… and cash"; Beers are either "From Here" or "From Other Places". Ha! Our waitress, a husky-voiced purveyor of personality, promised that they had the best Cesar salad she's ever tasted. Usually I get wary by this kind of salesmanship, but in this case she was right. Quite a tasty treat. My dinner, called Uli's Famous Salsiccia, was basically just your standard sausage and penne dish. Only it was enormous and delicious. The restaurant featured a laid back mood, a comfortable décor, and was reasonably priced. I'd go back in an instant. Well, except for that whole flying-to-New Brunswick thing.

So, I bet your asking yourself, "Did Mike just eat his way through Fredericton, or did he and Alex do other things too?" Silly you, of course we did other things. Freddy is laid-back and tiny, but a wonderful place to walk around and keep busy in.

Walking east along Queen Street, backing on to the Saint John River, you'll find the Beaverbrook Art Gallery. The information guide promised a Salvador Dali exhibit, but, alas, there were only three works shown (Portraits of Sir James and Lady Dunn, which flanked the enormous "Santiago El Grande"). But it also held an impressive collection of Canadian modernist paintings, much of it in the post-Impressionistic/Group of Seven vein. Which was right up my alley. There was also some 19th century portraiture that, well, had Alex and I giggling trying to guess the genders of the subjects.

Directly across from the large Beaverbrook gallery is a smaller gallery, in a 19th century Queen Anne Revival mansion, called Gallery 78. It featured, on its ground floor, the works of local artist-in-residence David McKay. He specializes in minimalist, impressionistic landscapes. Upstairs, other local artists are featured, with all works for sale. But the biggest attraction of the gallery is the curators' dog, Jazz, a sprightly little "SPCA special". Alex had much fun getting Jazz to sit and stand and speak. I, much less of a dog person, was content to let her lick my hand. The dog, that is. Not Alex.

Walking further along Queen Street, you'll find Waterloo Row, a neighbourhood full of enormous centuries-old mansions. At one point in our walking tour we smelled wood burning from one of the home's furnaces. Spying the smoking chimney, I also noticed that the same house had a satellite dish mounted on its roof. This little anachronism tickled me greatly.

On my last morning in town, I took a walk over to the Owl's Nest Bookstore, a used bookshop that Alex recommended. Found a couple of good reads, on the cheap, that I've been saving myself for for a long while. While browsing, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation between the owners standing at the front desk. She claimed to have "studied Shakespeare till my eyes fell out," yet had never heard of "The Two Gentlemen of Verona". Her friendliness more than made up for her unabashed ignorance.

Which makes this as good a time as any to talk about the people of Fredericton. Even on the coldest, snowiest, windiest days, when one must bundle up into the fetal position in order to maintain their body heat on the street, Frederick's residence won't hesitate to say "hi", or "good morning", or engage you in lively conversation. Coming from Toronto, where you're lucky to make eye contact with even a single person on the street, this friendliness was truly invigorating. Alex would often greet the locals herself, just to tease me into asking her, "Did you know that guy?" Of course she didn't, but it's easy to fall into their game after awhile.

So what haven't I covered yet? Shopping! I suspect that woke some of you up. Alas, it's not what you think.

Saturday mornings are dominated by a trip to the Farmer's Market. Not a big fan of these types of places (they're often too-crowded and too-specialized for my tastes; give me a grocery store any day of the week), it was still an interesting treat to see the local gathering place. It was also interesting to note that we couldn't find a decent loaf of bread, but if we wanted to we could eat samosas until, taking a cue from the bookstore clerk, our eyes fell out. Apparently, samosas are a new rage. Hmm.

The Regent Mall is probably more my scene, although it's not as close to the downtown core as I'd like. Still, the bus goes right through it, and a cab there will only set you back five bucks. It features a Wal-Mart (always handy, despite the Night of the Living Dead clientele), a Chapters (Canada's megabookstore chain; think Barnes & Nobles), and an Empire Cinema (8 tiny theatres, with little to no legroom). The aforementioned Smitty's is also located here, for your dining pleasure.

I'll end this trip through New Brunswick's capital city with an anecdote that I think neatly sums up the conditions in the community.

It all started because Alex needed a chair. With not much furniture, yet, she was forced to do her school readings in bed, which, as anyone who's tried this ought to know, puts her right to sleep. So a sturdy desk chair was called for. We spent one afternoon, an afternoon that will go down in the annals of our friendship as the Great Chair Hunt, searching through Freddy's many shops for just such an item. Hopefully at bargain prices. We checked out two antique stores, a Home Hardware, the Salvation Army, as well as a number of other shops, on the off-chance that we'd find what we were looking for (sadly, Alex didn't think that Tomz Bongz would fit the bill, so I never got see the inside of that deliciously named nirvana). No luck was had, and all the shop owners felt sorry for us in our plight.

Until we found ourselves walking home, passing by a United Church of Canada. "I wonder, would a church have spare chairs to give away," Alex asked me. It's this kind of outside-the-box thinking that makes this girl such a treat to be around. Even before we went in I knew we'd found our saviour. So, after a quick trip to the minister's office ("This is probably a weird question," she asked, "but do you have any chairs that I can have?"), and me following the Sexton down into the dark, dusty basement, we found ourselves with not one but two, perfectly conditioned desk chairs. All Alex had to do was promise to come back and make a donation. That, to me, is Fredericton in a nutshell.

[Alex made me promise to include a link to her website in this review. I don't know about you, but I think after lugging five TV-sized boxes and three enormous duffel bags up two flights of stairs, I don't owe her much. Ah, who am I kidding:

http://www.alexwhite.net.

There are some neat pictures of Freddy there, and her take on the whole chair story too.

Other relevant links:

City of Fredericton
http://www.city.fredericton.nb.ca/

University of New Brunswick
http://www.unb.ca/

Trius Inc.
http://www.triusgroup.com/history.htm

Regent Mall
http://www.regentmall.com/home/

Beaverbrook Art Gallery
http://www.beaverbrookartgallery.org/

Gallery 78
http://www.gallery78.com/

Owl's Nest Bookstore
http://www.owlsnest-bookstore.com/owl2.htm

Chapters
http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/Default.asp

United Church of Canada(!)
http://www.united-church.ca/]

Recommended: Yes

Best Suited For: Students