A Note to Passers By

I haven't published here for over a year. At the end of our capital journeys, our travels hit a lull and our life became more involved with our son's family, especially their daughter, Paige. More travels are upcoming, we're by no means done yet. And blogging went by the wayside.

I've pulled out some recent writings, actually revisions of earlier sketches and stories. Should anyone wander by here, welcome. And feel free to read a story or two, leave a comment, and then go eat something.

Ronny
17 February, 2014.

In Search of Martha

April 1998

We walked the streets of Bad Wimpfen with a map and a list of privatzimmer homes--residences with a room and breakfast to rent.   At our third try, we were greeted by Horst and Gabby and given a tour of the house and our room. 

We decided on Bad Wimpfen based on a line in a travel guide:  a largely undiscovered fairy tale mediaeval village, and for its proximity to Hoffenheim, ancestral home of the Quenzer family, Pat’s paternal line.  Located on the Neckar River, 41 kilometers (25 miles) east of Heidelberg, the town center’s randomly curving streets are lined with half-timbered shops and houses, some dating from the 14th century. 

Horst, a business consultant, was fluent in English but indulged our German, cringing behind his smile.  Gabby spoke very little English.  Our communicating was a slow and halting process of tying together remembered German words.  Pointing also helped.  

The breakfasts alone were worth the airfare.  A variety of breads, rolls, and pastries (most of them home-baked) served with several different sausages and eggs, yogurt, and fruit awaited us each morning under a bouquet of fresh flowers from Gabby’s garden.  She was an artist, and every Christmas for years afterward, we received a watercolor of her garden flowers.  

The first two days of our stay, we explored the remains of the old wall, the Blue Tower, and countless shops.  Following breakfast on our third day, we strolled to the station and boarded a red 1950’s local train.  A slow, rocking twenty minutes later, we wandered from the graffitied Hoffenheim station, in search of the Friedhof, the village cemetery.   

The setting was beautiful.  The manicured cemetery extended up a hill and we wandered slowly among the rows of crosses and markers.  Near the top, the remains of Heinrich and Katharina Quenzer rested, enjoying a pastoral view of their home town.  They were both 91 when they died in the early 1990s.  Kneeling at the tidily kept grave and marker, Pat introduced herself, “Heinrich, I’m your cousin Pat.”   

In the early 1800s, several of the Quenzer families left Hoffenheim for the rich farmlands of the Russian Empire near the Black Sea, and, in 1828, another family of the remaining Quenzer clan moved south to the village of Bad Urach in the Swäbian Alb and established a brewery.  Quenzerbrau was a respected local beer until 2001, when it was purchased and closed by Stuttgarter Hofbrau in 2002.

A young lady at the Hoffenheim bakery -- one of the few young Germans we met who didn’t speak English -- remembered Heinrich and Katharina from her childhood and described them as quiet people who tended a large garden.  She went on, “You would always see them in the garden, working together.”  All the other family members had moved on and no Quenzers remained in Hoffenheim.

* * *

October 2000

Our son Scott and I were on a DB Regional Express traveling south from Stuttgart.   A cousin’s sketchy Quenzer Bräu story from the 1960s and a series of written inquiries pointed us to Bad Urach.  Detraining at Metzingen, we boarded a red shuttle train to Bad Urach, the end of the line.  At a bank of pay telephones in the city square, we called several hotels until we found an available room at the Gasthof Wilderman, breakfast, of course included.  Not until we arrived and read the carved wooden sign on the building did we realize it was part of Quenzer Bräu.  “Serendipity,” I muttered to Scott, “is the travelers best friend.” 

Bad Urach lies in the Swabian Alb of Baden-Wurttemburg, south of Stuttgart and west of Ulm. As the Bad in its name implies, this is a spa town with a large health complex.  Looming over the Nahe River valley and the village, the ruins of Hohenurach, a fortress destroyed by the French in 1688, was only a 45 minute hike.  Up.

Each morning Karl brought a typical German breakfast to our table.   One morning as he brought more coffee and a second platter of sausage, bread. and cheese, I asked about  the Quenzers.

“None of the Quenzers are involved with the brewery anymore.  When I was a kid, it was all Quenzers, the whole family worked.”  He paused as I translated for Scott.  

“You should have met Martha,” he said with a shake of his head.  “She was the matriarch, the Queen Bee.  Her word was law and beware if you disobeyed.” He led us over to a hallway wall and pointed at a large black and white portrait of a thin, stern woman whose white hair was in a tight bun.  She wore a flower-print  dress with a single string of pearls.  “Das,” he said with mock reverence, “Ist Martha.”

* * * 

January 2006

Returning to Bad Urach five years later, we took a room at the Buck Hotel and Cafe on the stadtplatz.  We were nearing the end a month’s travels following Hildegard of Bingen, J.S. Bach, and Luther with only a few stops in the Schwarzwald remaining before returning to Frankfurt and our flight home.

Marshmallow clouds drifted in the morning sky as we carefully picked our way along the ice-crusted and snow-bordered lanes of the Friedhof.  The winter-lighted snow was dazzling and we shielded our eyes to read the grave markers.  

The sound of a brass band starting a slow dirge pulled our attention.  People, mostly elderly, all dressed in black wool coats and hats, were moving toward the reddish brick chapel on a small rise behind us.  After watching their procession a few minutes, we returned to our search, but now with a somber musical score.

The memorial granite of the Quenzer family plot was partially buried in snow, but its size and large letters made it easy to find.  Listing 19th and 20th century descendants of the family that left Hoffenheim, the marker proudly announced their roles in Bräueri Quenzer.  

We have in our guest bedroom framed coasters from the Quenzerbrauerei, and an empty Quenzer Brau bottle stands proudly in a closet.  I don’t remember what happened to the beer.

Flexible Flyer

The farm was twelve miles east of Napoleon, a mostly easy drive.  All but the last 1.5 miles of road was well maintained.  Highway 34 between Napoleon and Gackle was cleared usually within a day of a snowstorm.  The county road intersecting with 34 and the road to the farm was open within another several days.  The problem was that last mile and a half: The two-rut prairie road would drift shut with hard packed snow and could be impassible for weeks.  Sometimes when they were running out of food or coal, the parents would worry and dad would take the Case tractor and try to break a path through the snow.

Al and Ronny didn’t concern themselves with being snowed in.  The brothers had plenty to do and were good at amusing themselves. They walked to school anyway and could follow a path that was mostly swept clean of snow by the blizzard wind.  And both knew, the same weather that isolated the farm behind the blocked road often created awesome sledding conditions.  

South, across a rambling wetland stood the farm where cousin Allen lived.  Typically, prairie lakes grew and shrank, dependent as they were on snow runoff.  In high precipitation years, it was a real lake with a reedy shoreline and large, open patches of water.  With little snow pack, it became a mucky swamp dotted with only a few water holes large enough for a duck to attempt a landing.

At the lake’s west end, a gentle  slope descended from the shoulder of a higher plain.  It wasn’t much, but add snowfall and a 40 mile per hour wind blowing for a day or two and the structure changed.  Now, rather than a short prairie hillside, it had character.  Now it had cliffs, drop offs, and cornices.  Al and cousin Allen found the sled jump years before and had ridden it often. A rider sledding down the hill could become airborne more than once if it was done at the right speed and angle.

The North Dakota winter of 1948-1949 was one of the snowiest in memory.  A series of storms dumped ever more snow onto the prairies, feeding the perfect sled jump.  

On a cold, crisp, sunny day in January 1949, Al and six year old Ronny stood at the top of this hillside.  Al placed the well-used Flexible Flyer sled he had been carrying on the snow, sliding it back and forth a few times.  And don’t think for a moment that Ronny wasn’t simultaneously scared and excited as he looked at the waiting sled and the long way down on the brilliantly white untouched snow.  With a little luck I can make it all the way onto the lake, he thought and barely noticed a parallel thought underneath, I’m too young to die!

He lay down on the sled and put his hands on the wooden cross-piece, pulling it each way, testing the steering.  He wiggled his body to get comfortable and balance his weight on the sled.

“OK,” he said.

“Are you sure you’re ready?  Now hold on tight.”  Al slid the Ronny laden sled back and forth several times and then gave it a mighty shove.  

The first thing Ronny hadn’t anticipated was the layer of fresh light snow that sprayed up as he flew through it, blasting his face and burrowing deep within his  brown coat.  He had no idea where he was or what was coming towards him at supersonic speed.  He heeded his brother’s words and held on as tightly as he could.

Al was on all fours after pushing the sled.  What he saw was a moving cloud of snow scurrying down the hill toward the drop off.  For a brief moment, the cloud dissipated and he saw the Flexible Flyer and its cargo reaching for an orbit.  Instead, it touched down in another massive cloud of snow, traveling even faster than before.  The runners left the snow several times in the next three seconds and Al thought of a rodeo rider on a wild bull.

This is like riding a wild bull, thought Ronnie.  And he held on.

Al stood up, his eyes fixed on the moving snow cloud.  He’s going to get killed!  He held his breath as he watched Ronny headed directly for a snowed-over rock pile at the edge of the lake.  A loud scraping sound and he saw the sled cart-wheeling off to the right as a brown bullet shot through the air for a perfect landing on the lake’s ice and skidded to a stop.

With a half crying, half laughing “WHEEEE!,” Ronny struggled to his feet.  Al raced down through the knee deep snow to grab the sled and help his brother back up the hill.  

Taking his turn, Al carefully steered away from the pile of stones that had launched his brother into free flight.  A second run and he aimed closer to the rock pile, but still with room to spare.  That was enough.

A shivering walk later and back at home, they were crawling out of their wet clothing.  Mother looked at Al, “I hope you weren’t down at the sled jump.  Ronny’s much too young for that.”

9 January 2013

Farmers' Markets

Being people of peasant stock and temperament and being obsessed with food and eating, finding our way to farmer’s markets was a given.  In the midst of walking the capitals of the United States and Canada, we found ourselves often at farmer’s markets, first accidentally and then deliberately.  I claim that we have visited more markets than have most food writers.

In the frosty shadow of 8th century St. Ludgerus Church in Essen-Werden, Germany, we wandered with shivering locals and bought a kohlrabi the size of a bowling ball that fed us for three days.  The Fredricton, NB market, rated among the top ten Canadian markets, was a short walk from our hostel, as was the Seaport Market in Halifax, both well-stocked with a variety of mostly organic local food, and, as the day progressed, filled to overflowing with shoppers.  The St. Lawrence Public Market in Toronto stood out due to its very artistic fish head display, and the presence of local winery tasting areas.  At Madison, WI, on a 26F morning, we talked with and supported several cheese-making farmers from the area.  The shrimp and grits at the Baton Rouge, LA Red Stick (Baton Rouge) Market was both delicious and sourced as nearby as possible.  Visiting farmers markets is not just a culinary event, it is the essence of the social and cultural life of a community.

The Forks in Winnipeg, Manitoba is now the site of a park and market place that includes a large and modern farmer’s market.  This site at the junction of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers, has been a gathering and trading place for at least 6,000 years.  That would be several years before Safeway and Fred Meyer.  

Farmer’s markets pre-date our commercial and industrial food system by thousands of years.  Long before our white forebears arrived in the Lower Columbia Region, Native People gathered here to trade winter supplies they were unable to find for themselves.  The Klickitat Trail, a trade route connecting eastern Washington with the the verdant and productive west end, has a several thousand year history.  At trail’s end, people would gather and trade what they had for what they didn’t have.  Branches of the trade routes parallel US 12 and connected with the Cowlitz Trail to the great, rich meeting junction of what we now call the Cowlitz,  Coweeman, and Columbia Rivers.  

Farmer’s markets connect producers with customers, providing first vegetable starts for our own gardens and then vegetables for our tables.  As I write, cherries and other fruit both local and from central Washington, is availabe at our local market.  A few weeks more and the wild abundance of  local vegetables arrive on center stage.  One of the recent additions to our local market is European style dry-cured sausages produced by The Beautiful Pig, a local sausage-maker.  Goat cheese has been available in previous years and hopefully will again show up at our market.  Local bread bakers, pastry vendors, egg suppliers, chocolates and a variety of crafts are regularly available.  

I lament, LAMENT, the absence of seafood at our market.  I know about the commercial markets and the difficulty of the catch seasons, but I think the market should do more to connect with suppliers to make seafood available.  And deep in our souls we know there should be more cheese.  One of the joys of the Wenatchee, Ellensburg, and Yakima markets is the presence of local cheese made from cow, sheep, and goat’s milk by area farmers.  At Ellensburg a few weeks ago, I was delighted to listen to the Alpine Lakes cheese maker speak lovingly of his sheep and the cheese making process.

Farmer’s markets are also a social institution.  Often the path between vendors’ stalls is blocked with groups of people being (and I have no fondness for the word) sociable.  It is a place to gather and talk, to meet people not seen for months or years.  And never mind the potential for gossip transmission.

By shopping at a farmer’s market, we keep the money local.  Wendell Berry, the Kentucky farmer, poet, and agrarian theologist, argues that it is far better and more responsible to buy local food with some non-organic inputs than to purchase organic food that has traveled a thousand or more miles.  At least, with local production, you have someone with a face and a name at whom you can yell.

Some years ago, at the Sacramento Farmer’s Market, I talked with an olive grower.  She sold much of her crop into the nameless olive markets.  But some of her crop she processed herself.  She spoke with familiarity of biblical olive metaphors and her life of growing olives.  She said she felt the light of God when she was among her olive trees and would often go there to pray.  It was about connection for her.  She felt it.  I left with a bottle of her witness.  A gift of God in a jar with pimentos and salt.

9 July 2013

Almost an Epilogue: Vancouver

We arrived at Vancouver Pacific Central Station early, about 09:00.  Orienting ourselves to the city, I called our reservation at the Sandman Hotel and was soooo happy they had a room ready for us.

We decided to walk.  A security person estimated it to be a half hour walk and, while I tried to get him to guarantee it wouldn’t rain for the next half hour, we chanced threatening clouds, gathered our packs, and walked toward Main St. to connect with the Georgia Viaduct.

Arriving at the hotel we made a quick check in and rode the elevator to the ninth floor and our room.  We dropped our bags and sprawled on the bed.

We had slept the previous four nights in a sleeper on the VIA Rail Canadian and were looking forward to a bed that that didn’t rock and roll and hallways that didn’t move as we walked along.  And sure enough, as we lay on the bed, our internal equilibrium gently rocked us.

Rain showers were in the forecast and looked imminent as we left the hotel to explore the downtown neighborhood.  The joy of walking without bags or a reboarding schedule propelled us on as we passed shops, restaurants, and--mostly--people.  A light meal at an Indian restaurant and we were good for more.  Much slower and with not nearly so much visible enthusiasm, we nevertheless felt like a dog newly arrived at the dog park.  Life was good.

We were in our sixth time zone of the trip and the fourth since boarding the train at Toronto.  Every night we set our watches back another hour and every morning eagerly checked the cell phones to make sure they were keeping up.  Another time zone!

I decided time zones that are skipped over, as in a lengthy flight, are less weirding than a long train trip.  When we fly to Hawaii, for example, we go from the first to the fourth zone, sort of skipping the ones in between.  But we had lived for a a day in each one.  Our bodies remember.  Any of the time zones can show up for weeks afterward, randomly and inconveniently.  With great hope and sleep-lust, we were out by about 10:00 PM.

At 11:00 PM the fire alarm was slowly ringing its way into our consciousness.  Waking up enough to realize we were waking up, we pulled on clothes, grabbed the computer, and headed down the stairs with everyone else.  We realized that the hotel we had thought of as nearly empty was in fact full.  The stairways, lobby, and outside street were crowded with people. Not smelling smoke or seeing anything amiss, the throng was mostly in good humor.  Word spread that a quick fire department check had found no problem.  The alarm system was reset, the manager muttered something about a prankster, and we were faced with either 1) waiting in a long line for an elevator or, 2) hiking up the stairs nine floors.  We hiked.  And then went right to sleep.

We were eager to visit the Granville Island Market and left shortly after 09:00 to walk Howe St. to the Aquabus terminal and the short ride across False Creek to Granville island.  Strolling the food areas in the public market, we gathered breakfast and fueled ourselves with coffee.  And we were set to wander the shops of Granville.

It wasn’t all that cut and dried.  I fell out of the Aquabus.  Not into the water, that would have been dangerous and terribly embarrassing.  I simply missed the step, caught my foot, and sprawled onto the dock.  Thankfully landing on my good knee, only later did I realize I must have done a bit of a skid as I almost wore through the knee of my favorite walking pants.

We exhausted ourselves playing tourist and finally gathered for the return.  Rather than retrace our Howe St. route, we stayed to the walking path that skirts False Creek, finally leaving it a few blocks before the BC Place stadium.

We were given beautiful weather, classy architecture, an abundance of fall colors, and old bodies that held up one more time.

Friday, Departure Day, we were up at 04:30 to be at Pacific Central Station before 06:00 to clear customs/immigration well before our 06:40 departure on Amtrak Cascades 513 to Kelso.  Our taxi dropped us at the station and we were at the front of the line before it was a line.  Our check in was brief and easy, and five minutes later we were settling into our seats.

Pat looked at me and said, “Well, that was interesting.”  I didn’t ask if she meant the check in or the whole past six weeks.  

Yesterday (8 November) while I was herding leaves off the driveway, the Beacon Hill Sewer and Water District Water Police came by and checked our meter.  We hadn’t been using any water.  He finally asked, “Have you been gone?”

The Canadian: Toronto to Vancouver

Saturday, 20 October, 23:15, Car 120, Cabin D aboard Train 1, the Canadian

Having completed all the provincial capitals walks, we were both ready to move on from Toronto, especially with the weather turning more toward oncoming winter.  While still in the 40F range, a cold wind and periodic showers made an uncomfortable day.  

Pat stayed out much of the afternoon, exploring Toronto’s Yonge St.  I was on a mission to find an ATM--traveling money.  Once I got out of the Big Money banks, they were abundant.  Having restocked our coffers, I wandered the area west of the Union Station in between retiring to the waiting room and writing.  

We departed at the scheduled 22:00 time.  There are only about 80 on the train, most in sleepers.  We sleeping car residents were invited to the dome car for a champagne and canapé bon voyage reception.  We ate petite round rye bread with cream cheese and either pepperoni, salmon, shrimp, or paté, sipped champagne, made some acquaintances, and interacted with the activities coordinator, Michael.  

After a while, we excused ourselves and found our cabin to try and arrange our bags enough to find the beds.  

Our train has two regular dome cars and the domed Parlor Car with its rounded, end-of-train shape.  The seat arrangement and smaller size of the domed area does not lend itself to those groups on Amtrak who claim squatter’s rights to the observation car and move in with blankets and coolers for the duration of the trip.  I have not heard of anyone attempting to light a grill.

The Canadian bedrooms are about the same size as an Amtrak sleeper.  The daytime chairs fold up and the upper and lower berths appear from the ceiling and walls.  It is quite close in here, but my pack fits nicely under the bed and Pat’s lies comfortably in a corner.

Sunday breakfast, Pat ordered pumpkin pancakes and I the spinach-feta omelet with a muffin, tomato juice, and recurring cups of coffee.  We were joined by a man from southeast New Brunswick, for whom this was the second night in coach.  Obviously younger than us, “It’s not so bad,” he said, “but I can’t wait to get to Winnipeg to find a shower.”

After breakfast, we moved to the Parlor Car to watch our train snake around curves, rivers, and lake shores.  Our passage was through scrub pines and tamarack, muskeg bogs and small lakes: The Canadian Shield.  I kept an eye out for good photographs and hoped for a moose or a bear.  Instead, I saw several abandoned cars, many beaver lodges, rock outcroppings, and water.  In late afternoon, while we were talking with the Activities Coordinator, Michael, he spotted for us three, possibly four, moose.

Supper offered a choice of a veal cutlet, pickerel (walleye), or a vegetarian dish.  Pat took the second, I the third option, nutritious but boring.  We ate with a woman from Jamaica, on her way to visit family in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.  We talked about food!

Monday, 22 October, 11:15.  Still Car 120-D.  Winnipeg Union Station.  

This is a four hour stop for service and a crew change.  Our Winnipeg crew, with us since our origination in Toronto, has left and a Vancouver-based crew has come on.  A few minutes ago, a handsome young gentleman in a blue suit knocked on our door and identified himself as Patrick, our car attendant.

We pulled into the station while we were eating breakfast at a table with a Swiss multi-lingual man who boarded the train at Montreal.  He is an experienced world traveler who loves riding trains and photographing scenery.

We finished breakfast, tidied up our room, and set off to explore territory we saw several years ago when we did the Winnipeg Capital Cities volkswalk.  Walking out the back door of the station, we crossed past a construction zone to the river path and walked to The Forks (confluence of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers).  Continuing to the stairs back of the Legislative Building, we exited to follow the road past the multi-colored polar bears to Broadway and our return to Union Station.

The major addition to the station area is the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, a Stephen Harper legacy, currently receiving bad press for contracting with some T-shirt manufacturers who turned out to be not so much into human rights.  It is in an architectural style similar to that of the Experience Music Project at the Seattle Center.  To this point, its major contribution is to block the view of the beautiful pedestrian suspension bridge, the Esplanade Riel.

Now, at 19:45 MDT we have finished supper.  We ate with a couple from the north of England with whom we earlier spoke after the afternoon concert in the Parlor Car.  Patrick and K.  are recently retired--she as a primary teacher and he a meat inspector.  After 30 years of vacations taken during a thirty day period beginning in June to match her teaching schedule, they are traveling in the fall, taking a Boston to Boston train trip on Amtrak and VIA Rail.  They are delightfully pleasant, down to earth people, who haven’t traveled daringly, but who enjoy travel.

The music this afternoon was by an accomplished violinist who has experience playing a variety of venues including solo performances on VIA Rail along with a life-long accordion player of Scandinavian heritage, and a Russian-English percussionist (spoons, rattles, etc.).  They played and sang Irish and fiddle tunes, polkas, and “oldies,” and are scheduled to play additional music sets in the other dome cars.  The mixed audience was happy with the music and the cookies, muffins, and ice water.  The violinist is from Jasper and the others from a small town in Alberta.  The musicians  get meals, a free ride, and a place to sleep.  

To break the tediousness of the trip and accommodate those not wanting to miss anything of the ride through the Rockies, we begin tomorrow with a Continental Breakfast and then break into a Brunch available to 11:30.

Tuesday, 23 October, 20:20, Train 1, The Canadian, Cabin 120-D.

Awake at 06:00 and having my day’s clothing ready, I was at the light breakfast room at 07:30 for coffee, muffin, apple, and banana.  I sat at a table to eat, scan the Toronto Globe, and wait for Pat.  

It seemed to me that both coming into and leaving Edmonton station, we were lost in the largest rail yard in existence.  We moved through freight cars loaded with potash, coal, oil (tar sands?), container cargo, and other tankers.  Tracks paralleled tracks that paralleled tracks, as far as we could see. 

Finally on our way to Jasper, Pat showed, we ate, and found seats in the next door dome car.

As we gain elevation, the temperatures drop.  Small ponds are frozen, and then larger and larger ponds are ice-covered and snow blankets the ground.  

Winter has arrived and makes its presence felt.  A walk back to our room shows snow drifting into the between car vestibules.  The limbs and boughs of the evergreens hold accumulations of light snowflakes.  And the sky is snow.

Stepping off the train in Jasper, a cold wind slaps our faces.  Scheduled only for a half hour stop, our restart is delayed.  The water inlet for our car is frozen and needs to be thawed to restock necessary water.

From Jasper, the route descended below the snow line as we passed Moose Lake, Pyramid Falls, and other landmarks announced on the PA system.  In spite of the clouds and unpromising conditions, Mt. Robson unveiled most of its magnificent self for those ready with their cameras.  I didn’t fight the crowd at the windows and we contended ourselves remembering the magnificent clear view and photos of the mountain from our earlier jasper visit via The Skeena.

While we were in the midst of the beautiful winter, we were given a musical score by our violinist, now a solo classical performer left from yesterday’s trio. It was a delightful fit.  

We signed up for the first supper seating, gathering at 17:00. Pat had a tuna steak and I a rice stuffed Portabello Mushroom with a tomato salsa.  Each was deliciously tasty.  We left while Patrick made up our beds, going to the Parlor Car at the rear of the train.  Pat read, I finished three puzzles from the Edmonton paper, and we ignored the other conversations.

The Last Capital: Toronto

Riding a VIA Rail Corridor trains was a pleasant surprise, one occasioned by the fact that I knew nothing about the route or the trains.  We boarded at the Ottawa station, about 4km from the downtown.  It’s really not a walkable distance.  

We arrived at Toronto Union, an older station a few blocks from the Lake Ontario waterfront serving VIA, subway, and commuter rail.  The entire area is now a construction zone as more transportation capacity is added.  As with most of the downtown-located older rail stations, we were able to make the walk through the downtown to the Church Street HI-Toronto hostel in about twenty minutes. 

Another well-located hostel, we were a few blocks from the St. Lawrence Market.  A banner proclaimed its christening by National Geographic as the “No. 1 Food Market in the World.”  The Eaton Center, a huge shopping mall, was a fifteen minute walk.  Across the street was the Anglican St. James Cathedral where we attended Evening Prayer.    A few blocks south of Union Station is the waterfront and various sports venues.

The next morning, 18 October, we did our last Canadian capital walk on yet another warm and pleasant day.  The 10k walk led us through the downtown and past many of the historic areas and buildings as well as several ethnic neighborhoods.  We walked by the Blue Jays stadium with its delightful sculptures of sports fans and nearby, the CN Tower.  Along the route, we stopped at Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Church, currently in a sizable renovation project.  A group of members was exiting the church at the time and a young attorney gave us a tour of the edifice and a short introduction to the faith.  Pat, who is learning to paint (write) icons was fascinated by those in the sanctuary.  

Friday we wandered the downtown separately, exploring shops and the Eaton Center, and watching the masses of locals and tourists doing the same.  Toronto is not only Canada’s largest city, it is also the most diverse, with a large immigrant population and a mix of almost any language spoken anywhere in the world.  

I grew tired and, feeling overwhelmed by the noise and bustle of the city, walked back to the hostel, crossed the street, and flopped onto a bench outside St. James Cathedral.  I have the ability to take a nap almost anywhere and easily slipped into a comfortable snooze, only to be awakened by the carillon bells of the cathedral exploding into joyous music as the door flung open and a bridal couple emerged.  A woman who lives in the area had joined me on the bench and I remember that before I dozed we had tried to discern the closed doors and the extra limousine parked out front.  We had guessed wedding.

A limping woman emerged from the wedding party to sit on a bench near us. She said, “I’m not used to these shoes, I don’t dress like this anymore.  They hurt!”  Throwing her shoes onto the grass, she added, “He’s my brother.  He’s always made trouble for me.”  Her son, a lad of about ten dressed in a formal suit, came over and, gathering her shoes, helped her hobble off to a waiting car.

Saturday, our last day, we stored our bags at the hostel for one more visit to the St. Lawrence Market, now filled wall-to-wall with shoppers.  It was frustrating; we knew that all our food needs would be met during our four night journey to Vancouver, so buying more food was out of the question.  But we bought a bottle of Trius Chardonnay from the Niagara region of Ontario. Finally drinking the wine after we reached Vancouver, we realized it was an excellent wine well worth carrying across Canada.

We retrieved our bags and walked to Union Station for more storing.  Pat walked off to explore the Yonge Street area of downtown.  I remained near the station, making several forays into the area further west.  Here was the convention center, street-side food carts, the large CBC radio-television complex, and the Glenn Gould Studio.  Gould (25 September 1932 – 4 October 1982)  was an eccentric person who was a brilliant pianist and conductor.  His early death robbed the world of one of its greatest musicians.  Alas, the studio was locked and the mist was starting to look like sprinkles, so I wandered back to the station, assumed a first-class passenger personae and walked into the VIA Panorama Lounge.  

Pat arrived a few minutes later and we claimed our bags and settled permanently into first class to read and eat the provided snacks.  We understood that, as long as we didn’t disturb the real First Class Passengers, we could eat all the candy we wanted.