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.