Seasons in the sunset - A seventy (+3) year old looks ahead and back

Seasons in the sunset - A 80 year old
looks ahead and back

Monday, January 19, 2015

NJ to Toronto and Back

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.”

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