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.
Friday October 9th 2009 - The Return of the Native
I sneaked out of work at 3 PM hoping to arrive home before Bryce found our house. He was walking from the Newtonville, MBTA station - about a mile away. Madeline had just got home from school, but no Bryce, so I drove in search of him along his expected route. Just before the end of the street, I spotted the unmistakable apparition of Bryce in full backpacker rig, trudging along in a slight drizzle.
We had a couple of hours before dinner so went for a walk to the Charles river at the end of our street, crossed the pedestrian bridge, and went to the local supermarket specifically to purchase oatmeal, milk and Twinings tea bags. The Charles river is the "Yarra" of Boston and of a similar size. When crossing the bridge, despite being only 10 miles from Boston, one can imagine that this was exactly how it appeared hundreds of years ago.
It's a Friday night ritual at our house to dine out, so we decided on The Diner, an American diner-style restaurant with corresponding fare in Watertown. Diners were typically started in the 1930s or so in old railroad cars, and this one was modeled along those lines, even complete with a curved interior train-carriage-like ceiling. The menu features many relatively exotic items, so at our recommendation, Bryce tried the Bison burger. As we were leaving, he sensibly declined to buy a souvenir t-shirt or mug. Madeline liked Bryce, saying "he's funny", humorous that is.
Note that this blog is supplemental to Bryce's blog at http://brycelittlestravel.blospot.com.
We had a couple of hours before dinner so went for a walk to the Charles river at the end of our street, crossed the pedestrian bridge, and went to the local supermarket specifically to purchase oatmeal, milk and Twinings tea bags. The Charles river is the "Yarra" of Boston and of a similar size. When crossing the bridge, despite being only 10 miles from Boston, one can imagine that this was exactly how it appeared hundreds of years ago.
It's a Friday night ritual at our house to dine out, so we decided on The Diner, an American diner-style restaurant with corresponding fare in Watertown. Diners were typically started in the 1930s or so in old railroad cars, and this one was modeled along those lines, even complete with a curved interior train-carriage-like ceiling. The menu features many relatively exotic items, so at our recommendation, Bryce tried the Bison burger. As we were leaving, he sensibly declined to buy a souvenir t-shirt or mug. Madeline liked Bryce, saying "he's funny", humorous that is.
Note that this blog is supplemental to Bryce's blog at http://brycelittlestravel.blospot.com.
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