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.”

Third Street Promenade

Third Street Promenade

 

Back to school - Fall 2014

I am tagging along with daughter Brett, age 45, and my two granddaughter cousins, Jersey-Girl Emma 13 and CALi-girl Anna 12, Brett’s daughter. The occasion is back-to-school shopping.

Mostly clothes today, the one exception being the annual backpack search.

We are in Santa Monica, CA, strolling up a walk-street referred to as Third Street Promenade.

The first store is Tilly’s. Never heard of it, but I'm told we purchased backpacks there last year.
OK, fine ... anyway ... backpacks ... if you don’t know, they are very serious fashion statements these days, especially for girls. 

But of course you know. 

Inside the store I adjust my mental state, preparing for the long haul.

Whoops, here's a miracle, the girls have already settled. They get identical packs. That was easy, I think.

A word about backpacks: I have fond memories of my school years and yes, backpacks existed a half a century ago, but mostly in the army. Never with school kids. We carried books in our hands. Girls  cradled them with both arms, against their tummy. Not sure why no one thought of backpacks for school kids. 

Different world in so many ways, I guess.

Regardless, with new backpacks now in hand, the girls want to browse a bit. Fine, I think.  As they wander about, I stray, ever so slightly, from the flock . Off on my own, I feel a trifle out of place. Where's the men's department?

A sales clerk spies me. Her look says, what’s-this-guy-doing-here. She says, "May I help you?” I hear “Are you lost?” 

I'm not making this up. But then it could be my septuagenarian imagination?

Regardless I survive, noting with interest a new style or two. Here’s one: sweatpants with ribbed pant leg bottoms.  Or maybe not. OK, whatever. I continue circling. 

Girls and Brett are still browsing. They hand me the backpacks. I gather that we'll be here a while. I diligently follow the crowd, keeping the girls on my radar. After a dozen or so racks, I’m yearning for a place to sit. 

Good luck.

Stores don’t want me, or anyone, to sit. They want all customers on their feet, visiting each display, touching the garments, holding them against their chin in front of the mirror, asking for opinions, murmuring “mmmmm,"  finally draping selections over an arm and moving on to the next item, or the register.

But, no sitting, period.  

Then I hear, "We're leaving Papa." Huh? 

I tag along, toward the next store, Urban Outfitters.

We arrive and I breeze in, scan the room. Wait, what's this? I spy a place to sit, a couch in the distance. I speed-walk over.

Figures ... all cushions occupied. Three wide eyed senior women, obviously strangers, but nevertheless shoulder to shoulder and staring straight ahead, pocketbooks on heir laps, as if riding a trolley.  

Disappointed I turn back. "I'll be outside," I tell the kids.

I head out to the pedestrian friendly promenade.  The nearest bench with a view of the door is occupied by a young man, well-dressed, and ... well ... he appears sane, that is, if one ignores the fact that he is holding a battery powered megaphone up to his face and shouting advice to the passing crowd on how God wants us all to live. “God doesn’t care about your money or your success,” he screams.   

I find another bench.

Fifteen minutes go by. The megaphone man shows no sign stopping for air. Impressive, in a way. A non stop monologue about what God thinks. And without notes. Hmmmmm.

I return to the store.

Kids are putting things back on the rack. “We’ll come back,” they say.

Really? 

 

Whatever. We move on. Outside, the man with the megaphone is still going strong. We give him a wide berth. 

Next stop is Brandy Melville which is a store that the girls have been talking about.  I say, “I never heard of this place.”

Kids explain, “There are no Brandy Melville stores in New Jersey, just one in New York.”

They know everything.

  

Inside Brandy Melville the girls make rapid selections which they hand over to me as they glide about. Their enthusiasm is so positive that I feel that these items I'm holding Will not be put back. I am happy to be useful, to have a function. Before long I am cradling upwards to two dozen items in my arms, plus backpacks looped on my wrists. I resist the notion to see myself as silly grandpa, human clothes rack.

Eventually I’m given the signal to move up to the cashier. I unload the various items onto the counter separating them into two piles, Emma’s and Anna’s, because I may want to tally the costs of each girl.

Smart huh?

The young cashier girl is overly polite. I feel very accomplished cradling armfuls of clothing as I fish in my wallet for the credit card. “Go ahead, swipe,” the smiling cashier says. I do so with a billionaire’s nonchalance.  I’m handed the slip.  Now, still with my devil-may-care face, I speed sign a chicken scratch signature – my best MD-prescription-like scrawl.  

Outside I announce the totals for each girl. I'm proud like a talented accountant. The numbers don’t seem to register. No comment, so I let it drop. Nevertheless I feel good about a job well done and as we stroll down the pavement, looking for a spot to eat, I’m thinking, table with a view at a nice bistro. Reward for our successful venture. Sit and talk. Can't wait.

The girls choose Wetzel’s Pretzels.

Huh?

I wander across the street (promenade) to a kiosk- like eatery with wobbly aluminum tables the size of dinner plates. The girls join me. They put their pretzel bags on the table as I order sandwiches for Brett and me. Nothing to write home about, but at least we’re sitting.

Cleaning up, I gather the pretzel bags and Styrofoam plates. I notice a couple of pretzel “bites” in one bag. On my way to the garbage can, I reach inside the bag and fish out a small pig-in-a- pretzel-blanket type thingy. 

I take a bite.

Hmmmm, tasty. I toss the bags and plates in the can.

On the ride home the girls entertain us with a fashion presentation from the back seat.  I’m in stitches, the whole way, not wanting their comedy show to end. Late afternoon LA traffic cooperates, extending the trip by almost an hour. 

Ten miles in ninety minutes  and, honestly, I enjoy all ninety.

          

Things to take to college - in the year 2019

Grandson Mike, age 10, has already settled on his college of choice – Bowling Green.* Turns out it is the alma-mater of a number of NHL players. To this end Mike has compiled an impressive list of “necessities” to bring along – eight years down the line.  If the list seems a bit overblown, keep in mind that he claims that his three best friends will be accompanying him, enrolling in 2019 at BGSU as well:

1.       A disco ball and dance floor

2.       Air hockey table, pool table

3.       Fooze ball table

4.       Ping pong table

5.       3 flat screen TVs

6.       A 62 in. couch

7.       A Jacuzzi

8.       A pet dog

9.       Refrigerator

10.    A X box

11.    Play station 4 with controllers for each

12.    4 skate boards

13.    4 bikes

14.    4 pairs of roller skates

15.    4 laptops plus wifi (wireless)

16.    A car (just one???)

17.    4 I phones
18.    Colored spotlights

            College Stuff - 1959 Style
            My own cache of college necessities in the fall of 1959 was considerably pared down from that of my grandson's. I remember lugging a modest suitcase up the dorm steps and my mom carrying a pillow. Dad followed with my high school gym bag, containing school supplies and toiletries.

            Most important, I recall, a small spiral-bound notepad, the dimensions of a credit card, tucked into my back pocket. I thought it might come in handy for jotting down important reminders that were bound to crop up now that I was in college - reminders like the half-dozen addresses I had recently scribbled in the beginning pages. The point was, I intended to write lots of letters while in college - to girls

                The world of letter writing, especially letter writing to girls, was just one of the new worldly realms I was about to enter. I already had a girlfriend that existed through letters only. She had recently moved from our New York state hometown environs to Florida - Orlando. As a girlfriend she was hanging by a thread, but since these were desperate times, people (me) jumping from the familiar to the unknown, the letters helped maintain the thread, albeit temporarily.

                PO Box 120
                In the weeks leading up to actual enrollment my conversation with girls had always included mention of my college mailing address: Lehigh University, PO Box 120, Bethlehem, PA. I gave it to some girls in my town – Warwick, NY - plus to two girls at Greenwood Lake that were standing outside of the arcade, and to the cashier girl at the Middletown (NY) diner, and – believe it or not – to the long-distance operator in Asbury Park, NJ. Yes, I'd be writing lots of letters. I was thinking that there might even be a letter waiting for me at Box, number 120 when I arrived at Lehigh.

                But it didn’t matter. I’d start the flow of letters going soon enough. Walking into my dorm I reached back several times to pat my back pocket, checking that the notepad was still there. Of all things, I didn’t want to leave that behind. Still, by the day's standards, I was traveling light.

                This was not the case with my own daughters who arrived at college in the mid 1980s with enough paraphernalia to fill a North American Van Lines eighteen wheeler. Of course it was a girl thing to lug along the heavy baggage. Boys were still minimalists by comparison.

                I'm not sure what the future holds but if my grand kids are any indication it might be wise to invest in North American Van Lines a little before September of each year.

              

Epilogue:
Since Mike's "college list" I have prompted the other grandchildren to make a list. Here are Eddie's (age 7, 1st item - Max - is the family dog, plus much is heavily borrowed from Mike) and Emma's (age 9). John (4 1/2) simply said he was going to bring books - "big books like Papa has."

Precious.

Ed's "Collage" list: Max, all my hockey pucks, Pool table, air hockey, Wi, XBox 360, Play station


















Above is Emma's (age 9) list:
1. toothbrush
2. the game of Life (a board game)
3. my pillow
4. the Harry Potter series
5. pajamas
6. suitcase
7. chap stick
8. hair brush
9. bean bag
10. Clothing
11. journal
12. pencils
13. backpack
14. gum
15. makeup
16. hair beads
17. XBox 360 / Harry Potter Legos ??
18. Wii
19. Wallet
20. fuzzy socks / regular socks
21. calendar
22. pictures
23. TV
24. snacks
25. art supplies

Kids Baseball, New Jersey, early 21st Century

Kids Baseball, New Jersey, early 21st Century

Ed, 8, above, demonstrates choosing sides.

Speaking of things - if parents today tried to raise their American children with the material possessions (sports equipment) of the 1950s they’d be reported to DYFS for child abuse (that’s Department of Youth and Family Services in NJ).

Think of two twenty-first century boys, my grandsons, approximate ages 8 and 6. And let's just take baseball as an example: Their garage today has two buckets filled with white baseballs and enough aluminum bats for a high school team. Gloves? Again, enough for a team including a catcher's mitts. 

In the 1950s, like the family car, there was, most likely, one baseball, but if there were two the second was definitely wrapped with black friction tape (frayed seams) that peeled off further with every hit. At the very least it was the color of cooked spinach. A white baseball? Maybe at the Polo Grounds, but not in the pocket of my Rawlings Marty Marion mitt.

As for bats, back then they were made of wood - like the big leagues (Hillerich & Bradsby, Adirondack, Louisville Slugger) - and if there were two in the family (again unlikely) then one was definitely broken and the handle was wrapped with the same black tape as the baseball. Severe breaks required a nail or two in the handle, a futile attempt to mend the break. It never worked. Tap the handle on the ground and you'd hear the sound of a string instrument. 

Oh, and how did the bat get broken? The little brother did it. Just ask the big brother. “Cause he didn’t have the label up,” big brother will tell you - which was how bats got broken in the days before all were aluminum.

For pick-up games there was a time-honored tradition of choosing sides. Two "captains" were designated and team picking began by one captain gently tossing a bat to the other who grabs it somewhere on the handle. From there, each alternatively places his hand atop the other’s until there is not sufficient room between the last hand and the knob. Last full hand on the top gets to choose the first player. Unless, that is, you’re invoking the three-finger rule i.e. if you can fit three fingers above the top hand and knob, that counts – you win.

Another last chance is this: if you lose, you may twirl the bat, holding it above your head, with fingers only, by the knob, and the bat dangling like a wind-chime. Now twirl it three times about your noggin – without dropping it. Do that and you get the first choice. Invoking this rule was often a stretch, not fully ethical, it was thought. 

What brings all of this side-choosing to mind is a recent after-supper game in Ashley’s (daughter, age 40) backyard. 


It begins like so: Kids rushing out the back door, with papa (yours truly, age 70+) trailing. They race onto the yard, neatly lined with baselines, and a home plate batter’s box (I’m quite proud of this. A spay can of “Marking Paint" by Rustoleum did the trick). The children jump about, calling out teams. 


Ed, 8, protests, saying we must choose teams and proceeds to gather four bats and gloves placing them in a pile near second base. 

"What the heck?", I think.

He gets on his hands and knees, closes his eyes and feels for the items before him (see accompanying picture, above). When he touches one item he flings it to one side or the other. With eyes shut tight he continues, deliberately, and blindly rubbing his hands over the dirt feeling for another bat or glove. Despite some trouble locating the items, Ed persists, sightless and less than deft as he feels around. 

I'm curiously impressed.

Finally, having flung all items left or right, he stands up, opens his eyes and surveys the bats and gloves on each side of him. 


John shouts that he wants the teams to be him, papa and Emma against Eddie, three against one. Emma shouts louder, "Me and papa," she says.

Ed is silent - still looking over the flung bats and gloves. It seems obvious what he’s thinking; Should he try to explain that teams need to be assigned according to which (who’s) bat or glove landed where? 

Seconds pass. 

Suddenly he comes to a decision. Foregoing the glove/bat location scheme he grabs a bat and rushes toward home plate. “You pitch Papa,” he says. 

Emma and John protest that they should be first up.

I quickly lob a pitch to Ed. He hits a grounder which, thirty feet from home, is swallowed by a patch of pachysandra. "Lost ball," I think. 

“Next batter,” I call as Ed circles the bases. "Home run Ed," I shout. All seems settled. I keep pitching, now to Johnny. I reach for another ball. No problem, we have thirty.