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.

Doing Time: Ottawa and the City Jail

We left Quebec at 07:45 Sunday, 14 October, and rode to Montreal where a brief layover allowed us to explore the station.  Rather than confused West Coasters, we were now seasoned travel veterans (again).

The downtown location and the variety of VIA and local rail transit traffic makes the station a busy place, with crowds detraining and rushing off to the street, another VIA or commuter train, or the subway.  In between, the station appears almost empty and then the next train arrives.

A short wait, and we boarded a VIA Corridor train to Ottawa.

We got off to a bad start.  Exiting the taxi at the Ottawa hostel, I left the small backpack containing the laptop along with several other items on the back seat floor.  When we realized the pack’s absence, the taxi was long gone.

The hostel desk clerk made a few quick calls and informed us we had ridden a Blue Line Taxi (we had no idea).  I began calling the Lost and Found at Blue Line, leaving messages and phone numbers and receiving no response.  Calling again the next morning with still no response, we decided to use the good day for the Ottawa Tourist (capital) volkswalk and wait for word.  

Pat remained hopeful and I unhooked from the lost laptop, deciding how to go ahead about the computer, and focused on getting our walk in.  We made several calls to the credit card people to alert them and ask for their best advice.  

We were nearing the end of the walk with about 2 kilometers to go when my phone rang and--surprise--it was our taxi driver.  We agreed to meet outside  D’Arcy McGee’s Irish Pub to receive the pack and to pay him the fare for delivering it.  The fare amounted to $40.00 and Pat added a $20.00 tip.  I refrained from asking any questions. I opened the bag to make sure everything was there (and searched the computer when we returned to our room to check on any snooping activity).  

Near a full 24 hours had elapsed before we heard from the driver. Actually, a less gamey approach (the long silence) would have left a better taste and we would naturally have rewarded the driver, probably more.  We paid the ransom and life goes on. Pat later wrote a critical letter to the company about the game and the lack of any response from Lost and Found.  

Other taxi services we used told us it’s best to put everything in the trunk.  Take an item into the seat with you and you’re fair game.  I didn’t know that.

We still found time to enjoy Ottawa, returning to the federal parliament building after dark to watch the police presence, the shuttles carrying MPs to and from, and other visitors roaming the grounds.

The Marché By Ward Market is another of the great Canadian farmers’ markets.  Housed in a large market building, one of a series going back to 1827, it is the oldest continuously operating market in Canada. Despite the windy and sporadically rainy weather, the streets outside the market building were lined with vendors’ tents of baked goods, crafts, vegetables and fruit, meats, and cheese.  

One of the things we enjoy is to go to markets such as this to wander among the vendors as they are setting up and preparing for the day.  Once again, French was a common language in both the market and several surrounding shops offering patés and sausages.

In February, 2009, President Obama made a stop at the market’s Le Moulin de Provence bakery to buy cookies. The bakery continues to celebrate the event with the Obama Cookie.  No, we didn’t take the Parliament tour, we went to ByWard Market.  We, after all, know how to find the meaning of life.

Hosteling International youth hostels have found some fascinating sites.  In Ottawa, the old City Jail was converted to a hostel in the 1970s.  Built in 1862, the building’s brick design and iron gates and bars figure prominently in the hostel experience.  Staff told us some hostelers react badly to trying to sleep behind bars.  The cell blocks (now dorm rooms) are claustrophobic, something I felt just wandering through and taking photographs.  

The top floor, the jail’s death row, hosted executions, the last occurring in 1946.  Regular tours are conducted by the city and not a few ghosts have appeared.  The most common is Patrick Whelan, executed on 11 February, 1869 for the assassination of Thomas D’Arcy McGee.  Remember that it was McGee’s Irish Pub where we received the return of our pack and laptop, and proceeded to have a fine meal.

Quebec City

Aah the delights of wandering an old city in late autumn as golden leaves are falling and the outdoor ice rink opens for the season.  In the season’s transition, some hang onto summer, issuing a protest by going out in 40F weather in sandals, shorts, and T-shirts and willing themselves not to shiver while others eagerly don their serious and fashionable winter blacks and proudly strut rue St. Jean.  

The Quebec Hostel is in the city’s old town, an area of narrow streets pushing up unrelenting steep hills.  It is among many other old buildings occupied by  small and excellent restaurants, cafés, pubs, and shops.

In this city of half a million, the vieux-port Quebec is small and tight enough so we could walk from the Gare du Palais train station to the hostel.  We were warned it was all uphill.  Except for a block or so after leaving the station and those few steps crossing rue St. Jean, it was.  Uphill.  

Quebec City was founded in 1608 by the French navigator and explorer Samuel de Champlain near the site of a small Iroquois village.  The city’s name draws from an Algonquin word, Kebec--“Where the River Narrows.”  Celebrating its 400th anniversary in July 2008, Quebec looks every bit the part of a 17th century financial, military, and cultural center.  

The old wall, built prior to 1694, has three historic gates.  Of these, Porte St. Jean and Porte St. Louis were destroyed and rebuilt in 1791, and twice since.  Old Quebec was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1985.  Numerous buildings exist in the vieux-port whose origins reach to the 17th and 18th centuries.  

The Quebec volkswalk took us past much of the history, including The Plains of Abraham battle site, the Citadel (17th century), Notre Dame Cathedral (from 1647), The Château Frontenac (1893), and many less-noted but historically important buildings.  Notre Dame Cathedral was twice destroyed by fire, first during the siege of Quebec (1759) and again in 1922. 

Throughout the old town, horse-drawn tourist carts and wagons clatter down cobblestone streets with costumed drivers interpreting local history.  

What makes Quebec different is, of course, the French language and influence.  We were told by several French travelers that Quebec French differs from French French in many ways including accents, rhythms, and words, but it is the same language.  

Whatever the differences, French is a wonderfully conversational language.  Yes, I eavesdropped on people to see if I could pick up a word.  After all, I thought, with three years of college French 101 and a bunch of workshops, something should have stuck.  And while I picked out a few--very few--words, what I became aware of was the beauty, pleasantness, and comfort of those conversations, even that of the man yelling at the taxi driver.  

My first attempt at French was in the Gare du Palais, the Quebec VIA Rail station.  After dedicated rehearsal, I walked to the coffee shop counter and said, “Je voudrais un croissant petite dejeuner.”  And the guy said, “We’re out of that.”  I was so pleased.  He had to have understood me to say they were out of that! “N’est pas?”  

The second significant influence from the French is food.  The Ottawa Marché By Ward market is populated by French farmers crossing the bridge from Gatineau with a great variety of vegetables, meats, cheeses, and baked goods.  French Patés from Montreal are found all over the region.  

From the boardwalk at the Chateau Frontenac, we looked down on three cruise ships.  Pat talked with a woman whose goal was to eat at a McDonald’s at each cruise stop.  And then there’s the “Martha, what is this town?”

We have been told a few stories of the rude French.  Upon questioning, we find the stories’ origins often quite old.  There is a formal coolness to the French style which is put off by our feigned personable friendliness.  In reality, any of us are rude at times, a few make a practice of it.  Others may have turned rudeness into an art form or a burlesque.  An elderly lady told me that she has once or twice been insulted with such charm, eloquence, and grace that she remembers it proudly.

Halifax

Wednesday, 10 October, 14;15 (Atlantic Daylight Time), Aboard The Ocean, VIA Rail Train 15, Halifax to Quebec.

We pulled out of the Halifax Station at 12:15.  We are scheduled to arrive at Charny, on the south side of the St. Lawrence, at 05:45 where we board a shuttle to take us across to the Quebec City train station.  From the Gare du Palais, we have a short walk to the hostel and, after Montreal, our second chance to redeem our attempts to say something useful in French.

We woke to rain this morning.  Since our flight landed last Thursday afternoon, clouds and possible rain were in most of the weather forecasts and either failed to materialize or it sprinkled when it didn’t matter (to us).  We did the volkswalk, walked the harbor front, and wandered the streets safely and dryly.  Several days were windy and cool.  It’s October.

Halifax was our longest stop, built into the schedule as a way of banking some time should any of the difficult and tedious connections in Atlantic Canada go wrong  and because Halifax seemed interesting.  Another day was added for the Thanksgiving holiday on Monday and the fact that The Ocean does not run north on Tuesdays.  We appreciated and used our time well.

Most of the Canadian hostels are well-sited.  The Halifax Heritage House Hostel is about three blocks from the VIA Rail and Acadian Bus station, a similar distance from the Seaport Farmers Market, and, for a bonus, the cruise terminal with often three ships daily and 3-5,000 people wandering around saying, “Martha, what is this town?”

Three blocks from us, Laura’s Cafe served a good, inexpensive breakfast and offered a sizable Russian menu.  For lunch yesterday we shared a large bowl of Borscht and a plate of Perogies, both foods our ancestors borrowed from the Russian people during their hundred year stay.  Perogies were renamed Kaseknoepfla (cheese buttons) but the similarity is there.

I’ve known borscht as an end of the season what’s-left-in-the-garden soup, based on beef broth and an assortment of late season vegetables such as beets (the basis of Russian Borscht), cabbage, turnips, onion, carrots, potatoes, and all those strange little things still growing in a corner of the garden.  It, like anything else, is best served with sour cream.  There are borscht recipes and there are borscht purists.  Neither should be taken seriously.

All that being said, Laura’s Borscht was a delicate soup of finely sliced beets, onions, carrots, and potatoes--and a joy to eat.  Laura’s background was southern Russian, near Georgia.  We talked about the differences of traditional Russian to the Georgian-influenced food.  As is common, more spices and heat are present in the southern versions.  

Beyond eating together, Pat, being more artistic, visited shops, art galleries, and the Nova Scotia gallery of art, making friends with artists she had never known.

I spent an afternoon at the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, fascinated with Halifax’s recovery role in the days following the 14 April, 1912 Titanic disaster and, five years later, the lesser known but devastating Halifax Explosion.  The latter, the result of a collision between the SS Mont-Blanc, a French cargo ship loaded with munitions and fuel, and the the Norwegian SS Imo, killed several thousand people and leveled a large section of Halifax. It is considered the largest human caused explosion ever until atomic bombs began dropping.

We attended Sunday service at St. Paul’s Anglican (1750), the oldest Anglican church in Canada still in use.  St. Paul’s has in its cemetery victims of the Titanic sinking, as do several other local churches.  The original cemetery, located a short distance from St. Paul’s on Barrington St., holds many of the area’s pioneers and shapers of Halifax and Nova Scotia.

In spite of all the exceptional eating opportunities of the neighborhood, we ate most of our meals in, preparing locally grown and mostly organic food from the Seaport Farmers Market in the hostel kitchen.  

Most hostels have large kitchens with multiple appliances and counters for people to prepare meals.  A simple meal is often a gathering point for stories, travel tips, plans, and local lore.  It was at the Charlottetown Backpacker’s Hostel, for example, that we first learned of the Water Prince restaurant. 

Staying at the Halifax Hostel were three young Germans from Saxony (Leipzig-Dresden area), in Canada working and traveling under a special cooperative program agreement (in which the US does not participate).  All three left while we were in Halifax:  Two young men to work on an organic farm an hour from Halifax and Z-, on her way to western Canada, hoping to work in a hostel.  She is halfway through her year while the guys arrived only three weeks earlier.

Finally--not because I am out of Halifax stories but, as my uncle used to say, “This has got to stop!”--one of the delightful and meaningful things done by the hostel staff on Monday evening was to prepare and serve a traditional Canadian Thanksgiving meal (eerily similar to a US Thanksgiving meal, except for the absence of the candied yams and mini-marshmallows and the fact that it arrives almost two months earlier) for all of us staying at the hostel.  It was good food and a delightful evening.

Evening is coming on and the cloud-gray sky is losing its light.  We are in central New Brunswick traveling through a forested and fairly flat area.  We see more autumn color in the leaves here.  Several beautiful rural and small town scenes of golds and reds rushed by before we could get out the camera.  We are surrounded by beauty.

A Conversation Fragment, Food, and Attempted Murder

The Fragment:  As we traveled through Atlantic Canada visiting museums and reading histories, we learned of entire areas settled and populated by people “expelled” from the fledgling United States because they opposed the war of independence and wished to remain loyal to the crown.  For example, many who moved into Prince Edward Island and the city of Charlottetown were former colonists.

Earlier in the 1700s, during the fight for dominance of the region, French and English loyalists were expelled, depending who had grasped power and had gathered enough strength to do so.  

George Island in Halifax Harbor was in essence a penal colony, housing thousands of Acadians (French) who were rounded up and held prior to their expulsion.  I said to a young outdoor store owner in North Sydney that it sounds as if the U.S. expulsion of loyalists made Canada possible.  He countered by asking, “What would Americans do without Cajun culture and food?  They’d be drab as the Brits!  If our guys hadn’t kicked out the Acadians, you’d have no Jambalaya!”

We were joking, but when we consider the history of ethnic, religious, and political cleansing that has gone on, probably forever, and continues to go on, we begin to see how serious and deadly a problem this is.  Considering the past century alone, the numbers killed, eliminated, executed, and “disappeared” in a forced attempt at unanimity of thought, race, or culture total in the multiple millions.  

Food:  The Water Prince is an enchanting title for a magical character.  Our experience with the Water Prince was based in the fact that near the cruise ship piers in Charlottetown are two streets: Prince and Water.  In fact, nearly every city in Atlantic Canada has both a Prince street (a very natural name given their relationship to the monarchy) and a Water street (duh, like they got a lot of water).  

A seafood restaurant had the simple good sense to use their location and call themselves Water Prince.  But they didn’t stop there, they went on to develop an eatery that produced really good food.  

Our meal was, as we sometimes do, a shared one.  I ordered a seafood chowder, a meal I love.  Pat dislikes chowder.  That was my contribution.  The seafood plate she ordered consisted of half a lobster, a large pile of mussels, and scallops.  With a side of cole slaw, this was a fitting meal for a Water Prince.  

It went like this: I would offer Pat chowder and she would refuse, “You know I don’t like chowder.”  Then she would shove a wee scrap of lobster my way along with another scallop and a handful of yawning black mussels.  And so, after a while, there remained an empty chowder bowl, enough vacant mussel shells to make several musical instruments and a necklace, meatless lobster reside broken into minute pieces, a wine glass lying on its side, a cole slaw stain on the place mat, and a bill larger than we typically incur but neither out of reach nor unreasonable.  

We conversed with the eaters on either side of us (a couple from suburban Vancouver, BC and another from Michigan).  Not enough for Pat but sufficient for a week of my social needs.  Leaving the restaurant, we slowly walked the narrow streets among picturesque houses under a beautiful starlit sky.  I think we even held hands.

It was a sensuous, idyllic night.  Until we met the skunk.  We passed an alley just as a handsome black and white creature that didn’t say “Meow” darted out from under a bush, stopped in surprise, and turned and ran up the alley with her tail raised high.  We tiptoed off the other direction, angling away to make the line of fire more difficult.  Really, we and the skunk had a shared goal of simply getting away from each other.  None of us was looking for trouble.  

Attempted Murder:  The CBC online headline dated 5 October, read, “Police were asked to warn husband of 'Internet Black Widow': Melissa Weeks now behind bars charged with attempted murder.”  The immediate stage for all this had been a North Sydney, Nova Scotia B&B.  Our B&B!  I wrote about the Chambers and the wonderful breakfast earlier in my North Sydney post.

Melissa and her new husband, Fred, shared a room next to ours.   We knew things were amiss with the Weeks couple when she came to breakfast alone and spoke of her husband having “an episode” and not feeling well.  An ambulance was called and the EMT team took Mr. Weeks to the hospital.  The CBC story reported, “Two days after that, police charged Melissa Weeks with attempting to murder her husband and with ‘administering a noxious thing.’”

The story continued “...the woman had served her time for killing a previous husband and defrauding a boyfriend she met online... She was prone to whirlwind romances that ended with her partner’s serious illness or death.”

Cheryl Chambers of Chambers B&B is mentioned in the story.  She is a wonderful host, a collector of antiques with a definite artistic bent, and undoubtedly terribly bothered and embarrassed by all this.  We both feel for her.  Neither of us would be tacky enough to suggest she might use the publicity and stage Murder Mystery Weekends at the B&B.  

St. John’s, Newfoundland

Simply said, we loved St. John’s.  That may be because it plays hard to get (to) and, after getting there, we had no choice.  Otherwise, we’d have been idiots for spending all that time, money, and sitting pain for the potentials of a mediocre affair.  But I think it’s more.

The center of the city is filled with wooden houses somewhat resembling styles of northern Europe.  Many date from the 1800s, most of them colorfully and often brightly painted, all huddled together against the cold and icy winter winds.  

The center of the city is built on hills and ridges that rapidly drop down to the harbor.  Like Juneau, where everything is also either up or down, walking to the corner store is a workout. 

The skyline is dominated by the provincial museum and galleries known as “The Rooms” and standing close by are the twin spires of the Basilica of St. Mary.  In the Presentation Convent house beside the Basilica, we viewed The Veiled Virgin, a marble sculpture by the Italian Giovanni Strazza (1818-1875).  From there, we walked to the Anglican Cathedral of St. John the Baptist for a half hour organ concert by the cathedral organist.

We wandered George Street and its concentration of now mostly empty, post-tourist season pubs to sit at Kelly’s with locals and three tourists from Alberta and listen to a variety of Irish, Newfoundland, and old rock songs by a  gifted local guitarist and singer. 

What closed the deal for us was the hike up to Signal Hill from which we peered down on the beautiful harbor with its narrow inlet and the sea beyond.  From the Cahill Point Lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor to the towering Rooms and Basilica, the setting is pure beauty.  Even as we stood in drizzle that periodically turned to outright rain, the beauty never went away.

We found those who live there frequently willing to take the time to give advice and direction as we walked (our volkswalk directions were a bit dated and behind on road and building construction, missing street signs, and changed traffic flows).  At one point we found ourselves in a conversation with a pedestrian and a man in a pick up three cars back about how best to find Job street.  

We asked locals with accents about theirs, hoping for the origins of the Newfoundland accent and phrases.  Given the many who settled here, Irish shows up frequently and probably is part of the Newfoundland brogue.  But as a  waiter in a pub told us, “That’s just Irish.”  She also told us that, being from Labrador, she hasn’t a clue about some of the local language.  So we found ourselves eavesdropping on conversations, particularly those we couldn’t understand.

As one born to the North Dakota prairies, I early developed an appreciation for weather that is less than idyllic.  The good people of St. John’s live through winters of heavy snows that usually melt quickly, ice that doesn’t, and wind.  

St. John’s is surrounded by a sparsely populated island of trees, rocks, moose, lakes, and bears. Hop the St. Lawrence and head over to Labrador, and it doesn’t really get that much easier.

One Way to get to Somewhere Really Hard to Get to:

We departed the Charlottetown, PEI bus station at 07:45 and arrived at Chambers B&B in North Sydney, NS, at 22:00.  This included a five hour lay-over at Truro which had a German bakery and the Split Crow pub.  Both helped.

Since our Newfoundland ferry didn’t leave until 23:40, we had all day Friday to visit North Sydney, something that could have been done in fifteen minutes but was much more interesting over eight hours.  We boarded the ferry and sat in our reserved seats that out-first-classed the seats in a Dreamliner, spending the time until and beyond the sailing hour trying to adjust them for maximum comfort.

The night, spent some in sleep and the rest in listening to a moose-hunting family snoring in dissonant rhythms, ended with the lights going up and the loudspeaker informing us the Captain plans to dock at 06:35 at Port-aux-Basques.

We wait.  Finally the call comes for the walk ons to proceed to the 5th floor shuttle loading area for transport to the terminal.  Jumping from the shuttle, we go where the lady with the brown shoes points and there, waiting impatiently, are our bags.  We grab them and rush out to the big brown bus with the moose-damaged door.  The driver throws them into the under-the-bus bin and we board.  At 08:00 (NDT), we pull out of the security area on our way to St. John’s, the capital of Newfoundland-Labrador.  

In spite of our many years of accumulating information, most of which became extinct just prior to our learning it, we did not know about NDT--Newfoundland Daylight Time.  For its own reasons, Newfoundland sets its clocks a half hour earlier than those in neighboring Atlantic time.  It sees Christmas, New Years, and your birthday a half hour before anyone else.  So while you are thinking, “I wish, oh I wish it was Christmas,” It is.  St. John’s has a half hour of celebration all to itself. 

Fourteen hours and 845 km later, we are at HI-City Hostel, St. John.  It could have been earlier, but the driver (who had been driving the evening before when the moose rammed the door), kept jumping out with a roll of duct tape and a variety of objects with which he could pound whenever we hit a scheduled smoke break to either 1) tape into place the parts that were falling off or 2) apparently being a believer in redemptive violence, beat the bent door into submission.  And we know how well that worked for the moose.

It’s easy.  Invariably, someone asks, “Couldn’t you have flown?”

Fair enough question.  We prefer land mass transit for ecological reasons and because I get very anxious at take off.  Realizing our schedule was falling apart and our sitting parts were nearing the point of no return, we purchased tickets to fly St. John’s to Halifax.

We hired a taxi to the airport at 10:00 on Thursday morning, 4 October.  The wind was powerful, hovering near a sustained speed of 30 mph with gusts beyond.  The airport lies on a relatively flat plain away from the uneven terrain of St. John’s and the harbor so the winds are more constant but also more predictable.  

Flight schedules were starting to stack up with some arrivals circling, waiting for a break in heavy rain and turbulence, while on the ground, a flight was canceled due to an unavailable repair part.  Unease was building as we hurried down the ramp and dropped into our seats in the crowded, sold-out airplane.

The pilot launched our 737 across the runway and into the air so quickly my take-off anxiety attack remained standing at the gate with a “But wait...” look on its face and we were well on the way to Halifax before the wind even had a chance to mess with us.

The air distance from St. John’s to Halifax is roughly the same as the bus distance from Port-aux-Basques to St. John’s--500+ miles.  We traded a day’s scenery for a 1.4 hour flight, landing in warm, partly-cloudy weather.

I finish writing this in Rm 303-A at the Heritage House HI-Halifax, a private room with a shared bath eight paces away.  The night is quiet and we are almost two hours into Friday and at the start of our third week of travel by train, bus, ferry, airplane, and, of course, foot.

North Sydney, 29 September

Marine Atlantic Waiting Room, North Sydney

Nearing 19:00 and evening is spreading.  It will soon be dark.  We arrived here about 22:30 yesterday after leaving Charlottetown at 07:45.  Traveling by Acadian Coach, we jumped from our bus to another at Amherst and stopped for a five hour layover at Truro before the long ride here.

Truro was, of course, all new--a place we have never visited.  Seeking advice from the Acadian station manager, we walked northwest down the hill toward (he said) downtown.  A few blocks later, a fast-walking lady carrying a large framed piece of abstract art at the community college told us of a German bakery downtown.  

We walked on, turning right at the third block and, sure enough, a few minutes later Pat exclaimed, “The bakery!”  The interior was a plain large room with the usual things of a bakery cafe.  We ordered, shared, and enjoyed a schnitzel topped with a fried egg.  A few steps farther and we were at the Split Crow Pub where Pat ordered a glass of raspberry ale made in Moncton, and I a lager from Halifax.  

Returning to the station, we sat, read, wrote, and napped a while longer and, at 17:15, boarded our nearly sold out bus, snarling at lone people in their seats pretending to be asleep or, in one case, telling prospective seat partners the seat was saved for a lady.  She lied.  I was waved into a back seat by a man who had successfully fended off a 350 pounder and a crazy lady.  He was the perfect seat partner, thinner than I and as delighted with silence.  The only thing he ever said was, “Good luck, pal,” as he got off an hour later which was when Pat’s elderly seat partner also left and we were reunited near the front of the bus.  

Our coach continued to empty itself as we traveled and night firmly established its dominance.  The last five of us got off at the ferry terminal here at North Sydney.  

Along our lonely road, the moon, a day short of full, provided enough light in which to see the magnificent scenery we were missing.

A short taxi ride took us to Chambers Bed and Breakfast.  A note taped to the door gave instructions to our room, #2, at the head of the stairs.  

Like many B&Bs, ours was a room full of art, a full size bed, antique furniture, and a flowered spread.  And a delightfully comfortable, warm bed it was.  Hostel beds are typically made for tough and resilient young people.  Our bodies had been suffering since Montreal. Longer if one adds the night we spent in coach en route to Montreal.

The breakfast began with a flavorful, strong coffee whose mere aroma cured any residual ennui.  A side board contained plates of mini-muffins laced with broccoli, date bars, apple strudel, coffee cake, oat-bran muffins, and cherry tarts, all calling seductively.  An adjoining room held a toaster and a basket of breads and bagels near a plate of pancakes with Cheryl’s home-made maple syrup, along with (on another table) an array of boxed cereals.  A bowl of mixed fruit and a pitcher of yoghurt awaited us on the table among the splendid rose-patterned antique English dishes and bowls.  As we finished our first go at the pastries, fruit, and cereal, a dish of scrambled eggs with cheese, chives, parsley, and (it tasted to me) a wee bit of horseradish arrived to crown the meal.

We ate, joined by an young Englishman with a modified mohawk, here to study the fine art of drilling for oil.  Cheryl and her mother wandered in and out, checking, refilling, and being charmingly pleasant.  

To provide the proper context for this feast, remember that a hostel breakfast, if one is provided at all, typically is much like a hostel bed: Barely adequate with a severe lack of aesthetic qualities.

The ferry waiting room here has a variety of people, but the majority seem to be hunters wearing camouflage on their way to big game hunting in Newfoundland-Labrador.  Were Somali pirates to somehow have infiltrated beyond the St. Lawrence, I think I would feel quite safe in an attack.  We have more fire-power on this ferry than they (or I) would ever imagine.

We left the B&B and walked the few blocks downtown to the ferry terminal.  After shifting items between our daypacks and packs, we checked the luggage and set out to wander North Sydney.  

We said to a low 40s couple who owned an outdoor store, “You have fewer pubs and breweries per capita than anywhere we’ve ever been in Canada except Athabasca.”  They agreed and we posited there is a relationship between that ratio and the happiness and friendliness of a community.  If we are right, St. John’s should be a right amiable place.

We ate lunch seated on a park bench by a duck pond:  A heavy rye bread from the Charlottetown farmers’ market and smoked kielbasa and bulk cheddar cheese from the local meat market we passed down the block.

A stop at the library, a thinly veiled visit to use their washroom, led to various conversations, and more in the connected museum next door.

Supper was at Rollie’s on the water.  We shared a plate of haddock fish and chips while sipping away at Keith’s beers from Halifax.  The plate and glasses empty, we left by the back door to visit a nearby playground at an old dock area.  I hoped to get some good ferry and town views.  Instead, a young man on the beach showed a bag of colored, sand-tumbled glass pieces he was collecting from the beach.  Pat needed some of her own.

And that is it; a day in North Sydney.  We are an hour from boarding, three from sailing.  Ten from arriving at Port-aux-Basques, and twelve from boarding the bus for the 900 km ride to St. John’s.  And, to be desperately depressing, twenty-six hours from arriving at the City Hostel in St. John’s, NL.  God have mercy.

All Souls' Evening Prayer, Charlottetown, PEI

All Souls’ Chapel, Charlottetown

We entered the large St. Paul’s Anglican Church near the downtown through a wide-open door, a common practice of Charlottetown’s churches.  St. Paul’s is a large church with a plain cavernous sanctuary.  The exterior is made largely of the distinctive red local sandstone. The sanctuary is rather inornate except for attractive stained glass windows and plates and plaques commemorating famous unknown local people.  Off to the side, a discretely hidden drum set signaled the parish’s foray into contemporary worship.  A volunteer docent at the church  drew circles and arrows on our Charlottetown map to show the way to St. Peter’s Cathedral, Anglican. 

The downtown of Charlottetown is ringed with various mostly neo-gothic churches, made of the same local sandstone, the prominent red rock of the island.  Grind it up over several eons and you get a deep red soil.  The ground rock, by the way, is used to dye locally sold souvenir t-shirts. 

St. Peter’s, on the west side of the downtown, is also of a simple design, nothing at all like the splendid neo-gothic Christ Church Cathedral at Fredericton with end on end art and a spire that could have inspired “Why the Chimes Rang.”

We were at the door of the cathedral sanctuary trying to reconcile the two different times listed for Evening Prayer when I saw him approach.

He was a huge man, 6’3”or so with hands the size of tennis racquets.  Leaning heavily on a steel cane, he shuffled slowly up the walk in scuffed black oxfords, carrying a well-worn black leather brief case.  Black walking shorts left his pale calfs exposed. 

Gasping a greeting to us, he added simply, “I’m Allan.” 

Looking us over, he asked, “Are you here for Evening Prayer?” I nodded and he waved the briefcase.  “I’ll meet you in the chapel.”

We walked alongside the church toward the red stone All Souls’ Chapel,  Looking more ancient than its 130 years, the chapel’s red wooden door was surrounded by large sandstone blocks that built up to a steeply slanted slate roof.  We entered and were greeted by a man in the back pew.  

“Where are you from?”  I explained and he replied, “I don’t know about Washington.  I’ve only been to Toronto.”  As Allan entered from a side door, our greeter slipped out.

Now wearing a wrinkled black robe, Allan leaned his cane against the wall, and heavily lowered himself into the ornate wooden chair. 

We read Evening Prayer from the Canadian Book of Common Prayer, a compact book with print small enough to be a problem.

Our prayer leader, the doddering man with a drifting left eye and a body that struggled to move, read prayer in an accented, beautiful and sonorous voice, waiting for us and cuing us into responses we could barely see.

Rising and politely waiting as he struggled to raise his massive body, we sat when he did, or when he said, “You may sit.”

We prayed in words older than the red sandstone blocks, that God would protect us all and especially the Queen and her troops, that he would “holpen” us.

We sat, stood, and knelt in silence as Allan fumbled through thin pages finding the prescribed and appropriate prayer for the day and the spirit.

When we first saw him outside the Cathedral, I thought this man could die right here in front of us and create a lot of property damage when he fell.  But his voice and his familiarity and certainty with the service transcended all those impressions and he became...it was like sitting with one of the ancients who had more to teach us than we could absorb.

The silences, awkward at first, became sacred time and a holy part of greeting and honoring the waning day, and a way of showing reverence to the Creator of Day and Night, Red Stones and faithful Old Men.

He paused a long time and dropped his head, an untrained shock of white hair falling forward over his face.  And then he read the benediction.  The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore.  Amen.  Evening Prayer was ended.

He followed us to the door and asked about us and our travels.  “I know Oregon,” he said, and, “Newfoundland is such a stark beauty,  I haven’t been there in over fifty years.”

We closed the door to All Souls’ Chapel and heard him turn the latch.  And for a while we could hear him shuffling up the aisle.

Fredericton, New Brunswick

I am writing on an Acadian Coach as we ride between Riviere-du-Loup, on the St. Laurence east of Quebec City, and Fredericton, the capital of New Brunswick.  

We departed the Montreal Gare de Autocars at 06:00 on an Orléans Coach.  A slight hint of dawning light was in the eastern sky as we pulled onto the freeway.  We paralleled the St. Laurence, crossed over at Quebec, and changed buses in St. Foy (Quebec).  At Riviere-du-Loup, we changed from the Orléans to this vehicle.  We are now 20-some kilometers from the New Brunswick border where, I assume, everything will magically turn into English.  

We have had numerous stops and slow-downs, detours, and bewildered bus driver moments as a hearty program of road repair and construction rushes to completion before the snow falls.  

This country is beautiful.  The flat lands around Montreal have given way to rolling hills, some high enough to be crowned with a ski area.  Fall is just beginning to tint leaf tips with a deep red.  Villages, each with at least one very tall church spire, nestle in green valleys.  When we pull in to deliver someone, the houses are simple, modest and well-kept.  

All the sitting of our travels has inflamed a nerve from my right buttock, down my leg to my knee and sometimes beyond.  My chiropractor told me the name and how to stretch to ease it.  I stretch, but I have forgotten the name.  It may be resistant because I cannot properly address it.

At the hostel:  

We pulled into Fredericton a few minutes late and called a taxi for the ride to Rosary Hall, now a Canadian Youth Hostel.  According to the manager, about eighty people stay in the connected house and three story brick hall which once housed a Catholic women’s order.  A large number of foreign students live at the hall while attending UNB, St. Thomas, or one of the smaller trade schools.

Our room consists of a twin bed and a bunk bed set, a sink, and a wardrobe.  The room is very warm and humid, although the rest of the hall doesn’t seem to be.  We are close to the exit door, the kitchen, and two washrooms.

The Fredericton capital volkswalk was a large loop utilizing trails along the St. John River.  We registered at the Crowne Plaza Lord Beaverbrook Hotel, probably the spiffiest hotel in town and right next to the provincial art museum.  Behind the hotel, we entered the trail which took us along the river to a former railroad bridge converted to a pedestrian crossing.  We paused with some others about 3/4ths of the way over to watch two shore fishermen land what looked like a 12 pound salmon.  

Following the trail north along the river, we stopped for a Tim Horton coffee before crossing back over the river, walking across the bridge on a protected pedestrian path next to busy vehicle lanes.  At its west end, the traffic ramps went to the right, left, and straight ahead.  To get to the ‘straight ahead,’ a walkway crossed under the bridge and connected with another safe walkway.

Fredericton did another piece of walking infrastructure engineering by building a steel elevated walkway over a busy road, utilizing the end piling of a previous automobile bridge.  

We were equally impressed  by the Saturday farmers’ market.  Housed in and around a market building about five blocks from our hostel, the Fredericton Market is considered among the top ten Canadian markets which puts it into a level with Granville Market in Vancouver and our recently visited Marché Jean-Talon in Montreal.  

Nothing was left out.  A variety of crafts, meats (fresh and processed), dairy (milk, cheese, and an excellent yogurt), breads and pastas, vegetables and fruit, all local or nearby regional were available.  A delicious array of prepared foods were offered both inside and outside the market building. 

One of the things making the market more than a market was the variety of languages I heard spoken.  A French speaking man had a case of patés and sausages.  A German bakery did what German bakeries do.  Eastern European and Slavic languages existed side-by-side with the Queen’s English, Asian, and southeast Asian. All this happening in a settlement of 56,000, only slightly larger than our combined towns of Kelso and Longview.

Fredericton supplied the first of our remaining seven Canadian provincial capitals.  Time to move on to Prince Edward Island and its capital, Charlottetown.

Montreal

We alternate between times that are like riding in a rock quarry blasting area and  others resembling a smoothly carpeted hallway.  Before Buffalo, we glided down the hallway almost soundlessly and only the blurred passing trees told us we were in motion.  An earlier section in Eastern Montana was bumpy enough that a nimble and experienced waiter in the dining car was thrown into a table and lost contact with one of the dirty plates she was carrying.  That one crashed loudly to the floor and shattered.  She held onto the rest and righted herself with her free hand.

Now between Rochester and Syracuse, our current track is tentative; somewhat rough and bumpy but without the sudden pitches that make for great comedy but also serious injuries.

We are about 40 minutes behind schedule.  Our stop at Buffalo was shortened to make up some of our late time.  

We purchased air passage to Buffalo during the Year of SARS.  Our plan was to fly to Buffalo and take Amtrak to Toronto where I would attend the American Counseling Association Conference.  As a response to SARS, the conference was cancelled and and our cheap tickets weren’t.  We had a lovely vacation in Buffalo and Niagara Falls, with a stay at HI-Buffalo.  

I wanted to see what I could recognize of the city (besides rusted out factories) but I fell asleep in the Buffalo station and wakened far down the tracks.  Missed it all.

We are in our eleventh state of this journey, the last one.  From Albany, we ride  the Adirondack to Montreal for our route through the Maritimes, Quebec and Ontario before boarding the cross-country Canadian at Toronto.

Across the aisle from us, a mature woman is unveiling her personna as a traveler.  She has her iPad, her (probably) iPhone 5, maps, notebook, and purple outfit.  She has homesteaded both seats 5 and 6 and piled on them her Safari gear.  She has been on the phone with her phone consultant for at least twenty minutes.  She was informed last evening the train between Albany and Springfield MA will be replaced by a bus due to track work.  She simply said, “No, I won’t.”  She may be used to having her way in all things.

I erred in engaging the Comfort Inn at Albany.  It was far away from anywhere--a most car-dependent motel.  We ended up getting supper from a service station across six lanes of traffic.  The taxi fare both ways totaled $63.00.  The only good was that I got to see the last half hour of a new Wallander on PBS.

We were early for our train so we explored the Albany-Rensselaer Amtrak Station and Post Office.  It is  beautiful piece of architecture with a view of Empire Plaza (the New York government complex) across the Hudson.  And we chugged off on the Adirondack.

Overall, the Adirondack’s views are stupendous, the history fascinating, and the tracks horrid.  As we left, the interpretive guide suggested we note the speed as this is the fastest we will go on this line.  We passed through territory of the French and Indian Wars, the Revolutionary War, and even a bit of the War of 1812.  Jim peeled off stories and anecdotes with a booming voice and great humor.  We paralleled Lake Champlain, weaving along and over the shoreline and rumbled through small towns one can only describe as ‘quaint.’  

On ordinary Amtrak track, it would be a 3-4 hour ride to Montreal.  The conditions of the track make it an eight hour trek.  The sun was setting as we arrived at Gare Central in downtown Montreal.  Hurriedly hoisting our bags, we consulted on the way out with a policeman and set walking down rue Rene LeVesque some eight blocks before turning left on rue Mackay.  From there, a short block took us the Auberge de Jeunesse, Montreal and our tiny cell with shower, sink, and toilet.

Tuesday we rode the Orange Line subway to Jean Talon Station near which was the Marché Jean-Talon, a large, year-round farmers’ market.  We stepped out of the station just as the cloudy grey, calm day turned into a raging wind and pelting rain day.  Fortunate we had purchased pass de Jour, we returned to our room (a stop is three blocks from the hostel), grabbed our hats and jackets and returned to slog our way to the market.

The effort was not wasted.  The market is large, a city block and more, with surrounding permanent restaurants and food-related shops.  Some market  stalls were closed but most were wonderfully stocked and artfully arranged.  Late season peppers, eggplant, fruits, and nuts were splashed all around by organic Renoirs and Monets.

I had a crepe of spinach, bacon, and an egg.  Pat a lentil soup.  We purchased carrots, cucumbers, a pungent cheese from Quebec, a locally-made head cheese (tete fromage), and sunflower bread for our supper.

\Wednesday dawned grey and dry, although the wind persisted and the temperature barely reached 60F during the day.  We walked to the Travelodge in the Asian district to register for the Vieux (old) Montreal volkswalk.  It lead us through the earliest section of the city and along the old port area.  

The apex of the walk was pausing to visit Basilique Notre-Dame de Montreal. From the outside, is is stately but nondescript.  Saints have not congregated in rows on the walls nor are epic biblical scenes played out in stone. The angular towers provide a frame for Mary who wears a crown of gold stars. When we stepped into the nave, we were struck by the famous blue light.  The saints had all congregated in the chancel and over the nave, luxuriating in the glow.  We knelt a moment among photo-crazed tourists and pilgrims, rose, and worked our way to the exit.

We didn’t know it, but we were lot at the time.  We stumbled our way back to the route (it would have been easier had we found the route map when we registered).

The walk finally completed, we stamped our books and returned to our room to do the accumulated week’s laundry, pack, and get a little sleep before our 04:30 alarm.

Going East

Tuesday, 18 Sep, 07:00, HI-Montreal

We arrived here last evening on the Adirondack train from Albany NY.  It is a beautiful ride, noted in several Ten Best lists.  It is neither a fast nor a smooth ride.  Otherwise, it would be like watching television.  We walked from the station to the hostel with help from notes, a map, a policeman, and a pan handler.  Go out the station door.  Turn left.  Walk a bunch of blocks to rue Mackay and turn left!  You can see why a team of consultants was necessary.

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.  Or, in the vernacular, every journey begins.  Problem is, it is sometimes hard to pin point when it begins.  Or how.

Our travels usually begin with a fantasy, a dream, a half-witted idea with multiple structural problems.  That turns into an obsession, leading to enough left brain functioning to give some shape and direction to the whole thing.  The execution is far from flawless and is, rather than a testimony to our planning and travel sense, a proof that God is good and benevolent and watches out for children and old fools.

We boarded Amtrak Cascades train 500 at 09:20 in Kelso and arrived in Seattle a few minutes after noon.  We stashed our bags and walked up First to the Pike Place Market to visit one of my favorite shops, Metsker Maps.  Visiting Metsker, like Seattle’s Wide World Travel Bookstore or the travel section of Powell’s in Portland, puts us next to all those stories and maps.  Here we find inspiration and information, the raw material for dreams.

Our departure from Seattle was delayed an hour and twenty minutes by the lack of a functional engine.  Scores gathered in the temporary waiting room at King Street Station (huge world-class renovation project).  Empire Builder riders along with others waiting to board Train 509 milled and shuffled in and out of line until only the Chicago bound crowd remained and then we were all dragging bags and children and each other out to the platform and onto the appointed cars.

Our roomette, Number Fourteen, is on the bottom level of car 831, near the front of the train.  The room is small for one person; exceedingly cramped for two.  Our luggage is in the rack down the hall past the stairs, waiting with all the others.  A few necessities are in the room with us:  toilet kits, tomorrow’s clothing, my Mac Air.  

Beyond the suitcases, bags, and duffles are toilets and a shower and at the end of the hallway, the room of a frail elderly woman is filled with oxygen bottles and medicines.

At Spokane, the two Empire Builder trains originating at Seattle and Portland are coupled for the remainder of the journey to Chicago.  To us who originated at the Seattle end, this adds to us the Observation Car.  Those starting at Portland now have a dining car.  And together, we are complete.

What I like about train travel are the meals.  Not only is the food at least passable and sometimes quite tasty, the seating of four people to fill each table often creates an enjoyable and stimulating mix of conversation.  At our first supper of this trip, the two others at our table were strangers to each other and to us. An environmental educator, a carpenter, a kindergarten teacher, and a counselor, we found a common interest in travel and the vagaries of human nature.  I have been at table with duds and I have myself exercised my skills as one.  Dudness is however the exception.

Our current journey, like all our multi-destination trips, is fairly strictly planned.  I have our lodging reserved for all our stops, although our transportation is not.  A need exists for some room to adapt to glitches and mishaps.  

Rick Steves takes and runs highly organized and planned trips.  Carefully researching each, he selects what works best for his style.  On the other hand, Paul Theroux travels without computer and relies on local information and word of mouth on the run.  I think we gravitate toward something that personally fits us, that matches our style.  I’m confused so I do both.  At the same time.

I have the thought to do a journey without the internet and planning.  Moving where opportunity presents, taking cues from local information--taxi drivers, fishermen, and bar keeps--and providing an opening for inspiration and intuition, one can wander under a different logic and find a different world.

Our lunch table Friday, 14 Sep, consisted of Pat and me, a mystery woman, and a man who works in the North Dakota oil industry.  His tales about the huge amounts of money that co-exist with oil were scary.  One can make big bucks in this field at the expense of one’s having a life and maintaining one’s convictions.  

I come back to the idea that most of us sell our souls much too cheaply.