New
Jersey to Toronto on Amtrak
I was traveling to Toronto, Ontario, to meet daughter (Brett) and granddaughter (Anna, 11) who were flying in from California for a youth hockey tournament.
I was taking Amtrak, The Maple Leaf, Amtrak’s New York to Toronto train,
departing daily at 7:15 AM; scheduled Toronto arrival 7:42 PM.
Despite being an Amtrak veteran, traveling alone to an unknown city, arriving after dark - maybe midnight if I know Amtrak - finding the hotel, several blocks away, on foot and the next day trying to rent a car (discouraging reviews there: Rent here if you love being misled … and another by far the worst place to rent a car from!), add to that, driving on strange roads from center city to the airport, possibly in the dark – let’s just say, at age 75, there was plenty of room for trouble.
So, before leaving, I called my hotel, thinking I'd ask a local person about rentals. “Can I rent a car from the hotel?” I said to the man on the line.
He seemed evasive. He proceeded to read a list of rental locations in Toronto, but said nothing about proximity to the hotel, so not much help. “Are you at the hotel now?” I asked.
“I’m based in India,” he said.
“Oh, … gee, OK, thanks,” I said.
On the day of departure I got into Penn Station at 6:30 AM. I immediately
checked the main board for Maple Leaf track number. Nothing yet.
Why the concern?
Because if /when the track number does appear and you’re at the opposite end of
the station you're obliged to book-it big-time ("book-it", teen-talk for run fast), to the
correct gate, down a long flight of stairs (sore knees), onto the boarding
platform, budging past old people (oops, that’s me) then figure out the right
car, and bolt in –all of that if you want a window seat, which I do -
absolutely.
I circled the station looking for hints of the Maple Leaf gate. Finally,
I spotted two lines, maybe a dozen people, plus baggage, in each and stringing
back from a makeshift lectern. A paper Canadian Flag was taped to the front of
the lectern. Had to be the Maple Leaf, I thought.
I tucked myself into the back of one line, behind a very tall elegant looking
fellow in a designer-like warm-up suit and too, almost dishwasher-size luggage
bags on wheels.
“You going to Canada?” I said.
He’s really tall. He’s definitely a pro basketball player.
“That line's Canada,” he said pointing left.
I slid over to the other line. “So, you play pro basketball?” I said.
He nodded, smiled, said “uh huh.”
I gave him an I-knew-It-nod. “A center,” I said, another I-knew-It
nod.
He nodded back.
“So, six eleven?” I asked, pointing to him.
“And three-quarters,” he corrected.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Five eight,” I said, thumb pointing at myself.
He chuckled.
The Maple Leaf departed on time. And I got a window seat.
I was traveling “Business Class,” Amtrak’s name for the car with more leg room.
Actually, Business Class was half of a car. The front half of our car
was the café counter plus a half dozen café tables.
Thirty minutes out of New York the café car lady announced that our car was
“first class.” She welcomed us and said that coffee and water were free. “On
me,” she said with a hint of glee in her tone. I settled back into my
seat, enjoying my window seat view.
Thirteen hours to go I thought, as we headed north to Albany. After Albany it
was due west across New York State, through Syracuse, Rochester and
Buffalo.
As nightfall approached, we rolled into Niagara Falls. The falls,
unfortunately, were not in view. Next was the Canadian border where the customs
protocol consumed almost an hour. I worried that I’d get Toronto after all
restaurants were closed.
A few miles into Ontario a woman across the aisle asked if I wanted to help
celebrate her husband’s birthday. They had treats spread out on their seat-back
trays; wine, cheese and crackers, all of which they generously passed over to
me, with an accompanying Happy Birthday napkin. We toasted husband John who
seemed about my age.
The wife was a former high school French teacher so I tried out some my French,
explaining that I could speak a tiny bit, but could not understand. "Petit peu" I said.
She nodded, sampled a few of my fumbling sentences,
then asked, in English, “Would you like some smoked oysters?”
“I’m eating all of your food,” I protested.
She waved me off and handed me a cracker with oysters, adding, “They keep very
well traveling.”
Hmmm.
They told me about their travels, including a stay at an inn on the banks of
some canal between Lake Ontario and Lake Erie where they watched giant ships
move through the locks as they sipped wine on their deck. “John loves locks,”
the wife said.
Sweet, I thought.
When we pulled into the Toronto station I was determined to help get the
couple’s extra large suitcase down from the overhead rack. Hours ago, I had
seen the woman put it up there, alone, with a bit of a struggle.
I jumped up as we rolled into the station. “I’ll get your luggage down,” I
said.
I reached up and gave a tug. It was a bit heavier than I expected. I tugged
again. The luggage fell toward me like a bag of cement. My knees buckled as I
wobbled to brace myself, then quickly set the bag on the floor with a thud. “I
can’t believe you lifted this up there by yourself,” I said.
She returned a knowing smile.
When we came to a stop, we exchanged goodbyes; (au revoirs) and I followed them
off the train and through underground hallways somewhat like NYC subway
corridors. I slowed down letting them get ahead because I wanted to explore the
station, which it seemed that I was doing, until it became clear that I was
actually lost in the Toronto underground.
Finally I relented. I asked someone for directions and was eventually able to
wind my way upward to the main lobby at street level.
Outside and alone on the sidewalk, I looked up at a wall of skyscrapers.
Toronto was Canada’s largest city, so I’d read. I started walking, looking for
York Street – the hotel address. After a few blocks with no progress and
feeling lost again, I noticed a bellhop from another hotel at the curb with his
hand up, waving for a taxi. I approached him. “Do you know where the
Strathconna Hotel is?” I asked.
“See the sign?” he said, pointing. Only sign I saw was red neon letters, “Bardi’s Steak
House.”
“Where?”
“There!”
“Bardi’s?”
“No, behind that.”
On the building above “Bardi’s” were black block letters going down the grey
concrete side:
S
T
R
A
T
H
C
O
N
A
Reading down, not across, definitely threw me off.
I thanked the man.
At the hotel I dropped my bags in my room and headed to the hotel pub for
dinner. “Down one flight” on the elevator,” the desk clerk said.
I had fish and chips, with two Canadian beers, in the cozy pub, crowded with
jolly Canadians. All very nice, enjoyable, despite being solo.
The next morning, after breakfast, I confronted the challenge of renting a car,
and then trying to find the route to the airport.
The Hertz man at Union Station was very helpful, providing maps and drawing
lines with a red pencil to guide me. “The car’s at the parking garage two
blocks away,” he said, pointing to his local street map, moving his finger over
my route. “It’ll be at level P3, in stall four.”
Wow, I thought, impressed with the details.
So, I found the garage, found level P3, but no car in stall four.
I returned to Union Station. “There’s no car in stall four,” I told the Hertz
man.
“Maybe they were filling the tank,” he said. He called the garage. “It’s
there now,” he said.
I thanked him and walked back to the garage. This time the car was there. I got in, laid a map
on the seat next to me, turned the key and began circling inside the garage, following exit
signs until I saw daylight. Outside, I had to question again, where was I now?
I pulled over to the curb, checked the map, then slowly started again, crawling
through city streets with one eye on the map, until I saw Gardinar Expressway
west. I hopped on. Next was 427 North and voila - airport signs.
I wound my way through the airport “beltway” looking for terminal 3. Found it
and parked at level P2, aisle 4. I made a mental note as I walked toward the
terminal lounge.
Brett and Anna’s plane arrived early. I finally breathed easy when I saw “Landed” on
the monitor next to “From Los Angeles.”
