"Now close your eyes and pucker up," the bartender tells me. Usually I require dinner and drinks before such a request, but
when in Rome—or, in this case, Newfoundland—do as the Newfies do.
I squeeze my eyes shut and feel a damp, cool sensation brush across my lower lip. The bar erupts with cheers as a man holding a large fish moves on to another patron, and I down the Screech rum shot he's just put in front of me. I'm sitting in Christian's, a small, wood-paneled tavern in the capital city of St. John's, where the Newfies (locals) are sandwiched around the bar like sardines.
Pictured: Brightly colored homes dot the rugged coastline south of Newfoundland's capital city of St. John's.