Toronto to Vancouver: 4 169 Kms, 4.5 Days

My train to Vancouver was scheduled to leave at 10:00 PM on the 27th of May, and for once I arrived early enough at the station to be at the front of the line. While waiting in line I met a German man briefly who was travelling to Winnipeg as part of his "lifelong dream to travel on The Canadian" (the train from Toronto to Vancouver). He told me that he was travelling from Halifax to Vancouver, Vancouver to San Francisco, San Francisco to Denver, then to Chicago and eventually all the way to New York, all on trains.

At 10:00 PM, the attendant came to open the gate and let us on the train, but as I bent down to pick up my bags everyone passed me, and so my 45 minute wait in line was for naught. Fortunately, there were so few people in coach it was possible to take up four seats to myself, had I wished (one jerk took up six).

(Our shiny, probably not so new, lead engine.)

(After taking the picture of the engine above, literally every other person on the train decided to walk up and take a picture as well.)

While lunches on The Ocean were rather expensive, on The Canadian the cost is surprisingly reasonable. For $12 I was given my main course of salmon/salad/bread, etc., plus a bowl of soup for an appetizer, a pot of tea, and a large slice of butter tart cake for dessert. I was genuinely stuffed after eating it all, and even while writing this I can't help but think VIA Rail is just waiting to charge my credit card with a secret fee after its accountants figure out that I hadn't been gouged enough.

At one of the lunches I brought up the topic of what makes Canadians unique. I explained that out uniqueness is how much we say "sorry." When I travel the world most people are polite, but in my experience Canadians say sorry more often than any other nation's people.

This became incredibly obvious when I was in Toronto, and I had to push myself to the back of a cramped, crowded street car in rush hour. As I knocked everyone out of the way with my large bag, I tried to say sorry, but before I could get the word out of my mouth everyone had already apologized to me first for hitting my bag.

The waiter for our table overheard me telling this story and added that one time she was walking in a store, and when she turned she bumped a box with her bag. She turned around and said "sorry" to the box like a good Canadian, and the woman behind her (also a Canadian) started laughing and told her "that just made my day; I did the same thing before."

We pulled into Winnipeg at 7:30 AM on the 29th (half an hour ahead of schedule), but the train had to be cleaned, and the crew changed, so I had four and a half hours to kill before the 12:00 PM scheduled departure. Unlike other passengers who sat in coffee shops for four hours, I knew exactly where I needed to go.

It just so happens that in Winnipeg I was a young man, although not really down on my dough due to my excellent budgeting. I had also heard that as a young man there was a place where I could go, and that if I went there I was was sure to find many ways to have a good time. So, I asked the first homeless person I met to direct me to the nearest YMCA, and once there I had an excellent workout and a refreshing shower afterwards.

(The Nutty Club building in Winnipeg, Manitoba.)

Back on the train, with a new crew and some different passengers, I was asked by one of the train attendants if I would be willing to learn how to operate the train door in case of an emergency evacuation. Since the joy of responsibility comes with the burden of obligation, I agreed to be certified, and in exchange I had an extra orange piece of paper hung over my seat in recognition of my new VIP status.

(Some artefacts from a "vintage car" heap in Melville, Saskatchewan.)

Up until reaching Saskatoon, the weather had been lovely, save for a brief rain storm in Winnipeg. I went to sleep shortly after leaving Saskatoon, and when I woke up in Alberta I found snow everywhere. Since the snow disappeared as we entered the lovely Jasper National Park (which is run by the Federal Government, and is therefore not really a part of Alberta), I found this a fitting metaphor for why I am leaving Alberta in the first place.

(A beautiful sight: Dodge Sprinter vans coming to save Albertans from the tyranny of the pick-up truck.)

(More beautiful sights.)

Eventually I went back to sleep after crossing into Mt. Robson Provincial Park (the BC version of Jasper National Park), and slept through most of BC. When I woke up I was only two hours away from Vancouver. I made it! Four nights on a train - 데이빗 strong man.

(Bonus Question: In which province was this picture taken? Write your answer in the comments section.)

In Toronto, Again

Because of scheduling conflicts with VIA Rail, it is impossible to take a train straight from Halifax to Vancouver (or back for that matter). Rather, all travelers must spend one night in Toronto and catch the next "Canadian" train to Vancouver the next evening.

(View of Toronto from the train, on the way in to town. That's the steeple on St. James' Cathedral to the left of the crane, and St. Lawrence Market is building that looks like a barn to the right of the crane.)

Before leaving Halifax I had wanted to wash half of my clothes, but I got in too late the night before to use the machines, and hostels typically monopolize the washers and dryers until late afternoon to clean all the sheets for the beds. In Montreal I had noticed that I only had enough detergent left for one load, and that if I had washed my clothes then, I would have ran out of clean ones before leaving Vancouver. However, through pure luck, I had randomly added just enough clean clothes to my travelling wardrobe to make it back to Halifax in a relative state of freshness... if I waited until Toronto to wash all of my clothes once I had worn them once, that is.

In Toronto I literally took off everything I could, even using my fleece coat in lieu of a shirt, and stuffed everything into one load in an old Maytag washer. I was worried I would break it, but my clothes came out fine. However, in perhaps the only downside of the Canadiana Backpacker's Inn, in Toronto, for all 4 buildings, and probably more than 100 rooms, there are only two washers and two dryers, and one of those was broken during my stay.

This meant that it took three hours to wash and partially dry (I overloaded the dryer too) one load of clothes. Regardless, I had completed my single-minded goal for this first night, and so turned my attention to my new goal: trying to survive the horrendous heat and humidity inside the hostel bedrooms (HI hostels may lack character, but at least they don't lack good air conditioning.)

The next day at 10:30 AM, after the free all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast, I had to check out of my room. I was wondering what I would do with my bags while I waited for my 10:00 PM train, but the hostel was kind of enough to store my bags for free, and to let me bum around in the hostel all day.

I didn't spend too long inside that afternoon though, because I had to find my way back to Kensington Market to try and pick up some organic snacks for the four day journey to Vancouver (or at least to get me the day and a half to Winnipeg).

(A bustling Richmond Avenue, in down town Toronto.)

I succeeded in finding some excellent 7-grain crackers, and organic granola bars, as well as picking up another bottle of cool and refreshing Ting to help fight the blazing hot sun. I couldn't find any organically grown fruit though, so on the way back I picked up a bag of nectarines from a market in China Town.

Over lunch I had stopped in at a Korean restaurant in Kensington Market that was selling the most expensive bottles of imported Korean soju I've ever seen (see pic below). I had noticed that all the meat I had been eating over the course of the trip had not been doing my body composition any favours, and with four days of sitting on a train ahead of me, I thought I'd best order something vegetarian.

While my kalguksu was delicious, if not entirely authentic (I don't remember round carrot slices in my bowls in Korea), I unfortunately left my tourist map at the restaurant. By the time I noticed that my map was gone though, it was too late and I was lost and couldn't remember where my hostel was.

As I stumbled around in the heat of the afternoon sun, I was stopped by another tourist who needed directions. By this point I had more or less developed a rudimentary grasp of the lay-out of the streets in the Toronto core, so I was more than willing to give him the help I had received upon first arriving to Toronto. As I looked up to show him the way though, I noticed, standing there on the corner of Richmond and John St as if it were waiting for me to come across the country to find it, Canada's greatest treasure - the National Film Board (NFB) of Canada's Media Theque.

The Media Theque is essentially the physical version of the NFB's online free media collection, but with way more titles. There are over 5 500 titles from which to choose, all of which are viewable every day, for free, on personal mini-theatre viewing stations. The system is similar to the in-flight personal entertainment systems you may have seen on modern aeroplanes, but without having to wait ten minutes for the advertisements to finish before being able to view another film film. You can also buy physical copies of these, and any other NFB produced movies, from the Media Theque. On top of all that, there is a theatre which shows advanced screenings of unreleased NFB films every day.

The Media Theque is air conditioned, and open until 10 PM most days, so I was able to escape today's heat by watching a french language, subtitled film called The Fight for True Farming. The film is about the struggle faced by Canadian independent farmers as they try to battle their own seemingly inept (or corrupt) government and the Monsanto corporation and other huge multi-nationals, in order to maintain their right to farm organically and sustainably.

Apart from being wonderfully made, The Fight For True Farming was a frightening look at how dangerous our food really is (Monsanto's own tests show that its products cause cancer), and how the Canadian government often ignores the advice of the Canadian Food Inspection Agency when allowing products from American agricultural corporations to be sold/tested inside Canada.

After finishing The Fight for True Farming, I selected another great documentary by a Canadian author and artist, Douglas Coupland, called A Souvenir of Canada. In A Souvenir of Canada, Coupland attempts to create a house, as an art exhibit, that captures what it truly means to be Canadian. The house in question was distinctly Canadian itself, since it was one of the tens of thousands of identically made 1950s Canada Mortgage and Housing Corporation (CMHC) houses made after World War II for the returning veterans.

In his quest to find things that are distinctly Canadian, Coupland tries to first discover what it actually means to be Canadian. I thought it a fitting way to spend an afternoon in Toronto (perhaps the most Canadian city in Canada) as this whole cross-Canada adventure I am on, was a response to my own desire to discover Canada, and what it means to be Canadian.

After watching a third documentary, I found directions back to my hostel which was actually only a block away. I had a "last supper" before being confined to the train, and tried to freshen up as best as possible.

(The outside of the Much Music/CTV building.)

On the way to the train station I walked through the background as a Much Music VJ did some report outside the Much Music building. This was actually the second time I had inadvertently found my way on TV, as earlier in the day I walked through a report for a Naked News broadcast, while a topless reporter interviewed a random woman about her thoughts on Tiger Woods.

While I waited behind the camera man for the light to change so that I could cross Spadina Ave, I was impressed with the reporter's courage and concentration. Not only did she have to stand there at a busy intersection literally half naked, but she had to be professional about it despite all the oglers, cat callers, and amateur paparazzi with their cell phone cameras.

I can report happily that she made it through her segment without making any mistake or showing any sign of being phased, and I dare say she even sounded better than most professional TV news reporters while doing so.

While I was standing at the light I also over heard two young women say "if you got it, flaunt it", in reference to the reporter. I got mad at them and said, "she's not 'flaunting' anything, she's doing her job. All you girls in your short shorts and tank tops are the ones trying to 'flaunt it.'" After this I felt much better.

Halifax to Montreal: 1 300 Km, 23 Hours

Today was the big day of the start of my train trip to Vancouver. It also seemed to be the start of a journey for every one else in my room. The German above me was heading out to Hamilton (why?), and my Danish friend, Mr. Hollensen, was getting ready for a pot luck barbecue. He had originally invited his son to a "pot roast barbecue" before he figured out there was a difference. He said to me, "Something is wrong here. Why would you put a pot roast on a barbecue?"

Mr. Hollensen also had to go do some community cleaning and free lawn work, because the local government employees "had their priorities mixed up," and had let things look untidy. This bothered him because, "as a Scandinavian" he was "used to civil servants keeping things in impeccable order."

In my Scotland trip blog I mentioned that I had met four people in my hostel who had gone to the UofA. This morning though, I met a former UofA student who was actually in one of my classes in my final year. At this rate, I fully suspect that by the time I end up in Vancouver I will actually run into someone I know personally.

Remembering how expensive snacks/food on the train are, I decided to make a quick dash to the Superstore beside the train station to pick up some budget saving confectioneries before the trip. However, I ran right into the Blue Nose Marathon, and what Korean drivers would call "runners pollution". I made a mental note to leave for my train a little earlier, in case I have to wait a few minutes to cross the road to the train station later.

(This lady is in her sixties and running a marathon in 27 degree centigrade weather. Don't you feel pathetic now?)

In the supermarket, I noticed that Jona Gold apples were selling for $4.79 for a 4 lb. bag. Since the apples I bought at the Farmer's Market yesterday, and quoted as 6 for $3 actually weighed three pounds exactly, a quick bit of mental maths will show that I actually paid less for my locally produced apples at the Farmer's Market, straight from the hand of the farmer himself, than I would have paid at this large supermarket. Oh yes, I like this city a lot.

At about 10:10, I left the hostel to catch my 10:30 AM train to Montreal (The Ocean #15). About ten steps from the door though, I was stricken with a great panic that perhaps my train had left at 9:30 AM. I had not actually checked the time of its departure since arriving on Thursday, so it was a definite possibility. I was wrong, it was neither 9:30 or 10:30, but in fact 12:15 PM.

Back inside the hostel I went to torture myself watching Republican politicians make an absolute mockery of themselves and the American democratic process, on Meet The Press with David Greggory. I had to stop watching after ten minutes though, because I got so upset that I actually started yelling at the television and cursing the lying scum bags. It's bad enough when people yell at the TV during sporting events or movies, so I figured I didn't need to be part of the problem by yelling at the TV during a civilized interview.

On the train, I chose my usual single row, window seat. However, just a few seats in front of me were three young families with young kids, all travelling together. Over the course of the trip, these kids would annoy just about every one in the train (but of course!). Finally, at Moncton, the selfish brats and their kids got off the train. I gave a silent cheer, but I also felt sorry for the other passengers who also alighted at Moncton, and were robbed of the opportunity to actually enjoy their trip.

Because of my stash of snacks and goodies, I decided that my budget could handle one trip to the dining car each day I rode the train, as a treat. Knowing full well that whatever I ordered would be smaller than its description in the menu, I asked the waiter what she felt the most filling meal would be. She suggested the haddock, and this is what I received...

To be fair, the fish fillet in the middle was quite dense, and this meal filled me up exactly perfectly, although the $12 price tag seemed a bit steep. However, it led me to wonder why I was not able to order this "half-sized" meal at other restaurants, in addition to the BMI boosters they usually serve? I understand the economics of size when it pertains to these sort of things, but if Jeffrey's cafe in Grande Prairie can offer "half-size" sandwiches, why don't other restaurants?

Misc. Pics:

(The view from the train of the other side of the train yard in Halifax.)

(My station: All set up for a 23 hour trip.)

(A red river in New Brunswick.)

(Cranes in a ship yard somewhere in western Nova Scotia.)

Ottawa to Halifax

The problem with moving to a new city, is that you have to take most of your belongings with you. The trouble with taking most of your belongings with you, is that you need to take many suitcases. The problem with taking many suitcases, is that when you're kicked out of your hostel at 11:00 AM, and your bus to Montreal doesn't leave until 2:00 PM, you have to find something to do with all of those bags and yourself for three hours. Finding myself in this exact situation this morning, I decided go to the bank, and then walk 45 minutes to the bus depot to eat up some time.

Before I left though, I took a minute to take stock of my hostel dorm. Some time ago, or possibly in my Scotland blog, you might have remembered me saying that every hostel will have a Canadian and an Australian (and also a German). In my room alone, there were four Australians and myself (I'm sure the German was in the hostel too somewhere).

Along the way I met a homeless hitchhiker named Dave, who was originally from Nova Scotia. He was excited to hear I was heading to Nova Scotia myself, and started telling me all about shark fining and trying to sell me on the importance of ocean conservation. I had already seen Sharkwater though. In fact, I owned Sharkwater, so he was preaching to the choir.

At the bus depot I noticed there were many people buying tickets for a 1:00 trip to Montreal. Since I had a 15 day open ticket, and I figured it would be more comfortable to wait at the train station in Montreal than the bus depot in...well, anywhere, I jumped in line and boarded the earlier bus instead.

My seatmate for the 1:00 "Express", Lisanne, was from just outside Gatineau, Quebec, the city attached to Ottawa. She was on her way to Montreal to visit her boyfriend, or more accurately to use his place to study while he was away. With Lisanne being a bilingual Quebecois, I thought it prudent to take advantage of the opportunity to brush up on my grade three French which was better than I thought, but still quite pathetic, by getting her to teach me how to count to 100. As Lisanne told me later though, "it's nice that you're making an effort, but you won't get very far just walking around pointing at your head and saying 'chapeau'." It's alright though, because I can now also say "fish" and "fat".

When we got to Montreal, Lisanne stayed with me and helped me buy a ticket for the metro and also find the right platform. I'm very thankful for her help, because all of the signs in the Montreal metro are only in French. There is also more than one train station, so I would have had to know that VIA Rail leaves from Gare Central in order to board my train without her help.

* * * * *

When I bought my train ticket online originally, I remember it being the most complicated process in the world. First I gave all of my credit card data and entered my dates and destinations. Then I was sent an e-mail that said my order would only be reserved for two days, and that I needed to phone the office to order my tickets officially. When I phoned the office, I gave my reservation number, and the employee spent ten minutes going back into the the website to find my order. When she found it, she had me resubmit all of my personal/credit information.

That brings us to now, where it appears as though in the three months since I purchased the tickets, the prices/policy had changed and it took a half-hour to straighten out the problem. Thankfully it was decided that I could have my tickets at the original price. In hindsight, it was a good thing I took that 1:00 bus.

* * * * *

The train station in Montreal provides wireless Internet, at a fee. However, the volcano ash from Iceland apparently produced a slight "service disruption", and so to make up for it Gare Central made the Wi-Fi within the station free until everything cleared up. I hardly call it "making up" for the inconvenience that volcano caused me on my Scotland trip, but it's nice to finally be benefiting from it instead of suffering.

It's also pleasant to vacation in Ottawa, because as a city of government workers, there is a sophistication and base level of intelligence and class generally lacking in the northern Alberta communities around my home, or in which I have lived. The Montreal train station is where all the "other" Canadians come to soil that class and sophistication.

Case in point: the twelve year old girl behind me in the boarding line who thought it a good time to sing out loud and dance to the music on her iPod. While annoying in its own right, this disturbing breach of good "line etiquette" was exacerbated by the fact that she couldn't sing or dance, and only knew some of the words.

It's time now then, for more Words of Wisdom from David. One: If you're a pre-teen/middle school girl who thinks she can sing/dance, but really can't (all of you), and you get the urge to sing or dance to pop songs on your iPod in public, don't. Two: If you just can't help it, and you absolutely must be annoying, don't do it in public. Rather, find an abandoned, condemned mineshaft; gather as many of your annoying friends as possible; and hold your dance party there, at the bottom. That's not unreasonable, is it?

While the government of Alberta seems to think passenger train travel is a Bolshevik plot, down East, attitudes are a bit more civilized, and so my #14 Ocean train was sold out and full. It was no concern to me though, for unlike the Greyhound, Economy class VIA Rail seats are large and comfy. I even found a seat on the right side of the car, which was a single seat row, so I had both a window and an aisle seat all in one (complete with my own electrical socket).

Unfortunately, there is no Wi-Fi on The Ocean, or even The Canadian (only The Corridor between Montreal and Toronto). Lucky for me though, I forgot to delete a number of videos from my hard drive after transferring them to my XHD before the trip, and so I filled the long boring hours, when I wasn't reading, watching my favourite show, Sasuke.

(A Quebec grain elevator. Part of it, at least.)

At 7:00 AM, as we crossed into New Brunswick, the dining car opened up for breakfast, and I was afforded a rare opportunity to leave Loser Class and mingle with passengers from Old People Class, er... First Class. The prices of the plates even seemed downright reasonable for the diners essentially being the equivalent of sitting ducks, but after I received my order it became obvious why it was so "reasonably priced". If anyone is looking to lose weight, I can now say "ride the train". Before the end of the trip you'll either be skinny, or broke, or both since it costs so much to ride the train in the first place.

* * * * *

One of the down sides of being a passenger on a train in Canada, is that you're travelling with a company that makes virtually no money. That means you're so far down the pecking order of trains, that you have to stop or slow down every time a freight train comes towards you on another/same track; it reminds me of driving in Scotland. Although in Scotland. this only happens when you travel in remote areas, not on the major route to a metropolitan city with a train popular enough to be sold out.

(Ha ha! That's right CN train; you wait for us this time.)

(Finally getting off the train in Halifax.)

(Yes, the train was painted green. I'm not sure it that point needed to be written on the side of the engine though.)

We did eventually make it to Halifax, and despite the aforementioned delays we managed to roll into the station at precisely the scheduled time. After picking up my luggage, I set out for what I assumed would be another long walk, but was surprised to find the hostel just 200 metres from the train station's front door, right around the corner. There was even a Superstore next to the train station, meaning I'll be able to stock up on fruits and snacks for the long trip back to Montreal on Sunday.

As I've mentioned in probably every post now, there is always an Aussie and a German at every hostel, and at the excellent HI-Halifax hostel the two staff members behind the desk were from Australia and Germany; so I was able to complete my regular Aussie/German search before even paying the bill.

Speaking of bills, I had booked each of my hostels online through the popular Hostelworld website. When customers book online at Hostelworld, they pay a booking fee of 10%, and are then supposed to pay the remainder of the bill when they check in. However, I realized today that HI-Halifax was the first hostel along my trip to actually notice that I had booked online and give me my discount. This explains the current deficit in my "hostel budget", and I will need to pay closer attention to what I'm charged on the way to Vancouver next week.

When I had finished paying, I turned to head to my room, when I was met by a screaming six year old kid, who was chucking a ball around and generally annoying everyone. Honestly, who brings a six year old to a hostel? And more importantly, why was he left alone to run around and yell in the hallways? As I've said before: if you have kids, you don't also get to have fun and adventure; you pick one or the other. At the very least, you don't get to go to sleep while the staff members at the hostel baby sit your kid, because you can't be bothered to do it yourself.

After unpacking and taking a much needed shower, I headed across the street to a pub I saw on the walk from the train station (everything is close to everything else in Halifax). It was full though, because it was University graduation weekend, so I sat at the bar and talked to Adam the bartender.

While waiting for my lamb and beef meatloaf, I found an excellent independent street newspaper lying on the bar, called The Coast. On page three I read that my threat to write a letter to my MP in a few weeks must have scared Prime Minister Harper, because he was planning on turning Sable Island into a National Park. This supposedly puts an end to all this clubbing of baby seals, but I'll probably still throw paint on some lady's fur coat when I get back.