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.