Russ' Big Canada Trip, Eh!

July 27—August 4, 2002

Why this trip?

Some weeks before my 40th birthday, I decided to celebrate the momentous anniversary with a weeklong vacation. After trading a few e-mails with a friend in Orlando and considering a few Florida cruises with her and her husband, I thought through it a little more and broadened my search. My sense of wanderlust was sparked by a couple PBS travel shows, and by a delightful book by a tongue-in-cheek Aussie pair driving through America.

I continued to research cruises but the shorter ones were in warmer climates and the cooler Alaskan cruises took too long. As I further imagined a cruise with all those annoying couples rubbing my singledom in my ugly mug, and as I felt the heat of another long Phoenix summer, and since I didn't want to cross over to the big 4-0 uneventfully somewhere in the States, my sights turned to icy cold and mysterious Canada.

As it turns out, Canada is quite large. At first I was ambitious. My must-see list included the Yukon, Northwestern Territories, Canadian Rockies, Hudson Bay, Queen Elizabeth Islands, Nunavut, Toronto, Montreal, Quebec, Gaspe Peninsula, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, and New Foundland. And maybe Greenland. And the North Pole.

Aside from seeing these places, I wanted to use different modes of transportation: planes, trains, buses, taxis, bikes, a glider, helicopter, raft, and on foot. And caving. So after checking the transportation schedules online, and deciding where to be on my birthday, the trip plan was taking shape. It was further shaped by reading travel logs of others who'd already covered the Great White North. Several of the destinations dropped off the plan since they were so far away or lacked topography; I was drawn to the mountains more than the tundra. In fact, I liked the idea of being lost in a thick forest on the big day. A back to nature thing.

After exploring the Web and realizing how long it might take to see all of Canada—especially in backpack style as I had envisioned, I scaled back a tad. Perhaps I should limit it to the east side—nothing west of Toronto. If I use Toronto as the hub, I could fly there, take the train up the 'corridor' to the Gaspe (gas-pay) Peninsula for some woodsy exploring, around the coastline, and returning through the bigger cities. I wanted to rough it and to ensure a rustic adventure, I only reserved 3 nights of lodging. Actually, five nights if you count the first night's red-eye flight and Sunday's sleeper train, which was only $25 more than Economy and a lot more comfy. That left me 4 open days and nights to make it up as I went. Yee haw.

I made my train and lodging reservations (mostly in French) and treated myself to some new clothes. With a week to go, I selected a backpack and did a practice packing. I was happy to discover that my smaller blue pack was sufficient. I was inspired by an ultralight backpacker on the Web and was determined to pack as little as possible and simply buy things as needed. I'll probably even toss dirty clothes along the way to make room for food or just lighten the load as I get tired. I drafted several itineraries with different cities and places and e-mailed several B&Bs in the Gaspe/Perce (per-see) area. Heard back from most and settled on a half-planned itinerary that suited me just fine.

Friday, July 26 - Ready, Set...

Friday's finally here and I'm excited about the big trip. I've been reading Canadian Web sites and trip logs for weeks and I'm eager to go. Had a semi-normal workday. Found my desk decorated in the customary over-the-hill black balloons, crepe paper, and shiny little things. Received a happy 40 card and people sang. Twas a fun day and our entire office went to see Austin Powers and then to Aunt Chilada's for a fun happy hour. But what is it with smokers?! What makes them think that that smell will be any less annoying once we're inside the bar? I mean what kind of weakling has to light up as soon as they get in the bar—regardless of the non-smokers among them?    Okay, I feel better now.

Drove home and packed some of my new clothes and cringed as I rolled them tightly—supposedly a better way to pack. I later learned that wrinkles don't stand a chance against the humidity up there.

I looked around my house one last time before locking it up, shutting off the breaker, and then checking the locks some more. My plan was to turn off the main power and water but couldn't get to the water valve.

The taxi finally arrived and the 'lady' shouted, "do you know where 507 is?" — part of my phone number rather than my address. This was an indicator of the ride to come. Over the next eternity, she devoured snacks, smacked her fingers, chatted it up on her cell phone, and even took a new route that qualifies for the slowest airport run ever. I didn't mind the delay too much because the price was fixed and I was early. Maybe I was just offended as a fellow driver.

Left the smelly cab and didn't tip. Breezed past the baggage handlers and hopped to the gate.

Day 1—Saturday, July 27 - Plane to Toronto

The first leg of the trip went uneventfully. Made good use of my new earplugs and blow-up neck pillow. In Dallas, I rode a people-mover train and people stared. Only getting scattered moments of sleep in the air, I was pretty groggy arriving in Toronto and tried to appear sober through customs. Used US cash to buy a bus ticket to downtown and I think I got taken in the currency conversion. Dunno.

This bus ride was one of those that comes to within a half block of my hotel and then turns and makes ten more stops before mine. At least I got a free riding tour of the downtown hotel area. Kind of unfantastic so far. Surprised to see graffiti that looks like the Mexican variety in Phoenix and Los Angeles. The driver told me how busy traffic was across town where the Pope was visiting.

Finally arrived at the hotel—Westin Harbour Castle. Not quite a castle but still very nice. Found the front door and bypassed the eager bellhops. The desk clerk had a French accent but spoke English. I asked her for a room facing the water and got it and she warned about the noise from party boats in the bay.

Went up to my fancy room on the top floor and enjoyed a great view of the lake with the Toronto Islands nearby. Took a much-needed shower and a long nap. They have different TV channels here—a few Japanese, some French. No Spanish though; and no D-Backs coverage. What's up with that? I awoke hours later to a freezing room. Guess that thermostat was working after all. Took a sleepy stroll to the adjacent ferry dock. Crossed the water to the main island and disembarked—is that the word?

Walked all over the islands and even on the green grass (the signs say 'please walk on the grass'). Quite a few Asian tourists. Found the bike rental place but it was closed so I did a lot more walking. These islands were much smaller on the map. Followed the beach westward. Passed a clothing-optional area with a lone couple with white buns and a clothed guy seated nearby.

Eventually came to a fence and turned inland through the tall weeds. If I died right here, I wouldn't be found for weeks.

Now dusk, the city lights sparkle on the water. It's odd to be so close to the city yet so in the boonies. What a great view of the buildings through the fog. It's quite warm and humid out here and my shirt's off. In the distance are foggy party boats and their dance music is booming. Seems like the sound is coming from nowhere.

Still walking, I got lucky and just happened upon the westend ferry dock. Motored back to the hotel, caught up on the Pope's visit, and changed to a lighter shirt before hiking the town. Toronto seems like a fairly modern city, not unlike New York. Lots of good looking cars and good looking people standing in long lines outside loud clubs. I wonder if it's obvious I'm not a local.

Apparently I covered quite a lot of ground. Went to the CN tower but was too late to ride it to the top. It closes at 11pm or as they write "23h00." It was difficult to look up and not think of our own lost towers. Couldn't help but notice the huge Hard Rock Cafe at the base.

Headed up to King and Queen streets and over to Yonge. Surprised to see so many beggars with their hats out. Chatted with a few and gave them some loonies and toonies (one- and two-dollar coins) for directions and a little history. They seemed proud to show off their fine city.

The people here seem pretty friendly. I took for granted their ability to speak English, not realizing how seldom I'd hear it throughout the trip.

The traffic isn't as bad as New York but I did jump once to avoid getting hit in a crosswalk. Headed back to the 'castle' since I had an early train. Tried to set my radio alarm.

On TV, they have a couple channels of bikini girls seducing the would-be 800 number callers. Losers. The conversation was boring anyway. (Just kidding—it wasn't boring.)

Day 2—Sunday, July 28 - Midnight Express

Woke up leisurely and checked the clock. Bolted awake and tried to do the video checkout but it wasn't working. Had a packing flurry and that's when I must have lost my watch. (Not knowing the time was somewhat stressful over the next several days. Kept an eye out for a store but found none. Asked people for the time and felt like a dork.)

Left the hotel and the desk lady said they'd figure out my minibar and bill my credit card. Scuttled to the train station.

Weird how dismal it looked from the outside. Inside I quickly looked around and stood next to the tracks and finally found a ticket window. Stood in line and was told I need to be on the other side of the building. Passed the McDonald's counter and through the big doors to wait in another line—this time for Via Rail, the Canadian version of Amtrack.

It felt good to have a reservation in hand and I snickered at those people in the long line down the center of the station. The ticket man gave me my ticket and directed me to the long line. I ate one of my Power Bars.

This was my first train ride in over 10 years—and that one was probably my first. The handlers packed us in and I was imagining the Nazi camp train rides. We would be so vulnerable if the Germans stormed the train.

Found a seat next to a slouching kid with headphones. I motioned, he shrugged, I sat. Did my fidgeting with my backpack—going through my stack of print-outs and separating the trashables from the keepers. My goal was to throw away anything I could during this trip to keep my pack as light as possible. I felt a little conspicuous blowing up my pillow and putting it around my neck. But it was comfy so I didn't care—too much.

A group of French-speaking kids were in the row ahead of me. They didn't seem to be embarrassed about speaking a foreign language so loudly in public—or for changing seats so often. It was funny to hear the barrage of French punctuated by pop names like "Austin Powers" and "Britney Spears." I could see a few other passengers giving them looks but I decided to find it cute to be that young and free. They were developing some great social skills.

I brought along a couple books: Learning French and Life Is Tremendous—the latter being a 1968 self-help book that's been on my shelf for years. It made the trip because of its small size and weight. It was a welcome addition during this train ride and I got through it pretty easily over a couple days.

The train stopped in Montreal for a while so I went up to the street level and took a quick peak at the city that I'll be returning to later. It's big and modern; and hot. Since I didn't have my watch, I kept an eye out for a store, a public clock (none), and stayed close to the station. Back down in the station, I bought some snacks and spoke some French. Actually, it was something like bon jour and merci but the clerk was probably impressed.

Since I shelled out the extra doe for the fancy sleeper car, I was told to go check in with that large man over there. Of course I didn't have to stand in the long line of riff raff. Instead, I got to stand in a shorter line of better riff raff.

Now everyone is speaking French. Bought more sunflower seeds and peanuts and impressed another clerk. The train station was nice and clean and so was the train. There were some nasty diesel fumes however on the tracks downstairs.

Had some confusion at this point and I showed my train inexperience. Not realizing that the sleeper cars were divided into 3 sections, I entered the correct car but exited when the room numbers didn't match my ticket. The French steward assured me I was in the right car so I went back in and proceeded beyond a small L-curve into another area. Same thing again. Since other passengers were in the way, getting settled into their private rooms, I made the mistake of asking them where to go. They looked at my ticket and insisted that I needed a different train car. After exiting again and asking Mr. French to please take me to my seat, he pointed to it from the outside and loudly tapped the window. I apologetically made my way again past the same vacationers and ventured beyond the next L-curve to my waiting seat. Later I would update those same folks with the happy results of my search. At least we had an icebreaker.

My seat was just as I had imagined—a booth with a large window and two benches where I would lounge face to face with an exciting world traveler and share our adventures and debate Nietzsche. Well, Mr/Mrs fantastic never showed so I had this large booth to myself. Just as well—I needed the space to repack my bag, do another search for my watch, and purge more paper. And wait for the Germans.

The view out the window could only capture my attention so long. It consisted of a green, slow-moving landscape punctuated by fast poles and blurry trains going the other way.

The others in my area were more stoic as they've probably done this before. I only realized this after several more unreturned hellos and bon jours; I had even ventured into bon soir but didn't feel up to a bon nuit. Not yet. The young family in the next booth were doing just fine. After saying hello and receiving a cautious reply, I overheard them getting along enviously well. Such well-behaved kids and adults. This was the norm over the next few days. Very good kids and well-mannered parents—very heartening. They were all speaking French and the kid with headphones was singing 'Girls, now they're in control' over and over. Must be a local song.

Seemed like a good time to stretch my legs so I asked Mr. French how this whole train thing works. He said I could get up and walk throughout the train whenever. There's a dining car a few hallways down and a skylight car just beyond that. The aisles are narrow and tricky. If someone comes the other way and they're larger than a skeleton, it's backup time.

It felt risky to walk through the little area between cars—like I was breaking the rules. Those passages are not like the movies though; no open air space where I can climb on top of the train or hang underneath with a knife clenched in my teeth.

The dining car was narrow but I got used to it. At first, I walked through slowly since I felt like I was walking through someone's dining room and interrupting dinner. I asked the host how this works and before I knew it I was being seated. The dining staff only spoke French (or so they'd have us believe) and fortunately I sat with Collin and Grant, two bilingual friends who were on a fishing trip from Ottawa. They helped me order and told me where to go (and not go) in Gaspe since they'd been all around the peninsula. I thanked them for their help and we had coffee. Later, that turned out to be a bad idea.

After dinner I sat in the skylight car and had an okay time. Since it was dark and stormy, there wasn't too much to see other than my reflection. And it's hard to strike up a conversation with someone in a foreign language. Went below and bought a couple snacks and a drink from a curt employee who short-changed me. I made him aware and got another $10 back but it was still short. Again, don't rely on them to make correct change from American to Canadian.

Skinnied back to my seat which was now transformed into a bed. It was only about 10pm but everyone was in bed already so I gave in. Climbed my ladder and eventually got situated. There's no window up here—just my boots, clothes, and penlight. After wondering whose germs I was breathing from this blanket, I tried to doze off.

Although the train had a comforting rhythm—which actually would have been great if shared—those coffees hit me and I was hopelessly tired and awake. What was I thinking? And not only was I awake but cold, then hot, then cold. Then I had to go to the bathroom. I put my boots on and negotiated the ladder again without crashing through the lower partition.

The bathroom was a bit tricky to find since the door was camouflaged among a wall of various metal things. What is it called when the toilet works for everyone else but you? Whatever it is—it's me. I kept pressing the weird flusher button every possible way but all I got was a loud psst! and no flush. For my fellow passengers outside I hadn't yet woken up, I had more surprises. Not wanting to leave such a gift for any innocents out there, I debated and finally pressed the call button inside the bathroom. Keep in mind that I didn't know whether this was a silent signal that lights up a little light on some panel, or a fire-alarm-wake-up-everyone-with-a-huge-alarm-cuz-someone's-passed-out-in-the-locked-bathroom-and-the-only-way-to-get-help-is-to-blare-a-huge-horn kind of signal. I softly pressed it, heard two beeps and waited outside. Well how would this look. I'm standing in the narrow hallway awaiting the imminent rescue crew while also protecting my neighbors from one gently used restroom. Well no one came and I didn't want to look like a stalker so I decided to climb the ladder and hope everything would spontaneously flush. Sleep came a bit easier after all that stress.

Day 3—Monday, July 29 - Perce & Bonaventure Island

Awoke to nearby voices discussing a toilet or something and I hung out in my sleeper for awhile. Don't know what time it was.

Enjoyed a light breakfast in the sky car and finally saw some greenery. Continued enjoying my Tremendous book and marking it in pen. After following our progress on a map, I took a flashless photo and headed back to my seat. Frenchy came through and said we're approaching Perce so I hastily got ready to jump out. (This felt a little wild since I bought a ticket all the way to Gaspe and now I'm getting set to break that sacred agreement by exiting early.) Well, false alarm. He came back through and said Perce was the stop after this one. I reached for my book.

At the Perce stop, I only saw a station—no town. Got a little nervous and quickly rehearsed the French version of 'where the hell is the town.' A taxi driver packed me into his mini van. Turns out the town is a short drive from the station. The driver was so impressed by my pronunciation of Gite du Capitaine, he announced that he'd dropped me off first. I quickly finished my chat with the woman wearing the foot cast and her new husband. She said she had to walk down the aisle with crutches.

I'm here at Gite du Capitaine ("Captain's Lodge") in rainy Perce. Guess I was early because the owner came to the door in a robe. She quickly changed, squirted some perfume, and practiced her English. I was shown to my camper on the side of the house and told how much I want to take the boat tour.

Since I needed Canadian cash for lodging, she searched for her car keys and drove me a mile downtown to a bank which was a yellow wooden house. Very friendly patrons and very at ease just standing in line and talking with no apparent prejudice. Quite refreshing. And they're obviously not concerned with appearances.

Zipped up my funny money and went to the captain's boat at the dock. These local tourists are ready for foul weather with their colorful raincoats. We rocked on the waves out to Perce rock and I was cold for the first time this trip. A young tour guide somehow knew I only spoke English and was kind enough to translate after each phrase. I tried to take some pictures but the fog and the movement would have messed up my shots. I took some anyway.

Perce rock was interesting and I had fun playing tourist with my camera. We saw it from both sides and then continued sailing toward Bonaventure Island, a national preserve out in the bay. As we approached its north side, everyone was amazed by the swarm of white birds. Out came the cameras—snap-flash-click-buzz. Whir. What a massive collection of birds! Apparently they mate here, the males fly to South Carolina, and each year return here to reunite with their mate. Very romantic except for the smell.

We docked and I got some more broken English from the park employees. Bought a ticket to enter the park and hike its four trails. I was making great time since my backpack was in the camper. My cap sure came in handy as it started to rain. It came down heavier but I didn't mind since I was nestled in the forest in a foggy, misty rain, in the middle to nowhere (except for the other people walking by.)

It took only 45 minutes (I'm guessing—no watch) to walk to the other side where the birds were. So many! Took a few pictures but the rain got heavier and my camera was getting wet. Good thing I wore cotton—it collects and holds that rain. Decided to head back and warm up. Kept an eye out for a suitable bathroom but only saw a couple outhouses. After a few inspired jogs, I arrived at a historic house that they had converted into a public restroom. Ah, civilization. Whistled all the way back to the dock and boarded the next boat to Perce.

On the way I concealed my shivering. Back on land I cozied up to a heat vent on a building. Went next door to a red restaurant and ordered minestrone soup, hot bread, and hot coffee. Get the theme? Soothed by the din of French chatter, I kept catching the eye of the confident girl at the next table. She and her bohemians left without incident and I soon followed.

My plan was to buy a raincoat locally and I spotted a camping store. That's where I relearned that while I can formulate the questions in French, the answers are unfortunately in French. I quickly took to gesturing while talking, and then paying careful attention to where they're pointing—whether it's a watch or price tag. I also quickly learned to convert Canadian dollars to American to decide if I was getting a deal. The raincoat was too much and I moved on.

Earlier I had paid attention to the route from the B&B and now I'm using that same route back to my camper. It's about a mile or two up the road a spit. This town sure is a magnet for Canadian vacationers with campers. It's the thing to do here. Every other TV commercial is for some sort of family vacation park. Kind of charming but bordering on creepy.

By now I needed a hot shower but the camper water was ice cold. Mustered up the nerve to intrude and went across the wet grass to ask the lady about it. I knew I sounded like a moron who didn't know how to use a shower, and she looked at me like I was a moron who didn't know how to use a shower. She offered to let me use the indoor shower which sounded great to me. After locking the bathroom door and piling my clothes, I discovered that this shower didn't have hot water either. I debated whether I should risk it by taking a freezing shower, but I was already hypothermic—getting sick would be a bad thing. So I went back to the kitchen to get another weird look. She turned the knobs to make sure it wasn't just me. Thankfully she called the captain next door and he agreed to let me use his shower. (She only referred to him as "The Captain.") I finally used my flip-flops and enjoyed the wet grass as I scurried. "The captain," who was having a cozy dinner with Tessy from Belgium, blurted You take the shower and then I will clean it up. This language barrier sure clouds the subtleties. It also seems that the Frenchies bridge the language gap just like we do—shouting.

That hot water felt great. I joined the captain and the lady for a friendly chat about music and stuff and I realized how much I am at their mercy to communicate. They prefer French but switch to English to include me. I was kind of in a kid role.

The captain turned out to be a nice guy and he invited (ordered?) me back to his boat in the morning for a great tour (just like today's). I mentioned that but I don't think he understood. But hey, it was free and I can enjoy the woods again. The captain showed me his watch and I retired to chez camper.

Spent the evening purging papers, reading, and repacking my clothes. Still have new socks and unders, but I'm starting to reuse shirts and pants. Scratched my head after watching some TV—only one channel—French. Lots of local commercials for family campgrounds. I must admit, it was funny to hear French overdubs of shows like The Simpsons and The Six Million Dollar Man. Jamie was still annoying.

Ventured out to the camping snack store across the way. (No 7-11's here—just small stores wherever they might be.) My self-help book's paying off. Had a nice conversation with the clerk, Betty, who will retire soon to the States. She showed me the souvenir postcards I wanted. I bought a big bottle of water, some goodies, and the postcards. (No watch.) Ran into the gite lady who stopped in. She showed me her watch and then caught up with Betty.

That hiking and shivering is catching up to me. I tucked in around 10pm and quickly dozed off into the silent night. Only a few hours now.

Day 4—Tuesday, July 30 — 40th birthday - Bus to Gaspe

Got up several times before finally staying up. It sure felt great to sleep in till 6. Turned on French TV to see the time. Stepped outside and took a couple foggy pictures.

Joined the others for a friendly breakfast of toast and muffins. They're sure into breads here. The gite lady was nice but I still felt like an intruder and was anxious to leave. I tried to talk with the other guests but it was rough. At least Ellena from Montreal made an effort and she even said I had nice eyes (beaux yeux). After some more bread with unusual condiments, and after grabbing a brochure or three, I was out the door. The lady and I did one of those chic side-to-side kisses. Back at the docks, I got to the captain's boat moments before setting out with another batch of tourists. Fortunately there were other English-only passengers so I didn't feel as conspicuous. We took the same route as yesterday and fortunately, for the photographer in me, the water was steadier this time.

On the island, I hiked a longer, more challenging trail. Decaying wooden homes dotted the trail and an old cemetery stood out among them. The footing got trickier as the trail narrowed. A thick forest floor still soaked from yesterday revealed everyone's steps and slips.

Arrived at bird central which was even more stinky today. The rain must have kept it in check yesterday. Clicked off lots of pictures and tried in vain for that elusive National Geographic pan shot as the huge birds swooped. Couldn't hold my breath any longer and retreated to another trail. It was soft and downhill so of course had to run it. Well it's good to know I can run in these boots if necessary. A passing young couple ripped out something in French and then tried it in English. (I'm learning that it helps to say Je ne parlez pas Francais in a twangy southern accent.) They asked "where—little—house?" Unsure of whether they meant the decaying homesteads or the outhouses, I pointed and replied "about 1 kilometer ici." Hopefully I didn't steer them wrong; and if so, hopefully I can beat them back to the boat. I did, but on the boat was a different couple that I earlier ran up on and spooked. Small world out here.

By the way, the name of the boat was Steve Martin — no kidding.

Blasted across the water to the mainland. I tipped another fiver and said merci. Unburdened myself of some more cash for a guitar player performing for tips on the dock. It's only play money.

I found a woman who spoke English and knew the town—what a lifesaver. I followed her directions to the tourist bureau and loaded up on maps and brochures. The coastal bus was still minutes away so I traveled the main street again. Stopped in a trinket shop but the only thing that looked good was some sunflower seeds. I passed on the souvenir junk and said no to the pesce-flavoured sucker. Doesn't that mean fish?

Used my new book confidence to start a polite conversation with a bookish girl at the bus stop. She barely spoke English and seemed a little annoyed that there was a language other than French. Maybe it was just me. We fumbled with a few words and gestures but were soon craning to look for the bus.

My legs were tired from all the walking and running so it was a luxury to relax on the bus (front row). We really sailed down the highway covering so much ground. I saw the Forillion peninsula across the water and arrived in Gaspe in no time. It didn't look like I thought it would, probably due to the dense clouds and light rain.

I had decided to stay here since Gaspe ("land's end") is at the tip of the peninsula. I thought it'd be smaller but it's a fairly large little town consisting of others who wanted to be as far away from the rest of us as possible. I took a taxi to L'Auberge du Saumonier ("The Salmon Inn"). Henri, the driver, said he grew up "out there." ("Out there"?! How far are we going?) It was only five or six miles out by the river where all the salmon is, supposedly. All I knew was we were way out of town and there were no stores nearby. Guess that's good if you're here to fish.

Slipped Henri a 20 and he waited to make sure someone was home before leaving. Lisa, the owner, answered the door and was mortified that I didn't have a car. In fact she laid it on pretty heavy that I probably should have asked how far it was and she would have said I have to have a car to stay here and there's nothing to do in Gaspe without a car. Yikes. It was surreal trying to convince her that everything was okay and that I'll figure it out. I don't mind walking and I'm roughing it by choice. She kept drilling — basically saying "what were you thinking." Serenity now.

She finally showed me to my room which had two twin beds. The king-sized bed I had reserved was given to a couple before I got there.

At least her shower was much better than the captain's. And the house was beautifully rustic and I'm sure very romantic if you're into that sort of thing. But again I was in someone else's home and not feeling like I could relax. I did join Lisa and hubby out on their deck for some snacks and more bilingualism. Lisa knew it was my birthday and opened some red wine to help celebrate, which was very nice. Spoke with them and another couple from Ottawa about where to go downtown. Actually, as I recall, I was told what I wanted to do. That brand of in-your-face hospitality is so charm-free.

Hitched a ride with another guest couple to the downtown area. They ate at a warm and cozy restaurant where everybody knows your name—except mine. Too cozy for the brooding single type. I decided to continue my walking tour of the city and a few hoods. Walked up a steep residential street and did a big loop around to the water. I was hoping to find a simple pizza place or even a 5-star restaurant but found neither. Opted for a small drug store. This country needs a 7-11.

Continued touring the streets with my licorice and chocolate. Yummie. Happened upon a gazebo and where a guy was singing Girl From Ipanema for a small, happy gathering. I sat and people stared at my store bag for a time. The singer was almost reaching those notes and the audience seemed appreciative for anything way out here. He launched into a few French ballads, which sounded a lot like every other overly dramatic French ballad. I was actually relieved to hear him speaking Spanish with someone after the set. I mean, how much French can one person take? I'll be they're all still speaking it right now.

The clouds were bumping and again the locals were ready with their fancy hoods and umbrellas. Not me. My cap is working just fine—thank you. I only need to tilt it occasionally to drain the water.

Moved on from the crowd and walked toward the B&B hoping to catch a ride somehow. Soon it was apparent I was actually walking back. During my little marathon, I took in all the local sights and stopped at a cemetery to read and reflect. Back on the road among the zooming cars, I ate my snacks and tucked my water bottle in my arm to pick up some speed. I'm sure I looked a bit funny running down this lone stretch of road where no one runs (or even walks) wearing long pants and soggy boots.

It was dark now and the fog was turning to mist. I was pleasantly surprised how my legs and lungs were holding up. I felt propelled by the thought of being out here in the middle to nowhere, and also by Lisa's stance that no one can walk this distance from town. Hmmph, I'll show her.

Again my sense of direction and memory pay off. I managed to find my way just fine and it only took two or three hours. Along the way I stopped at a dingy convenient store. The smoking clerks were friendly and assured me I was on the right road. Bought some more survival snacks and continued in the cold drizzle back to the B&B—a welcome sight by now. They don't lock their door but it still felt weird just walking in. I didn't tell them I walked.

Warmed up with a hot shower and chatted with hubby. Asked about the D-Back's score but the poor guy wasn't a fan. Laid in bed and planned tomorrow's adventures. Drifted off around midnight among my maps, travel logs, and bus schedules.

Day 5—Wednesday, July 31 - Hike and Bus to Mont St. Pierre

Hearing voices I got up and creaked downstairs to breakfast with strangers. I politely smiled and ate my toast while they carried on in French. Lisa took sympathy and led them into broken English for my sake. Had an okay chat with the pseudo locals. Got an earful from a commie girl who was full of anti-American propaganda. I slipped a Valium in her coffee.

Enjoyed the fluffy pancakes and small side of baked beans. So not only are they into breads but they combine foods differently around these parts. Exhausted from my one-sided conversation, I slinked up to my room and descended again for a quick shower. Hubby asked me about my plans but was actually making it clear that checkout was noon. His hospitality was checking out early. As he restated it yet another way, I escaped to the shower.

This place was the last reservation of my trip and from here on I'm winging it. Moments before noon I left for the big unknown. Hiked the same road along the river, past endless plain houses. It took me about 30 minutes to get to the gas station where Lisa arranged for the bus driver to make a special stop for me. But since I was hours early for that and didn't want to just hang around, I continued walking toward the next town, while staying far away from the lanes.

Walking on a highway is very different from the city streets. I can read the large highway signs for several minutes and it feels way too slow. The Forillion Park entrance sign beckoned and I looked forward to the scenic park, striking up a lifelong friendship with other carefree travelers, and preferably hitching a ride through the park and around the coast to one of those towns along the coast. Back to reality—there was no little entry shack, no park ranger—no park. Turned out the sign I was seeing was just the turn off to get to the road that leads to the park. Now I have a decision: walk back to the gas station or hitchhike on the shortcut road bypassing the park (so I wouldn't be stranded in the park and I'd at least be along the bus route). Actually I decided I needed some tall weeds for a nature break. But since there were too many cars and I didn't know the local decency laws, I extended my thumb and tried to look non-threatening.

After countless minutes and cars, and a few close calls with The Man, I was in the same spot and soon looking for a really big tree. A car pulled up—it was commie girl and her mom on their way to the park for horseback riding. They offered me a ride but I didn't want to be deep in the park and miss the bus. They drove off and I found a ditch and then checked my map. Well how about that—the bus does take the park road. I should've taken that ride. Pooh. And look, the park isn't for several miles yet. Double pooh. I turned down a nice comfy ride and missed a chance to see the park up close. It's handy to have maps and bus schedules but it's even handier to view them more closely.

One Power Bar later I was determinedly walking toward the park instead of the shortcut road. I think I could have beaten the bus to the north side using that shortcut but I didn't want to chance it and besides, it wasn't pedestrian friendly. On this park route, I could perhaps flag the oncoming bus if I see it in time. Of course that's worse case—I'll keep walking and try to beat the bus to the next stop just a few kilometers away.

What a long road! This is a coastline road with houses on both sides as far as I could see. But I was determined to get to the park. It can't be that far; it's only about an inch on the map. During the hike I was relieved to see changes on the horizon like a large steeple or even a billboard. But there were no people, just fast cars getting there in no time.

One of the Internet travel logs mentioned using a walking stick for safety. I hadn't yet found a good one but just as I was noticing the quiet, I suddenly heard a loud bark and looked up. A large angry dog was across the street at a house with no fense. And no leash. And he continued barking while running toward me. In the seconds it took him to reach the road that separated us, I continued walking but kept an eye on my little friend here. Well actually I should say "big" friend.

Mr. Big has now gone beyond his duty; he's crossing the ditch and is now on the road. And he's obviously not just coming over to smell me; rather, he's barking with intent to kill or worse. Boy, like I don't feel enough like an outsider here and now this dog is about to tear into me. And what bad timing too; it's cold and my hands aren't ready for a fight. I have no stick or mace or steak. Oh, I'm sure I have something weapon-like in my pack but there's no time.

Since I can't outrun him, I whip off my pack and hold it between us. Maybe he'll take out his anger on that instead and then run off. By now, he's so focused on me, he doesn't notice the car coming or hear its horn. I thought oh good, the car's going to scare him off. But he doesn't flinch; and he pays the price. The skidding car struck the dog on his backside and spun him around with his legs splayed. Stunned but not dead, he darted back to the house and I took a breath. Another car behind the first also skidded and they both stopped to help the dog and console the owner. Of course by now, I just wanted to get out of there and find a big stick. I didn't care for the dog's well being and didn't want to be part of a scene. But you know these Canadians, they're so friendly and willing to talk to each other. It's one big social club.

I stood there grimacing at the idea of joining the gathering crowd, and was still looking out for that dog. The car people walked up to the house and I reluctantly joined them. I was formulating the incident into French when two of them spoke to me in English. I was relieved to skip the translation. The female owner, an attractive brown-haired beauty, had gone around back to find the dog. Guess they have a tendency to run off and hide when injured.

Soon we were all standing in a circle—the hitters apologizing, the owner seeming indifferent, and me feeling relieved and still keeping an eye out for Kujo. He never showed and we dispersed while the Quebecois exchanged phone numbers for drinks I'm sure.

I was relieved to be back on the road and was now seriously looking for a walking stick. Considering the number of trees around, I was amazed at how long it took to find a good one.

Within an hour, my stick and I arrived at the next scheduled bus stop, Centre D' Accuel, just inside the park. I was so glad to be there and so ready for the bus, which is due to arrive in 45 minutes. Boy, that bus schedule is such a lifeline in these remote parts. But as luck would have it, this place wasn't a town or anything—it was just a visitor reception centre and the ranger girl said the bus doesn't stop here. What?! According to her, it stops at Cap-Aux-Os which is 7 more kilometers. Well that's depressing—now I really needed to find a ride to make it in time. I tore a colorful park map from the large pad and glanced at the ranger's watch. I had 40 minutes.

An interesting bear-proof garbage can caught my attention and then I headed out. Now I was motivated. I was only half-heartedly hitchhiking before but now if I don't get a ride, the bus will probably pass me and there won't be another until tomorrow morning. I scanned their parking lot for a nice family heading east—nothing. So I walked quickly, thumbed every passing car, and kept looking back for the bus, hoping I could wave it down. My walking stick and I were making great time but I realized we weren't going to make it in time. I thumbed another car and this one stopped. Oh joy. The young guy and I chatted and after saying I'm from Arizona, he said he actually worked in Tucson for a few months. Small world again. He dropped me off at the bus stop with 10 minutes to spare. Whew—driving is so much faster. Who knew.

The adjacent Auberge de Jeunesse (youth hostel) had a friendly, lived-in feel that was marginally inviting. The desk girl confirmed that the bus arrives outside which was great news. I asked for the toilatte and heard snickering after closing the door. Dropped a looney in the Pepsi machine and stood on the other side of the street trying to look like someone waiting for a bus. I soaked in my final vistas of Gaspe. After all that walking, I'm technically still in Gaspe since it encompasses the whole park, which goes for miles and miles.

Never was I so glad to see a bus. Here it was all shiny and new, and I'm waving like a flood victim on his pickup. The bus driver asked for my ticket and I sank. Where do I get that? He said he'd let me know and I said I'm headed to Mont St. Pierre—you wouldn't believe how they pronounce that.

We were zipping right along and I realized again how much faster this is than walking. Don't get me wrong, I love walking, but after 20 or 30 miles it tends to lose its charm. We flew and I think I took a picture. But I couldn't take my eyes off the driver who was steering with his knee for several miles while trying to open a packet of peanuts. He no sooner finished those and was doing the same maneuvres with a candy bar from the next stop.

I was tired and didn't mind nodding off and missing some of the scenery. Didn't matter—the weather was so cloudy, I couldn't fully appreciate it anyway. We're now on the north coast road heading west and checking off those little map towns. It was my kind of fun following the bus schedule and the map. In fact, that's how I knew what time it was. Normal guy stuff.

Got a bus ticket at one of our stops while others smoked. Back on the road, we drove for a couple hours and I didn't mind the distance or the time. I was moving without walking, so I was happy. And so were my feet. The skies were clearing and it was a lovely sunset. Combine that with charming little towns and blue-water bays and you've got a relaxing ride. Especially when someone else is driving.

We arrived in Mont St. Pierre and I deflated my neck pillow and jumped out carrying my newly organized pack. The town felt welcoming—probably because I knew I was staying there—hopefully. I didn't have a reservation so I was going to go to any hotel and rattle off my little French phrase about having a room with a shower. Since the bus stopped right in front of the beautiful Motel St. Pierre, I started—and ended—my search right there. I went in and as has happened several times up here, I say my French opener and the person grabs the other person who kind of speaks English. It seems like they're used to it. My translator this time was a nice gentleman who gave me room #1 right next to the bureau ("office").

What a welcome sight—a chambre avec le duche (room with a shower). It didn't matter to me that it had thin, rough towels or a sea foam blanket; just to be back in civilization after a day of walking, fighting Kujo, and nearly missing my ride was great with me. I would have been satisfied with a teepee.

Took a quick shower and wore my least-dirty clothes. Walked 50 feet to the motel restaurant where the gentleman came out and sat with me a few times. We talked about Quebec, Arizona, and hang gliding—which is why I chose this town.

What a good meal. It could have been just so-so but I wouldn't have noticed. Ordered onion soup and cheese bread. I figured I could afford the extra carbs after all that walking. I even splurged and ordered dessert—an ice cream sundae. They were out of chocolate sauce but gentleman suggested maple syrup—a local thing. Man, was that good. I gotsta get me some of dat.

Took my tired feet to the far end of the mile-long coastal road. Found the hang gliding field and talked to the flying dudes. I watched a few landings of those power gliders or ultralights and then wanted to give it a try. On the way over here I was hoping to try hang gliding—or "delta planes" as they're called here and the guys flying them are called "pilots." Talked with one pilot who just landed but he said I should talk with another guy who'll be back later. I was in the mood right then so I decided I'd try the power glider which was available.

Paid $100 for a 30-minute ride and signed my life away on a form I couldn't read. Put on the jumpsuit and strapped in. The pilot and I could hear each other through the helmet microphones, but he spoke little English so it didn't matter. These little planes are sure quick off the ground. We shot upward and had a beautiful view of the sunset through the parting clouds. I could see all the campers and their campfires for miles. We buzzed a couple hilltops and skirted the waves along the beach. After a few dives and pullouts, my stomach was barely queasy and my 30 minutes were quickly up. Landed and asked him how much these babies cost. Not too bad really—about $26,000. Sonya from Ottawa is here taking lessons. She said it takes 15 hours to earn a pilot license. She was my new translator so I didn't drift too far away. We watched a few more tourists take off and land. I smiled big when I heard her say "eh" as part of a real sentence. I had only heard that used jokingly before but now it was for real. For some reason I kind of expected her to be in on the amusement as well.

Found a narrow bridge shortcut back to the main road and walked to the motel. I was eager for a laundry room and I bagged up my clothes—all of them—and walked all the way back to the campground's laundry room. Unfortunately it had just closed and I went back. Took in the sites and sounds like the kids setting off fireworks next to the campground. Amazing how there's no swarm of police like there would be back home. Many of the locals were eating al fresco at a couple pubs and several vacationers were scattered along the beach lighting campfires and playing music.

Stopped at a corner store for more snacks and bottled water. I've been a little too dehydrated this trip and am trying to get back to normal. At the hotel I considered bribing the gentleman into letting me use their wash machine but the office was closed and I decided to wait. Took my camera for a little stroll toward the other end of town and was quickly back at the motel. Had to use my je ne parlez pas Francais for a guy looking for a room with a shower. I was able to convey that the motel wasn't full but he then came back with a longer French phrase and I shrugged.

Settled down for the night and planned tomorrow's journey using a sprawl of maps and papers. Scanned the TV for D-Backs scores but they were hard to find. I did find someone giving the sports and heard blah blah blah Randy Johnson blah blah blah. Unfortunately they didn't display the scores so I didn't know who won. An interesting hotel amenity was their free x-rated channel mixed in with all the others. Interesting—not the movie of course, just the concept.

I didn't want to miss breakfast and was hoping to wake up early.

Day 6—Thursday, August 1 - Mountains, Mosquitos, Bus to Quebec

The sun beamed through my window and I thought I'd slept in. Fluffed up a dirty outfit and headed to dejeneur petit. I was relieved it was only 7 something and I enjoyed a leisurely omelet du frommage; and a loaf of toast. I was tired from walking so much and from a general shortage of sleep but didn't mind getting up early so I could get more done today.

Carried my laundry bag (actually it's a plastic grocery bag I brought and has come in handy) to the laundry room. I was so excited to see this solitary wash machine and a dryer. I wasn't the only one there—a few campers were also loading up their washes so I got in line. Left my bag in the line and went over to the flight field. There was a weeklong gathering of delta pilots and quite a number of visitors were in town to either fly or watch. I joined the watchers and took a few pictures.

Started my laundry in cold water (the 'hot' wasn't working) and wore shorts and boots. Got some rare sun while saying bon jour to a few campers and getting some looks. The dryer almost dried everything so my new outfit was a little soggy for a day. Bagged up my clean clothes and singled out a few to be the next to go.

Checked out of l'hotel and walked the road for the last time. Stopped at the flight school which was attracting a larger crowd because of the sunny weather. Met Vinz from Holland waiting for a glider but he also opted for the powered version since the line was shorter. We talked about our plans for the day and he was driving up to the Chic Choc mountains and going west from there—which is what I was planning to do too. But I also wanted to maybe try hang gliding. So my choices were either hanging around here all day to ride a glider then catch the westbound bus much later, or hitch a ride with my new friend to the hills and take an alternate road back to the coast to grab the same bus just a few towns west of here. He offered for me to join him and I jumped on it.

After his powerglide ride we were off in his car. He bought it for this 6-month solo road trip across Canada. We drove to the hills where the pavement got rough and eventually turned to dirt. Stopped once for a road moose who seemed interested in us. Took a shaky picture. Finally made it to the trailhead that I had researched before the trip but it had just closed for the day. The ranger said they close the people trail midday so the mating schedule of the moose or elk doesn't get interrupted. That's okay; we drove to a lesser trail and got out to hike it. Made it to the top and back in a couple hours. While at the top, we had a beautiful panoramic view but I was attracting every mosquito for miles. They loved me. I had little reminders that lasted weeks. Vinz and I moved quickly down the slippery trails and talked about Windows XP and server errors. You know, guy stuff.

Drove the bumpy dirt roads and visited a pretty lake for at least another hour before finding the paved highway as shown on the map. It was getting late so we decided not to visit the big lodge that's a must-see according to the brochures. My only 'must' was to beat the bus to the bus stop in the next town. Well we got there with minutes to spare and we exchanged e-mails and left. It was sure nice to have company and speak semi-English with someone.

The bus stop was in the parking lot of a little restaurant in Sainte-Anne-Des-Monts—a larger town with stoplights. I purchased my bus ticket from the desk girl and smelled that same perfume everyone's wearing here. The restroom was another welcome sight. I jogged over to the dimestore and bought a watch. Yeah! On the bus I tried to read the instructions and set the time. Those instructions were microscopic. I realize I'm 40 now but my eyes couldn't have changed that fast. It seems like all the signs, plaques, and instructions here are very tiny. I'm also finding it weird to see the English translations written below another language. I'm so used to seeing it first and ignoring all that other stuff.

Before boarding the bus at the restaurant, I spotted that same bookish girl from Gaspe. We were both surprised and had a little reunion. I wanted to learn of her travels to this point and say how weird it was to meet up again after a couple days but her English hadn't yet improved and we sat apart.

What a beautiful sunset. It colored the water and sky for hours and I enjoyed it from the front row. The St. Lawrence waterway is so wide at this point, I couldn't see the other side so I pretended it was an ocean.

The coastal towns started looking kind of similar and the bus made a few stops throughout the evening. Here, the truck drivers flash their lights at each here. "Howdy neighbor." And when we approached stoplights, our driver pressed a button and the light would blink green for us. Cool. I also saw a couple other stoplight features that we should adopt: the green arrows flash so they're more noticeable, and the red lights are square and there are two of them at opposite ends of the horizontal stoplight. Their signals were easier to see.

Day 7—Friday, August 2 - Walk in Quebec, Bus to Montreal

My bus seat did recline but it was still hard to sleep. I laid down crunched up across two seats which is probably how I hurt my back. I felt that nasty lower back pain that could have ended my trip if it got worse—scary. We finally arrived in Quebec around 3am and the station guy told me the adjacent train station would open at 5am. I was hoping to lay out there like those airport people but no such luck.

I conspicuously changed into some long pants on a park bench and trashed a pair of socks. Stretched my back for a few minutes and walked gingerly through the city. I tried to follow my map but had trouble getting oriented. I'll be sure to bring a compass next time.

Asked a kid attendant at a Canada Oil gas station but no English. I kept an eye out for a cash machine too. Curiously, I can only take out $250 CAN since that's how the ATM card is programmed. It doesn't consider the conversion rate so in actuality I can only withdraw about $160 US per day. I wonder how many Yen I could withdraw. I'll have to figure that out before I visit China.

Hobbled toward old town and the illuminated giant hotel du Frontenac on the hill. I researched that place before coming here. I'm hobbling because my left boot is starting to rub my big toe and I look like the hunchback. I slowly climbed lots of stairs and arrived at the hotel.

From there I watched a bleak sunrise through heavy clouds and enjoyed the solitude. I walked the Vieux Quebec boardwalk and read their tiny signs describing the battles fought there. Quite interesting—not the battles, the number of typos in those permanent signs. The grammatical mistakes were translation errors. It thought that was curious.

Still on the boardwalk, I spotted a huge wall of rain headed my way. I figured I'd just stick it out but the drops got bigger and I hid under a gazebo along with two other stranded walkers. It was odd to be the only ones around for miles but not uttering a word. Oh well—I would have but it seemed like a tough crowd. I dodged the rain there for awhile and ate another Power Bar. Stretched my back and studied a squirrel going nuts over a burger wrapper next to the garbage.

The rain eased up and I made a break for it. The grounds were eerily quiet and I tried to picture the battles fought here and the soldiers dying on this very hill. I picked up a piece of black shale as a souvenir and walked around the sprawling Citadel. Spooked a huge squirrel in a trash pile. Maybe we were both spooked a little.

My back was feeling better although my legs were still sore just from being tired and trying to sleep on the bus. I walked some more and wondered how 007 held up so well with no sleep. In fact, he rarely sleeps, doesn't go to the bathroom, and only drinks martinis. I'll work on that.

A friendly doorman at the big hotel offered a little history and some directions. I went in for a quick tour but they didn't start until 10. Instead, I settled for a light breakfast in a non-smoking cafe where someone was smoking.

Continued my walking tour of old town and admired the old architecture—and marveled at the graffiti. Feeling satisfied that I saw what I came to see, and realizing that it's not too magical, I walked back to the train station. The train to Montreal had just left. Okay, if the station had been open earlier or at least posted a schedule... oh never mind.

So I took the next bus to Montreal. Turns out it only takes a few minutes more than the train and costs a lot less. I was just glad to be moving again.

The scenery was redundant by now so I fluffed my pillow and dozed most of the way. I wish I could sleep sitting up but I'm not one of those. Chewed sunflower seeds between nods and made it to Montreal by noon according to my new watch.

What a difference in weather. It's hot and humid here in Montreal—very different from Quebec. Again I had nowhere in particular to go. I bought a street map and ate a large veggie wrap in the bus depot restaurant. After that, I strapped on my pack and hit the streets. Bond.

A tall hotel drew me in like a beacon. Not sure what I was thinking—originally I was thinking of finding a youth hostel but I guess I was more ready for a Hilton, or in this case, the Gouverneur Hotel. Waited in a long, humid line with a bunch of guys in shorts. The only available room was a suite for megabucks. I paused for a half second and got out my credit card. In a couple minutes I was taking a much needed shower in my top-floor suite.

This place had two bathrooms, a bidet (not sure of the English translation), a conference table and couch, and a beautiful view of St. Catherine Street—the hub of downtown. Wore some clean soggy clothes (they don't dry here) and went outside to steam out the wrinkles. Couldn't walk too fast but kept moving. They have graffiti here too but it doesn't appear threatening. One scrawl said "Happy B-Day Stinko!"

Headed north and watched the scenery change from slummy to quaint. Thought about taking the city bus but didn't have correct change. Where are all the stores? I made it as far as the University area and found a subway entrance. The booth man gave me a subway map and said blah blah something in French. When are these people going to learn English?

Now it's the subway train that's looking pretty good after walking so long. I liked how fast we were going. Those lights in the tunnels were just whizzing by and we were at the next station in a blink. Didn't see anything scary down in the subway. The worst thing was probably too many people ignoring each other—looking around but not eye to eye. I introduced myself as "Jared from the subway" to a few people but they didn't laugh.

I read my subway map and changed from the blue line to the orange line all by myself. There's no sunlight down here so I'm relying on the signs. I almost got on one train but noticed it was going the opposite way. Closer to downtown, I got used to the streaking lights and was now counting down the stops. As we approached each station, a recorded voice announced the station name but it didn't help too much since they were mispronouncing the names. I just used the signs on the station walls and seemed to be the only one looking at the map.

Got off at Berri-UQAM station (don't know what it stands for) and continued hiking the streets. Just my luck— Montreal is hosting some big gay pride weekend and I'm in the middle of it wearing shorts and a tank top. Great. Fortunately no one hit on me so their gaydar must be working.

It was quite a sight walking down what turned out to be Gay Central. Guys were arm in arm and no one raised an eyebrow. There were also a few women wearing sensible shoes. Gay bars and other like-establishments lined the street and I was just amazed by all the "diversity."

Back on the hetero side of St. Catherine, I lowered my eyebrow, but it was still an assault of lights, sounds, and people. In addition to the gay pride event, there was some other big festival, which closed the street to traffic. I stopped in several places and enjoyed the fried smells and local music. I have to say I don't really care for the music I've heard here so far. But it was still fun to hang out in a large tent where people were unabashedly performing karaoke and the kids understood French. Everyone in the crowd was singing along to these marginal songs and having a ball. What the heck, I phonically joined in and enjoyed the lack of pretension.

Moved on and talked with two parking lot attendants with a fair grasp of English. (Have I mentioned yet that the language barrier is an issue during this trip?) They depressed me with the news that the D-Backs lost two games to the Expos. Couldn't believe it. I asked them what things I had to see while in Montreal and they said I didn't want to see Chinatown.

Chinatown smelled funny. Not a lot of people on the streets but lots of boxes on the sidewalks.

Back in civilization I continued my walking tour. I was surprised to smell pot smoke along the street and people not hiding it. Paid $3 to go in a Latin dance club and stood in the back. Those dancers were really good. My special brand of side-to-side boogie shuffle probably wouldn't work here, so I split. I don't hear people saying bon jour as often as they did in Gaspe.

With cheap covers like that, I could quickly sample everything here. One place had a long line of well-dressed women and the doorman later told me that it was a male dance club. I joked that I should hang out by the door for them to come out. He gave me a once-over and said 'Why?' Ouch. Limped away toward my hotel.

Watched a band performing on a large stage in the middle of the street and drawing a huge crowd. Obviously intonation isn't a requirement of this type of music. The crowd was going crazy for another overly dramatic male voice struggling under the pitch. Maybe they were just applauding the effort. Maybe it's just me.

I spotted a couple guys starting a clumsy fist fight and people circled. A shocked bystander was shouting "calm down, calm down" in broken English. Another guy with an American accent was shouting for a blood bath.

Stopped again for some more musicians—this time a violin and guitar duo with more talent than that stage band. The duo played a simple yet effective classical tune that I should know the name of. Quite a lovely melody, which was now in my head.

Eventually I saw enough of everything and hobbled back to my room. I almost made it unscathed but one guy's gaydar must have been broken. He made an unusual offer and I emphasized how straight I was, but I don't think he minded. I'm sure he'll find someone else in a minute or two.

In my room, I studied the train schedule for tomorrow and set my alarm. Unlocked the minibar and figured I couldn't start scrimping now. Had a Jack & Coke and tried the Pringles and Arizona Ice Tea. Hung the don't disturb signs on both (!) doors. What a nice suite. It felt like such a shame not to trash it or at least use it.

Day 8—Saturday, August 3 - Train to Toronto

Awoke to a lone bongo player down in the park—probably still up from last night. Even after sleep I was still tired and sore. I couldn't imagine anyone keeping up with me during this trip. I took a few pictures of my suite, trashed my blue tank top, said Adios to the chambermaid, and checked out. The street outside was recovering from a wild night. I asked a couple officers for directions to the train station. They said it was too far to walk and I grinned.

Quickly hailed a cab and got to the station in time for my train. Gave the cabbie a 10 and he appreciated the tip. In the familiar train station, I was concerned because my Toronto train wasn't showing on the large panel. Just then it came together—it's Saturday and "x6" on the schedule means it doesn't run today. Oh pooh.

Well, I could either go back to the bus terminal a couple miles away or just wait for the next train. So I bought a train ticket for $114 and synchronized my watch for the 15h40 train. With about two hours until boarding, I went up to the street level with my 12-pound pack and walked a block before remembering that train stations have lockers. Went back and they had a consignment area, which was cool.

Hit the street again and bought some licorice at a dollarama store and now had exact change for the bus. The ride was rough but once again I didn't mind. I just appreciated the ride—it gave me a chance to watch the sights and the people. A 60-something French guy boarded and I reaffirmed my earlier observation about fashion here. Most men his age and weight couldn't pull off that look—disco shorts and dress shirt—and he was no different. I saw it on TV as well—they just seem to be a lot more relaxed about what they wear and whether they shampoo.

We rode by the huge Olympic Stadium, which, as it turns out, was more awesome from a distance. Hopped off the bus like a pro and disappeared into the subway station. Took the orange line north. I wanted to see what the city looked like up there. It was pretty and the sun felt brighter. Walked to the river and took a few bridge and park pictures. This was the nicest weather of the trip and now it's time to go.

Took the subway again and marveled at the incredible number of gorgeous females throughout Montreal. Back in the country, I was impressed by all the natural hair color and now I'm impressed by the natural beauties, who refreshingly don't seem to know. And they're dressed to kill. Baby I'm amazed.

Back at the main Bonaventure station, I followed the signs and heard more English. Boarded the train in a slouch and inserted my earplugs. The train takes off so smoothly that I have to look outside to know when we're moving. We got up to speed quickly and weren't wearing seatbelts. It was cool to see the opposite-direction trains blurring by. I tried to keep an eye on the scenery but my head kept dropping very slowly. I managed a little more sleep thanks to my air pillow and was in Toronto in a couple blinks.

The Toronto train station smelled like an indoor zoo. I noticed there were more black people than last time. Maybe it's just a subway thing. I reversed my cap and slithered. Walked for another eternity and stood in line at a large hotel where only two desk clerks were bombarded by too many cranks. I gave up in search of calmer surroundings and found the Hyatt. Again I was at home. The reception area was like a mansion drawing room and the reception desk was nestled away like an afterthought.

I must have been quite a sight walking in there looking like I bum and I got to hand it to those nice clerks who treated me great. It didn't look like there was going to be any vacancy since I was the only one in the lobby but there was. One catch though—the room was $389. Fortunately I remembered to mention my AAA membership and the clerk went in back and returned with a new price of $311. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Another customer walked up and received the same price. I heard her say that every other hotel in the city was charging the same. Well that was good enough for me—I was in. She asked me why mine was lower and I shared the AAA secret. My 311 came to about $200 US. It was odd that it was a smaller room than last night's, and still more expensive, but it was nice nonetheless and I took a long shower.

The other customer had asked the clerk if there was a big hip-hop event in town. She was wondering why there were so many Blacks everywhere. The clerks weren't aware of anything but I later discovered that this weekend was a huge party event in Toronto called Carnivus or something like that. It has its roots in some event long ago and it's grown every year and draws countless people of color from the Jamaican islands and more recently thousands more from places like Detroit. It's a huge hip-hop meat market with people hanging out of rented luxury vehicles with video cameras capturing every hoot and holler.

My room faced south and I had a clear view of the CN Tower. Down at street level, I was right amongst the colorful crowd. Covered lots of ground and even tried the local Tim Horton's doughnuts but wasn't too impressed. My toe blister was hurting and I eventually got back to the relative quiet of the Hyatt. Had to take another shower but didn't mind because it had a great showerhead. Finally tried the ice wine from the minibar.

Day 9—Sunday, August 4 - Plane to Dallas and Phoenix

I didn't set my alarm and accidentally slept in past noon. I've been going hard this trip and my body needed lots of sleep. Those 'do not disturb' signs really do work. The Hyatt had a nice way of making sure I was still alive. They called and asked if they could come tally the minibar before I checked out. For laughs, I thought about playing dead when the guy arrived but chickened out.

Tossed some more clothes and walked out. Didn't check out or anything because I'm wild now. My toe limp was better today. I headed for the big tower and took several pictures along the way. Frequently I'd get a subway waft through the sidewalk vents and quickly exhale. A few Blacks were up and ready to continue the party.

The Toronto Blue Jays won their game just as I was arriving at the stadium next to the tower. I stopped for a minute to watch a street mime painted silver and standing like a statue.

Jumped in a cab that was waiting for baseball fans and we went to the airport. I had forgotten how far it was. The fare was $31 and I gave him a $40 since we had a nice conversation about Israeli politics, and cars.

Stood in the slow line—the only line—at the airport and listened to a couple guys speaking Jive behind me. I bobbed my head. In the x-ray area, I had to remove my boots and make everyone wait. Went through a couple other checkpoints and completed my declaration form. Eventually made it to the terminal area with my arms full of papers, backpack, and shoes.

Got it together and had fun on the flat escalators. Looked in vain for a currency exchange and then dumped some Canadian cash at the snack stand. We started boarding the plane and a guy in a turban asked if he could search me. I said knock yourself out and soon my arms were up and I was getting wanded and patted. The boarding passengers looked on in disgust.

My flight itinerary said we'd have dinner but we only got a bag of peanuts or something like that. In Dallas I was getting concerned—there were no more lookers and the kids were noisy again. Ugh. At least I have my bag of Texas Jellybeans.

Sky Harbor looked great and so did the rain. Outside I looked for a shuttle but felt that Hyatt thing again so I ordered up a limo. I got a weird look from the swarthy walkie-talkie guy who wanted to barter but I wasn't in the mood. Didn't tip him but had a very comfy ride home. What a difference $60 can make. It made for a nice end to my fabulous trip. We pulled up in front of my house and I took my time waiting for my neighbors to flock.

I'm home now. The house was hot but clean—and nothing was stolen. What a great feeling. What a fun trip. Next time, let's do a winter trip. That should be refreshing.