Bryce left Boston today. He was travelling on a train to San Francisco – not everyone’s cup of tea. We rose early and I drove Bryce back to South Station in downtown Boston. It’s a quick ride mainly on freeway. We stopped at the drop off point and wished each other well till next time. Bryce strode into the sunset, well actually just the concrete station building in mid-morning. It was a great trip and totally unplanned. On the domestic front, Bryce was a hit. Gail and Maddie liked him a lot.
Fast forward to about noon when I was in Newtonville going to the post office and pharmacy … As I was walked over the bridge spanning the train line and Massachusetts turnpike, I suddenly realized that Bryce’s train would be passing by at any moment. It was scheduled to leave Boston at 11:50. Should I wait for the train? As it may have already passed through, I decided not to wait and went to the pharmacy. About 5 minutes later on my return, I heard a train coming. Sure enough it was Bryce’s Amtrak inter-continental express. The train was very short with only three or four carriages, one of which was a double-decker. The dining car was at the rear. Although the train was moving very fast, if Bryce had been looking out the left side window, he probably would have seen me standing on the bridge. That was a nice little coincidence (no pun intended). I think the correct word is Synchronicity.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thursday October 15th 2009 - The Long Haul
After a full breakfast in the hotel, we proceeded directly to the bus stop. We had a long wait, but as it was first come first serve, we had no choice. We were at the head of the line and gradually other people showed up. After some time, a non-English speaking family created a second line, much to the consternation of those already in line. But finally the bus came and we all boarded in correct order.
The ride was not too interesting. I wanted to video trucks with an unusual axle configuration that I’d seen for the first time. The land was flat and many farms had un-harvested corn that was probably going to be used as some sort of stock feed. We crossed the border without incident. The US Customs officer looked like he was in his seventies and worked at a leisurely pace. This obviously was a backwater in the Customs service. A lone SUV blocked the road to stop vehicles proceeding. The inspection amounted to one or two short questions in the Customs building and a search of the bus. Within 10 minutes we were back on the bus. The Customs official moved the SUV and we were on our way. As we were leaving, a semi-trailer loaded with damaged cars was being inspected before entering Canada. We drove into Vermont. The scenery became hilly with vibrant autumn colors. Several times, we glimpsed Lake Champlain between the hills. Finally we drove slowly through Burlington, Vermont, stopping at several traffic lights. We drove down a side street to the bus station which was little more than an elevated wooden shed in an unpaved paddock. We had about 40 minutes, so we bought lunch at the local produce store which also sold pastries and sandwiches. It was like an indoor market. We bought lunch and a couple of cakes for the trip. After eating lunch in the market, we walked back to the bus station along an abandoned railway track that paralleled the street. Our next stop was close to the Vermont/New Hampshire border. It was a more substantial, permanent facility than in Burlington. We sat and watched TV for a few minutes – some breaking news about police chasing a home made helium balloon believed to contain a child. It landed in a field without the child, and before finding out more information we had to leave. The ride back to Boston was a long one. Our last stop before Boston was the airport in Manchester, NH.
We arrived at South Station in Boston at about 6 PM, and had planned to continue on a bus to Newton, but the next bus wasn’t until 8 PM! Bryce had the excellent idea of catching a local train, so travelled on the so-called Commuter Rail to Newtonville station. I phoned Gail who picked us up on her way to collect Madeline at Gymnastics. We made a short stop at Starbucks and sat down with warm drinks. It was cold rainy night. We collected Maddie and drove home. Gail feels the cold, so the car was like a furnace inside. Bryce professed to be sweating profusely.
The ride was not too interesting. I wanted to video trucks with an unusual axle configuration that I’d seen for the first time. The land was flat and many farms had un-harvested corn that was probably going to be used as some sort of stock feed. We crossed the border without incident. The US Customs officer looked like he was in his seventies and worked at a leisurely pace. This obviously was a backwater in the Customs service. A lone SUV blocked the road to stop vehicles proceeding. The inspection amounted to one or two short questions in the Customs building and a search of the bus. Within 10 minutes we were back on the bus. The Customs official moved the SUV and we were on our way. As we were leaving, a semi-trailer loaded with damaged cars was being inspected before entering Canada. We drove into Vermont. The scenery became hilly with vibrant autumn colors. Several times, we glimpsed Lake Champlain between the hills. Finally we drove slowly through Burlington, Vermont, stopping at several traffic lights. We drove down a side street to the bus station which was little more than an elevated wooden shed in an unpaved paddock. We had about 40 minutes, so we bought lunch at the local produce store which also sold pastries and sandwiches. It was like an indoor market. We bought lunch and a couple of cakes for the trip. After eating lunch in the market, we walked back to the bus station along an abandoned railway track that paralleled the street. Our next stop was close to the Vermont/New Hampshire border. It was a more substantial, permanent facility than in Burlington. We sat and watched TV for a few minutes – some breaking news about police chasing a home made helium balloon believed to contain a child. It landed in a field without the child, and before finding out more information we had to leave. The ride back to Boston was a long one. Our last stop before Boston was the airport in Manchester, NH.
We arrived at South Station in Boston at about 6 PM, and had planned to continue on a bus to Newton, but the next bus wasn’t until 8 PM! Bryce had the excellent idea of catching a local train, so travelled on the so-called Commuter Rail to Newtonville station. I phoned Gail who picked us up on her way to collect Madeline at Gymnastics. We made a short stop at Starbucks and sat down with warm drinks. It was cold rainy night. We collected Maddie and drove home. Gail feels the cold, so the car was like a furnace inside. Bryce professed to be sweating profusely.
Wednesday October 14th 2009 - Back on the Rails
We rose early and walked up the hill into the old town. One amusing incident occurred as we walked up the hill behind the hotel. Bryce stopped to check something in his bag and immediately I heard the click of a car’s door locks. We’d stopped next to a parked car with a nervous driver inside. Did we look that unkempt?
We walked all the way to the top of the Quebec City old fort – quite a climb. The views across the St Laurence Seaway and beyond were spectacular. We paused for a moment before heading back down to the hotel. We took back roads with quaint buildings probably dating back to the late 18th century. Eventually we came across the old town wall so we decided to walk along it as far as possible. It was accessed by a stone stairway. Once on top there was a pathway to walk along. This changed to the wall proper at one point. Again the views were quite something. As we went along there were boards displaying the history of each section of the wall. In one nook we saw a shelter for a homeless person, but there was no sign of anyone. Further down we came to the end of the wall and a restored factory building. This was also part of the historical tour route. We emerged near the road leading down to our hotel, so collected our bags and walked to the railway station. After waiting about an hour, we boarded the very comfortable train to Montreal. There were plenty of spare seats, so we moved to one side of the train or the other depending upon the scenery. But after our first stop, the train filled, forcing us back to our reserved seats. We ran alongside the Seaway for a few miles before crossing it over a long steel bridge. Mostly the terrain was flat with grain farms. At Montreal, we crossed a series of bridges over a canal and then the Seaway. It was getting dark as we pulled into the station.
Our next destination was the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts which had a J. W. Waterhouse exhibition. I’d seen the exhibition poster when we walked to Montreal station on our way to Quebec City and decided it was a must see. I’d admired his art for years and always wanted to visit the Tait in London. We thought about taking a train to the museum, but after walking what seemed like a mile along underground passageways and stairways we decided to exit and walk to the museum. When we arrived, the entrance fee was half price after 6 PM, so we waited half an our or so. The exhibition was superb. It was the largest collection of his work ever assembled. Everything was there. The crowning glory was probably “The Lady of Shalot”. Each painting was accompanied by a longish description of the work. I read most, but not all owing to limited time. As with all modern museums, the exit was through the museum shop. I bought the soft cover exhibition catalog, a sizable book in its own right. Bryce bought some postcards.
We had difficulty finding a station. In the end Bryce asked a cyclist and we were literally outside the entrance. Before catching a train, we got some supper in the form of gourmet sandwiches and ate in the small café. The train went about 2 miles to our bus station and hence our hotel. As on our previous visit, we didn’t have a booking, so we checked in upon arrival. We then ventured out to the local milk bar for a few snacks and drinks. It had been a long day.
We walked all the way to the top of the Quebec City old fort – quite a climb. The views across the St Laurence Seaway and beyond were spectacular. We paused for a moment before heading back down to the hotel. We took back roads with quaint buildings probably dating back to the late 18th century. Eventually we came across the old town wall so we decided to walk along it as far as possible. It was accessed by a stone stairway. Once on top there was a pathway to walk along. This changed to the wall proper at one point. Again the views were quite something. As we went along there were boards displaying the history of each section of the wall. In one nook we saw a shelter for a homeless person, but there was no sign of anyone. Further down we came to the end of the wall and a restored factory building. This was also part of the historical tour route. We emerged near the road leading down to our hotel, so collected our bags and walked to the railway station. After waiting about an hour, we boarded the very comfortable train to Montreal. There were plenty of spare seats, so we moved to one side of the train or the other depending upon the scenery. But after our first stop, the train filled, forcing us back to our reserved seats. We ran alongside the Seaway for a few miles before crossing it over a long steel bridge. Mostly the terrain was flat with grain farms. At Montreal, we crossed a series of bridges over a canal and then the Seaway. It was getting dark as we pulled into the station.
Our next destination was the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts which had a J. W. Waterhouse exhibition. I’d seen the exhibition poster when we walked to Montreal station on our way to Quebec City and decided it was a must see. I’d admired his art for years and always wanted to visit the Tait in London. We thought about taking a train to the museum, but after walking what seemed like a mile along underground passageways and stairways we decided to exit and walk to the museum. When we arrived, the entrance fee was half price after 6 PM, so we waited half an our or so. The exhibition was superb. It was the largest collection of his work ever assembled. Everything was there. The crowning glory was probably “The Lady of Shalot”. Each painting was accompanied by a longish description of the work. I read most, but not all owing to limited time. As with all modern museums, the exit was through the museum shop. I bought the soft cover exhibition catalog, a sizable book in its own right. Bryce bought some postcards.
We had difficulty finding a station. In the end Bryce asked a cyclist and we were literally outside the entrance. Before catching a train, we got some supper in the form of gourmet sandwiches and ate in the small café. The train went about 2 miles to our bus station and hence our hotel. As on our previous visit, we didn’t have a booking, so we checked in upon arrival. We then ventured out to the local milk bar for a few snacks and drinks. It had been a long day.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday October 13th 2009 - Museums rock
We rose early, detached our picnic basket breakfast from the hanger outside our door and devoured the meagre contents in short order. We'd decided to scope out a museum or two in Quebec City. At checkout, the staff member was friendly and helpful allowing us to store our bags for the day, even offering to help us find another hotel for the night. They were fully booked, otherwise we would have gladly stayed. So we set off early down onto the river flats where the main museum was located. On the way I stopped at an antique store and bought an old 1959 Quebec number plate. In the US and Canada, old number plates are bought and sold on a regular basis, unlike Victoria Australia where it's probably still a criminal act. The Quebec ones were black letters on yellow, so quite striking. I considered it a souvenir in lieu of the something made strictly for the tourist market. It’s something a bit more authentic, but not everyone’s taste. Next stop was a small breakfast café. On Bryce’s initiative, we got a single order of crepes which were light and tasty. Our hotel breakfast was very light so it was good to get something more substantial for the day ahead. We stayed there in no hurry to leave. It was a warm and friendly place with locals dropping in and chatting to the staff. After walking along cobbled lanes we reached the museum. Inside the first stop was a tour of an indigenous peoples’ exhibit. Our tour guide was descended from one of about 15 different indigenous groups and explained how people lived and mixed together. The next stop was an exhibition of the French and Indian War against the British from 1754 to 1763. Each exhibit involved quite a lot of reading, but it was worth the effort. One of the most tragic aspects of it was the forced resettlement of thousands of French farm families in Nova Scotia to make way for British settlers from New England.
Then we did the Egyptian exhibition, but it was pretty much as you’d expect, or possibly I was jaded by this point. We had a late lunch in the museum cafeteria where the staff only spoke French, so I finally got a genuine taste of Europe. This was unusual as everybody we’d met to this point had been able to switch to English after starting a conversation in French. Bryce had acquired the habit of saying “Hello” clearly to discretely announce his mother tongue. I can’t recall the theme of the next exhibit, except to say it dealt with migration of people into Quebec. One highlight was the oral history tapes listened to by pushing a button on a console. Each was about one minute in length. They were done by actors reading a script. Our last few minutes were spent watching a film about the history of Quebec independence and the sad story of the referendum failing by less than one per cent in the year 2000. This had a strong effect on me. I finally appreciated the independence sentiments and understood why they insist on immigrants speaking French as their first language.
After leaving the museum we walked back up to the old town along the wall facing the Seaway. We talked about old UK TV shows that had withstood the test of time. We reckoned that Faulty Towers and All Creatures Great and Small were the best examples. Onward and upward we trudged, finally coming to the landmark hotel called the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac. It’s a magnificent picture postcard building on the top of the hill. We walked into the basement arcade and browsed in the tourist shops. A hotel tour was just starting, but we opted not to join in, considering it likely to be pretty hokey. We found out enough information to know that “haunted rooms” were one of the main features of the tour. So off we went exploring. In the main lobby, Bryce asked the cost per night; roughly $340 with tax. It would have been like staying in the Windsor Hotel in Melbourne so I supposed the expense would be worth it for one night, but we decided against it on cost. Bryce then kindly purchased a box of chocolates for my wife Gail. The method or rather logistics of the purchase we certainly entertaining. When the box was selected selected from the counter, it was tipped some degree from the horizontal resulting in the contents “settling” shall we say in one corner of the box. The sales lady laughed and explained what had happened, speaking mostly French. She then continued in English. Bryce and the sales lady had a delightfully happy conversation with Bryce successfully attempting some French. I was just an onlooker.
Next we meandered our way back to last night’s hotel via several tourist shops. In one I heard the unmistakable broad Aussie accents of a couple probably in their mid-sixties. It seemed somehow out of context to hear such strong accents in Quebec. Bryce had a short conversation with them at the sales counter only to discover that they came from the Sunshine Coast and he from Armidale. They were on their way to Nova Scotia and apparently were regular travelers to this part of the world. From memory, they had a daughter in Canada. (Bryce please verify.) I have to admit that my days of seeking out fellow Aussies have lost steam over the years. I tend not to engage these days, but with hindsight I would have liked to know more of their story, like where they really came from in Australia before moving to the Sunshine Coast, since over the last 20 years or so there has been a mass migration from southern parts of Australia to the warmer Queensland climate. At the sales counter, the cashier asked everyone where they were from, and within earshot of the Aussies, I said “Boston” to keep things simple, but they probably detected my accent. I did regret that we didn’t talk. No doubt they an interesting story to tell.
Returning to our hotel, we collected our luggage and the hotel lady kindly booked us a room in an hotel just around the corner at the reasonable rate of $140 per night. She explained that this was a great deal, as she’d booked us into the Presidential Suite no less. Our new hotel was down the hill, past the “out-patient” hotel, outside the old city wall, somewhat near the museum. We checked-in with Bryce having a friendly, humorous banter with the hotel lady. The room was a so called “suite” with connecting rooms on the top floor.
It was time to eat so back we walked up the hill to the old town. I’d spied an Irish pub the night before, so I twisted Bryce’s arm to assist his culinary decision making. No cause for alarm here, Bryce was a willing victim. We took a detour into an unusual shop full of tourist type stuff as well as more authentic collectibles. It turned out to be the sole gem in a sea of tourist trap establishments. After my purchase of a Quebec number plate, Bryce could see himself with one or two on the wall of his soon to be built garage. This shop must have had hundreds of number plates in all sizes, so Bryce bought a couple and I bought one more from 1955 to match my old 1955 Daimler. There were lots of unexpected collectible nick-nacks in this shop. As we were buying so many number plates, I bargained for a small discount. The owner agreed but only if we paid in cash.
The Irish pub was a disappointment. We sat in an open area lacking the expected pub atmosphere. Bryce wanted a small Guiness, but they only offered a 16 oz glass so there was some negotiation with the waiter. But in the end we both got the 16 oz variety. The place was almost empty and the meal forgettable. We left about 9 PM and went straight to our new hotel.
Then we did the Egyptian exhibition, but it was pretty much as you’d expect, or possibly I was jaded by this point. We had a late lunch in the museum cafeteria where the staff only spoke French, so I finally got a genuine taste of Europe. This was unusual as everybody we’d met to this point had been able to switch to English after starting a conversation in French. Bryce had acquired the habit of saying “Hello” clearly to discretely announce his mother tongue. I can’t recall the theme of the next exhibit, except to say it dealt with migration of people into Quebec. One highlight was the oral history tapes listened to by pushing a button on a console. Each was about one minute in length. They were done by actors reading a script. Our last few minutes were spent watching a film about the history of Quebec independence and the sad story of the referendum failing by less than one per cent in the year 2000. This had a strong effect on me. I finally appreciated the independence sentiments and understood why they insist on immigrants speaking French as their first language.
After leaving the museum we walked back up to the old town along the wall facing the Seaway. We talked about old UK TV shows that had withstood the test of time. We reckoned that Faulty Towers and All Creatures Great and Small were the best examples. Onward and upward we trudged, finally coming to the landmark hotel called the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac. It’s a magnificent picture postcard building on the top of the hill. We walked into the basement arcade and browsed in the tourist shops. A hotel tour was just starting, but we opted not to join in, considering it likely to be pretty hokey. We found out enough information to know that “haunted rooms” were one of the main features of the tour. So off we went exploring. In the main lobby, Bryce asked the cost per night; roughly $340 with tax. It would have been like staying in the Windsor Hotel in Melbourne so I supposed the expense would be worth it for one night, but we decided against it on cost. Bryce then kindly purchased a box of chocolates for my wife Gail. The method or rather logistics of the purchase we certainly entertaining. When the box was selected selected from the counter, it was tipped some degree from the horizontal resulting in the contents “settling” shall we say in one corner of the box. The sales lady laughed and explained what had happened, speaking mostly French. She then continued in English. Bryce and the sales lady had a delightfully happy conversation with Bryce successfully attempting some French. I was just an onlooker.
Next we meandered our way back to last night’s hotel via several tourist shops. In one I heard the unmistakable broad Aussie accents of a couple probably in their mid-sixties. It seemed somehow out of context to hear such strong accents in Quebec. Bryce had a short conversation with them at the sales counter only to discover that they came from the Sunshine Coast and he from Armidale. They were on their way to Nova Scotia and apparently were regular travelers to this part of the world. From memory, they had a daughter in Canada. (Bryce please verify.) I have to admit that my days of seeking out fellow Aussies have lost steam over the years. I tend not to engage these days, but with hindsight I would have liked to know more of their story, like where they really came from in Australia before moving to the Sunshine Coast, since over the last 20 years or so there has been a mass migration from southern parts of Australia to the warmer Queensland climate. At the sales counter, the cashier asked everyone where they were from, and within earshot of the Aussies, I said “Boston” to keep things simple, but they probably detected my accent. I did regret that we didn’t talk. No doubt they an interesting story to tell.
Returning to our hotel, we collected our luggage and the hotel lady kindly booked us a room in an hotel just around the corner at the reasonable rate of $140 per night. She explained that this was a great deal, as she’d booked us into the Presidential Suite no less. Our new hotel was down the hill, past the “out-patient” hotel, outside the old city wall, somewhat near the museum. We checked-in with Bryce having a friendly, humorous banter with the hotel lady. The room was a so called “suite” with connecting rooms on the top floor.
It was time to eat so back we walked up the hill to the old town. I’d spied an Irish pub the night before, so I twisted Bryce’s arm to assist his culinary decision making. No cause for alarm here, Bryce was a willing victim. We took a detour into an unusual shop full of tourist type stuff as well as more authentic collectibles. It turned out to be the sole gem in a sea of tourist trap establishments. After my purchase of a Quebec number plate, Bryce could see himself with one or two on the wall of his soon to be built garage. This shop must have had hundreds of number plates in all sizes, so Bryce bought a couple and I bought one more from 1955 to match my old 1955 Daimler. There were lots of unexpected collectible nick-nacks in this shop. As we were buying so many number plates, I bargained for a small discount. The owner agreed but only if we paid in cash.
The Irish pub was a disappointment. We sat in an open area lacking the expected pub atmosphere. Bryce wanted a small Guiness, but they only offered a 16 oz glass so there was some negotiation with the waiter. But in the end we both got the 16 oz variety. The place was almost empty and the meal forgettable. We left about 9 PM and went straight to our new hotel.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Monday October 12th 2009 - A Fascination With Railways
We rose early, ate at the breakfast buffet before heading to the main Montreal railway station. The buffet was an all you could eat breakfast of reasonable quality. We fortified ourselves with cereal, coffee and toast for the day ahead, not knowing when our next meal would be. The walk to the station was long and the pace unremitting in the cold icy conditions. The wind was brutal and we had difficulty finding the station which had an easily missed double-door entrance to a huge underground retail and railway complex. It was like an underground city down there. The midday train to Quebec City was fully booked so we waited in the hope of a cancellation. The professional staff were working hard to accommodate us, even to the extent of walking out into the concourse to find us and give an update. This felt good after our bus ride from hell on the previous day. The level of commitment and professionalism of the train staff contrasted starkly with that of the bus personnel in the US. It reminded me of Australia or at least how it used to be. We boarded at the last minute and had seats in separate carriages. The exit from Montreal was unusual in that the train reversed into a siding before moving forwards for the rest of the trip. We passed through typically inner city industrial decay before moving into the suburbs and beyond into farmland. By and large the land was completely flat. About halfway into the trip, Bryce came and told me of empty seats in his carriage, so I moved. Upon arrival in Quebec City we had no maps and no idea of where the station was or where we were going. After consulting an out-of-scale tourist brochure excuse for a map, we orientated ourselves and headed into the unknown. Our first stop was an hotel where everyone sat around the entrance in wheelchairs. We quickly realized our mistake and trying not to give away our embarassment, moved on. Despite having the word hotel fixed to the side of the building, it was now converted into an out patient facility. But our luck changed. As we rounded the next street, we came into the core of the old Quebec City. We passed a couple of hotels before settling on one that looked reasonable both in price and quality. The person at the counter was very friendly and helpful. The cost? About $140 per night. Being on foot, the location was ideal. After checking in we explored the old town. Quebec City definitely has of European feel with the old Georgian buildings and shops. We walked to the old fort high on the hill overlooking the majestic St Lawrence Seaway. At this point it was probably at least a mile wide and reminder me of views I'd seen last August in Seattle. We continued on through the old town until we reached the old town walls. The walled city aspect was visually very similar to that of York in the UK. On we walked, past many hotels, one of which I entered at Bryce's bidding to ask the cost per night. Alas, the lobby was full of people, so we left. At this point Bryce threw in the towel in regard to being our resident navigator and requested I take over. So uncertain of where we were I just navigated by instinct. We ended up somewhere near our hotel and entered into a store selling mediaeval wares. Bryce was tempted to buy a well presented quill and ink set, but resisted. I was tempted by some mediaeval tapestry reproductions suitable for who knows what, but they looked nice and were certainly something you don't see every day. We ate at a British style pub, sat in at a corner and ordered beer. The meal was good. We made it back to the hotel around 9 PM and Bryce tapped away on the micro laptop.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Sunday October 11th 2009 - The Case for Urban Renewal
Where to go? Montreal by bus was the choice. Bryce found a route via Albany, NY leaving from Newton, MA in 45 minutes. I phoned Gail, who offered to drive us to the bus stop only 2 miles away, after dropping Madeline at Sunday school.
Pittsfield, MA? I'd never really heard of this place, but we passed through this sizable town about half an hour from Albany, NY. Later Gail said it's an abandoned industrial town famous as a center for General Electric Corp.
The wait at the Albany bus transfer station was not good. One old cranky bus driver refused to take passengers to Montreal, saying he had plenty of seats, but no room for luggage as everyone had packed for a long weekend. This was not possible. I can only imagine he had a private deadline to meet and wanted to go through customs without increasing the delay by adding more passengers. The bus driving profession attracts all sorts, many who make their own rules with little or no repercussions. In 2007, one driver we had from New York city accosted my sister who was in the bathroom with one of her kids, thinking that someone was in there taking drugs. Several months later the same driver appeared on the nightly news because he had refused to let passengers off the bus for a toilet break. He was given a token leave of absence and presumably is driving buses to this day. Hence passengers are at the whim of some very eccentric drivers. At the transfer station, one New Yorker (in my estimation at least) asked us to mind his baggage while he went for a 10 minute smoke. He had a single seat surrounded by his luggage and quite unusually, a man of little means and no luggage sat in the seat. The New Yorker returned. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say there was nothing I could do about it, but he took it in his stride.
The bus trip had two significant incidents. The first occurred when the bus driver was forced to return to pick up a teenager who had gotten off the bus thinking it was a meal stop where passengers are allowed to alight. The young guy had the presence of mind to at least call the bus company who radioed the driver. The driver didn't want to return complaining that he was forced to do so as the passenger could make trouble for the bus company. The other significant event was the loss of time at the border. We waited in a line of about 10 buses for an hour. Yet again, it amazed me how fearsome custom agents can be. Somehow they make even the most innocent traveler quake in their boots and feel uneasy. There's always the slight chance of a miscarriage of justice, so perhaps that fear is real. It wasn't a pleasant experience. One young male passenger who looked like he had a history of questionable medicinal intake commented "man am I glad that's over".
To our surprise, the bus station was surrounded by hotels of varying age and presumably repute. We took the easy out and settled on a Comfort Inn, confident that the quality would be fine. It was. As we left, the check-in counter a New Zealander standing behind us asked which part of Australia we came from. I recognised him as one of our fellow bus passengers. We returned his question to discover he came from a town north of Auckland, but we failed to ask the obvious question of why he was in Quebec City. Bryce said owing to the late hour, he didn't want to be delayed getting to the room. I concurred.
Pittsfield, MA? I'd never really heard of this place, but we passed through this sizable town about half an hour from Albany, NY. Later Gail said it's an abandoned industrial town famous as a center for General Electric Corp.
The wait at the Albany bus transfer station was not good. One old cranky bus driver refused to take passengers to Montreal, saying he had plenty of seats, but no room for luggage as everyone had packed for a long weekend. This was not possible. I can only imagine he had a private deadline to meet and wanted to go through customs without increasing the delay by adding more passengers. The bus driving profession attracts all sorts, many who make their own rules with little or no repercussions. In 2007, one driver we had from New York city accosted my sister who was in the bathroom with one of her kids, thinking that someone was in there taking drugs. Several months later the same driver appeared on the nightly news because he had refused to let passengers off the bus for a toilet break. He was given a token leave of absence and presumably is driving buses to this day. Hence passengers are at the whim of some very eccentric drivers. At the transfer station, one New Yorker (in my estimation at least) asked us to mind his baggage while he went for a 10 minute smoke. He had a single seat surrounded by his luggage and quite unusually, a man of little means and no luggage sat in the seat. The New Yorker returned. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say there was nothing I could do about it, but he took it in his stride.
The bus trip had two significant incidents. The first occurred when the bus driver was forced to return to pick up a teenager who had gotten off the bus thinking it was a meal stop where passengers are allowed to alight. The young guy had the presence of mind to at least call the bus company who radioed the driver. The driver didn't want to return complaining that he was forced to do so as the passenger could make trouble for the bus company. The other significant event was the loss of time at the border. We waited in a line of about 10 buses for an hour. Yet again, it amazed me how fearsome custom agents can be. Somehow they make even the most innocent traveler quake in their boots and feel uneasy. There's always the slight chance of a miscarriage of justice, so perhaps that fear is real. It wasn't a pleasant experience. One young male passenger who looked like he had a history of questionable medicinal intake commented "man am I glad that's over".
To our surprise, the bus station was surrounded by hotels of varying age and presumably repute. We took the easy out and settled on a Comfort Inn, confident that the quality would be fine. It was. As we left, the check-in counter a New Zealander standing behind us asked which part of Australia we came from. I recognised him as one of our fellow bus passengers. We returned his question to discover he came from a town north of Auckland, but we failed to ask the obvious question of why he was in Quebec City. Bryce said owing to the late hour, he didn't want to be delayed getting to the room. I concurred.
Saturday October 10th 2009 - No One Here Gets Out Alive
We drove to Mt Washington today - the highest mountain in the eastern USA. We stopped en route in Ashland, NH. It turned out to be a picturesque old 19th century mill town, with a restored railway station, but on an in-use railway line. We parked the car across from a local eating place. Bryce, still unsure of crossing roads in the US where the ingrained "look to the right, look to the left, look to the right again" was literally life threatening, nervously made it to the other side. We had an inexpensive diner style brunch in a very homely, family run business. It was an excellent meal and a genuine, small town American experience.
We arrived at the foot of Mt Washington, at the Cog Railway station. The mountain was obscured by fog. In fact, visibility at base camp was about 30 yards. After the de rigueur visit to the souvenir shop, we queued for the train in freezing weather. After a few minutes we heard the train descending well before it emerged from the fog. Since my last visit 2 years ago, diesels have replaced some of the steam trains. Prior to that it was exclusively steam. As the train slowly passed our queue, icicles were seen to be hanging from the solitary carriage. Most of the passengers alighting were shivering including a group of Amish people of all ages. What a sight that was! They were dressed in simple clothing, mostly black and grey, presumably in an early 1800s style - truly wonderful to see.
We were second on the train and chose seats at the back near the engine. These diesels were obviously custom built and appeared to be engineered to an older, heavily constructed steam engine standard, complete with hydraulic bogies that could tilt the engine back to level during the steep ascent. The ascent was slow, maybe 10 mph at most. Bryce and I clowned around standing upright on the sloping floor, but at an obvious and amusing angle to the rest of the carriage. At the top the wind was blowing a gale (80 mph) and the wooden carriage was severely buffeted and moved alarmingly. The roof, of thin wood plank construction, flapped like a tent. For a fleeting moment, the specter of mild panic made itself known. It occurred to me that if a certain chain of events occurred, it would be quite impossible to survive given our lack of appropriate clothing. But survive we did. Moving from the train required braving the gale and making it safely inside the sole building, without slipping on the icy footpath. A trip to the summit marker, only 30 meters away was out of the question. Visibility was virtually nil. A group of hikers were sheltering inside and drying their pants and socks on the heater. Fortunately Bryce was able to view the surrounding country side from a 180 degree photo inside the museum. Many structures have been built here over the years, but most only survived 20 years or so. The current one is concrete and not in danger of being damaged any time soon.
We descended into sunshine and spectacular views across the Mt Washington valley. A steam train passed as we sat at a mid-point siding. It was a spectacular sight, but obscured at Bryce's only photo opportunity. As we were told, it takes a ton of coal to make the ascent. We had a somewhat surly cog railway guide in our carriage, preoccupied with telling errant passengers to return to their seats and sit down. At one point he was asked a question by a German (I think) tourist, but simply said he could understand them and that was that.
Once off the train, Bryce went again to the tourist shop and I informed him of my dilemma with respect to the car. Upon arrival here I'd smelt something burning near the rear wheels, so now considered that a car trip into Canada was out of the question. I'd stewed over this for some time, before deciding that the best course of action was to go to Burlington, VT and hire a car. With Bryce's navigational skills, we headed in that direction. We saw our first evidence of working farms, many with red barns of the Vermont postcard variety. As it got dark we entered Montpellier, VT, the state capital. I made about a dozen phone calls from Bryce's internet list and finally was told that no accommodation was available in the vicinity. It was the height of "leafer peeper" season and a long weekend to boot, so it wasn't surprising. As Bryce said in his blog, we headed to Boston dreading Gail's smug "I told you so". Ignoring her advice earlier in the day, we'd decided not to book accommodation.
We arrived at the foot of Mt Washington, at the Cog Railway station. The mountain was obscured by fog. In fact, visibility at base camp was about 30 yards. After the de rigueur visit to the souvenir shop, we queued for the train in freezing weather. After a few minutes we heard the train descending well before it emerged from the fog. Since my last visit 2 years ago, diesels have replaced some of the steam trains. Prior to that it was exclusively steam. As the train slowly passed our queue, icicles were seen to be hanging from the solitary carriage. Most of the passengers alighting were shivering including a group of Amish people of all ages. What a sight that was! They were dressed in simple clothing, mostly black and grey, presumably in an early 1800s style - truly wonderful to see.
We were second on the train and chose seats at the back near the engine. These diesels were obviously custom built and appeared to be engineered to an older, heavily constructed steam engine standard, complete with hydraulic bogies that could tilt the engine back to level during the steep ascent. The ascent was slow, maybe 10 mph at most. Bryce and I clowned around standing upright on the sloping floor, but at an obvious and amusing angle to the rest of the carriage. At the top the wind was blowing a gale (80 mph) and the wooden carriage was severely buffeted and moved alarmingly. The roof, of thin wood plank construction, flapped like a tent. For a fleeting moment, the specter of mild panic made itself known. It occurred to me that if a certain chain of events occurred, it would be quite impossible to survive given our lack of appropriate clothing. But survive we did. Moving from the train required braving the gale and making it safely inside the sole building, without slipping on the icy footpath. A trip to the summit marker, only 30 meters away was out of the question. Visibility was virtually nil. A group of hikers were sheltering inside and drying their pants and socks on the heater. Fortunately Bryce was able to view the surrounding country side from a 180 degree photo inside the museum. Many structures have been built here over the years, but most only survived 20 years or so. The current one is concrete and not in danger of being damaged any time soon.
We descended into sunshine and spectacular views across the Mt Washington valley. A steam train passed as we sat at a mid-point siding. It was a spectacular sight, but obscured at Bryce's only photo opportunity. As we were told, it takes a ton of coal to make the ascent. We had a somewhat surly cog railway guide in our carriage, preoccupied with telling errant passengers to return to their seats and sit down. At one point he was asked a question by a German (I think) tourist, but simply said he could understand them and that was that.
Once off the train, Bryce went again to the tourist shop and I informed him of my dilemma with respect to the car. Upon arrival here I'd smelt something burning near the rear wheels, so now considered that a car trip into Canada was out of the question. I'd stewed over this for some time, before deciding that the best course of action was to go to Burlington, VT and hire a car. With Bryce's navigational skills, we headed in that direction. We saw our first evidence of working farms, many with red barns of the Vermont postcard variety. As it got dark we entered Montpellier, VT, the state capital. I made about a dozen phone calls from Bryce's internet list and finally was told that no accommodation was available in the vicinity. It was the height of "leafer peeper" season and a long weekend to boot, so it wasn't surprising. As Bryce said in his blog, we headed to Boston dreading Gail's smug "I told you so". Ignoring her advice earlier in the day, we'd decided not to book accommodation.
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