Chapter 2
OF HOME AND THE RIVER
The first mishap occurs literally while going out the back door to start the
journey. This begins the awkward leaving of things familiar to me, starting with the
home of my youth.
Undaunted, Melawend and I head
off into the blinding sunrise, full of good purpose (and the theme to the movie Superman
playing in my head). But I am also haunted by the feeling that I might perish during
the journey, so I begin with a nostalgic ride along southeast end of the Niagara
Peninsula. Part of the conclusion of the story, based on this chapter will confirm or
refute Thomas Wolfe's theory expressed in You Can't Go Home Again.
Along the way, significant sites are
portrayed. Most important is the Peace Bridge. It spans the Niagara River between
Buffalo, New York and my hometown of Fort Erie, Ontario. It is the busiest crossing
point between the Canada and the U.S.A. and crosses the longest undefended border in the
world. Fort Erie was the last site of war between Canada and the U.S.A. -- over 175
years ago. The bridge bears thematic hope for the story: that someday Peace will
bridge all nations.
Left: the promenade along the Niagara River
in Fort Erie.
The
Peace Bridge - the busiest crossing point
between Canada and the USA, carrying over 1 million commercial vehicles alone each year
and over $65 million worth of merchandise each day.
Left: Buffalo, New York, in the upper portion; Fort Erie, Ontario, in the foreground -
with Mather Arch in lower right corner and Peace Bridge Plaza to the left (now more
extensively developed with the Peace Bridge Commercial Centre, opened in 1995, and more to
come. The Niagara River Parkway runs from lower right, goes under the bridge and
along the river to Niagara-on-the-Lake (once called Newark, the capital of Upper
Canada). Just out of sight to the right is the source of the Niagara River - Lake
Ontario. Photos: taken in 1984 and 1985 respectively.
The chapter concludes as
Melawend and I ride along the Niagara River Parkway and reach one of the world's greatest
travel clichés.
Chapter 3
NEVER OVER THE FALLS
You've probably guessed it – Niagara Falls.
It’s regarded as gaudy
tourist trap. You will see that since Father Louis Hennepin wrote his hyperbolic
descriptions of the Falls over three hundred years ago, tourists still come with high
expectations. But the Falls are not that simple.
The main part of this chapter
demonstrates that, for better or worse, Niagara Falls represents a tempestuous marriage of
humanity and nature. The narrative recounts discovery, hucksterism, exploitation,
bafoonery, naked enticements, tragedy and heroism. From Love Canal to Marilyn
Monroe, the area is an epic of humankind. You will see this through quotations from
famous visitors such as Charles Dickens; by ties between what is seen with its historical
relevance; by anecdotes and spectacular events; and by my own identification with the
Falls.
This is presented as Melawend and
I take a nostalgic run along the edge of the gorge and cataract. We’ll see famous
sites and visit a local strip bar for reflections on the lonely man’s single life.
Just as just as one is sated by a travel
destination’s offerings, I get anxious to leave behind things that are too familiar
and move on – around the world.
Chapter 4
THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE
After a poignant detour to the former home of my departed grandparents,
Melawend and I high-tail it around the Golden Horseshoe – the heavily trafficked
megalopolis at the western end of Lake Ontario, from St. Catharines (former home of my
late grandfather, Judge Thomas Jefferson Darby) through Toronto to Oshawa.
This is the final leaving of places and people most familiar to me – especially my
daughters, Melanie and Wendy.
As we roll into the pastoral
beauty of Ontario’s hinterlands, the joy of newfound freedom develops, spurred by the
anxiety to get overseas. In my mind, I listen to John William's theme to the Indiana
Jones' movies and feel full of good purpose. But this is tempered by realities that
cloud the impending travels – fallout from Chernobyl and terrorism in Europe and the
Mediterranean.
First, I must go to Ottawa to touch base with the
Member of the Canadian Parliament who supports the purpose of the Odyssey.
Chapter 5
CAPTIAL WONDERS AND
BLUNDERS
Melawend and I
arrive stately in the capital and here I depict my diplomatic mission, set against the
regal backdrop of Parliament Hill. It is a place of utmost decorum and wisdom –
and primal behavior, a place author Modecai Richler would call "the Ottawa monkey
house."
(Photo: Girve Fretz, MP, on
Melawend at Parliament, Ottawa)
I blunder royally, missing a
terrific photo-op when Joe Clark, Canada’s Minister of External Affairs comes out of
his way to meet me. But I justify my political faux pas by
imagining how such a thing could easily have been exploited.
I slip out of the capital, head for what I is
often regarded as one of Canada’s prickliest obstacles – Quebec.
Chapter 6
THE FRENCH CONNECTION
I enter the province
of Quebec apprehensively. It is referred to repeatedly in the text of the provincial map
as "a country". My travel attitudes are affected by my prejudice against
the Québécois, the separatists who would rip apart the territorial fabric of Canada.
(Photo: Father Paul Desliets,
CSV, and Sanctuaire Notre Dame de Lourdes, Rigaud, Quebec)
Why does separatism exist here? I
look to history for answers – to the unhealing wounds of the two-hundred-year-old
conquest, the repression of cultural identity and self-determination and the "revenge
of the cradle". Separatist sentiments were perhaps best expressed by one of its
greatest proponents, the late René Lévesque, who wrote: "We are
Québécois…attached to this one corner of the earth where we can be completely
ourselves…keeping and developing a personality that has survived three and a half
centuries". Even I the cold of the winter before the Odyssey began, when the
political culminated in Quebec favoured a cooling of such sentiments, Gilles Rhéaume, an
inflamed indépendentiste, marched the 158 miles from Montreal to Quebec City to
piss on the statue of General Wolfe, the British conqueror of Quebec. But Mother
Nature’s climate compelled him to keep his dictum zipped.
Though not as highly regarded as
Rhéaume viewed the image of General Wolfe, I feel like a convenient fire hydrant at least
once.
I ride past Montreal and on up
the south shore of the St. Lawrence River, the waterway that bore North America’s
explorers deep into the continent. At Rivière-du-Loup, I duck southeast toward New
Brunswick. Along the way, contradictory experiences modify my preconceptions of
French Canadians.
The French excursion is inconclusive. Like
a mysterious and beautiful woman, the character of French Canada remains elusive.
While knowledge and experience don’t always provide answers, they do generate better
questions and attitude adjustments for the road ahead.
Chapter 7
EASTERN PASSAGE
(this chapter is presented
in full)
Phew! Quebec
was behind me. I was raring to get to Halifax – but that blind enthusiasm had been
with me virtually unabated since I left Ridgeway. In New Brunswick, it turned me
into a restless, picture-snapping tourist. Having a thing for waterfalls, I
couldn’t resist stopping at Grand Falls for a few shots, getting two shirtless men in
blue jeans clambering through a wide deep cleft in the barren gorge with the white froth
before them.
I was following the course of the
St. John River, "the Rhine of North America" according to a brochure. I
amused myself: I'll see about that! It was beautiful as it wound south and then east
through the thick forests and hilly farmlands of its valley. At Perth-Andover, I
switched over to 105 to follow the river’s easterly shore, but passing through Bath
and Bristol only reminded me how eager I was to reach England.
In my time, I had eaten a lot of
McCain’s frozen foods, so, at Florenceville, named for the famous nurse of the
Crimean War, I pulled over and photographed the company’s headquarters. It was
just a simple pole-mounted sign with an orange arrow pointing to a wide squat plant
nestled cozily along the river with green forested hills beyond. In Hartland, I
drove the 1,282 fee across "…the longest covered bridge in the world", and
back, just to say I had done it. I noted that the stop sign read both STOP and
ARRET.
I spent the night at campsite 65
at Mactaquac Provincial Park, New Brunswick’s "super park". Mike, the
attendant at the gate, let me camp for free. But I wasn’t there for the golf
course or the boating or the fishing for small-mouth bass – I was tired. The
season was just beginning and I was the only tenter among ten or so trailer travelers.
The next morning, Melawend and I
rode into Fredericton, the provincial capital, to see if the local daily newspaper would
pay me to write a story for them of perhaps be interested in taking one. I met Lori
Redding of The Daily Gleaner – no sale. She told me no photographers or
reporters were available – most were at the forest fires that were raging in the
province. Indeed all of the Maritime provinces were tinder-dry from lack of rain.
About 25 miles out of Fredericton
on highway 2, I saw what Lori had been talking about. I parked Melawend beside a
steel guardrail along the riverbank. Behind me was a clear blue sky; ahead there
was an endless brown cloud. I began to feel acrid air burn in my nostrils. I
drove on and saw dark palls of smoke slowly rising, fingering the sky. I saw a water
bomber fly low over the river and into the brown cloud.
Further on, I saw only the
blackened aftermath of a particular battle – I did not see any of the valiant crews
inaction but I later read that there had been thousands of fire fighters out there, all
over the Atlantic hinterland. The plumes of the distant fire I saw might have been
the one near Gagetown that had apparently been ignited by stray artillery round fired into
the brush when the army practiced gunnery. The five-story high fire had consumed
homes, cottages and 15,000 acres of forest.
I read that near the Acadian
fishing port of Tracadie, 50,000 forested acres had been ravaged. On Prince Edward
Island, as four fires were contained, three more were born and in Nova Scotia, where I was
heading, 36 blazes would cause the province to ban open fires – no campfires for me.
About 15 miles onto route 112, a
secondary road through an empty wooded area, a drive that would otherwise have been
boring, I parked. The left side of the road was green. The right was black
with trees scorched and naked and the ground cover burned up to the edge of the
road. It seemed fires left tragicomic ambiguities in their wake – like the
charred sign for Black’s Take Out which looked promising of fried food very well
done, while Timberline Lodge looked like the hot place to be.
Finally, at Moncton, Melawend and
I turned east again. We rolled through a flat, almost treeless area that reminded me
of the Canadian prairies and there we came upon the last border. The sign read:
Welcome to Nova Scotia and Its Scenic Trails. I could almost feel the Atlantic! England,
here we come!
But not today. It was
late afternoon and I wanted to go through the hometown of one of Canada’s
internationally acclaimed superstars. I picked up the Glooscap Trail, named for the
god of the Mirmac Indians. I drove through largely forested land and come upon
Springhill. The tourist in me was looking for a sign, perhaps like the billboard
outside Parry Sound, Ontario, that I use to see as a boy on trips to the family
cottage. It proclaimed the town as the home to hockey star Bobby Orr. But
there was no such sign in Springhill, no image of its smiling blond girl, only the modest
sign that read: Welcome to Springhill Incorp. 1889 Po. 4896. I was on a gentile
uphill grade that had older modest homes on either side, semi-rural, typical of the
outskirts of small-town North America. I rode to the top, went left, and passed
homes that nice views of fields and forest. I wondered if one of them might have
been the home where a teenage girl once plastered her walls with pin-ups of Tony Dow (of
TV’s Leave It To Beaver)
I would like to have meandered
through the streets of the town and gone through the museum of Springhill’s tragic
mining history but I had to find a campsite closer to Halifax. I saw only the quiet
outskirts of the place that Anne Murray called home. For some absurd reason, I
half-hoped to see her standing in a front yard. I'd stop and we'd chat, maybe go for
a spin on Melawend...
I made my way to Minas Basin,
site of the world’s highest tides. The area was mostly forested, pocked with
the small yards of humble homes, not promising of a campsite. I was leery of camping
in the woods. It was nearly dusk when I reached Bay Gardens Campground at Lower Five
Islands. I was just too cold and tired to check out the tides that ebbed and flowed
from the Bay of Fundy. Bev Gerry kindly checked me in at the office-store and I
hastily set up on the treeless grounds. I slapped a peanut butter sandwich together
and wolfed it down. I bundled up and drifted off, listening to the wind, happy in
knowing that I would be in Halifax tomorrow.
The next morning was warmer but
dismal under dark overcast skies. I donned my banana and marshmallow rainsuit and hit the
road. At Truro, I left the Glooscap Trail in favor of the fast wide swath of highway
102. It began to rain steadily. The suit leaked and rain ran down and
saturated my pants until I felt that cool burning discomfort. The rain rekindled my
anger over Chernobyl and I wondered if the rain was radioactive, or merely acidic.
And I began to wonder if it would affect my masculinity.
I had not yet ridden in rain and
just when it occurred to me that this could be dangerous, Melawend slid. Her rear
wheel cut under, to the right. I froze, braced for impact. I’m not sure what I
did right, perhaps I did turn in the direction of the skid, but Melawend straightened up.
I slowed to gridlock speed.
In the opposite-bound lanes
across the grassy median, I saw a couple dressed in thick matching riding suits, riding
one of the big touring motorcycles. I could see helmet antennae which meant they had
a head-to-head communication system. They looked warm and comfortable and unaffected by
the rain as they cruised swiftly along. How did they ride so easily in the rain, I
wondered. They waved at me. I was warmed and waved back. I relaxed and
gradually throttled up. Melawend seemed more stable, or was it just me? I
rode confidently, in the rain, all the way to Dartmouth where the rain stopped. I had a
phone call to make.
"Tom? Where are
you?"" Kathy said
I gave her my location, a
phonebooth at the edge of town, and she gave me directions to her apartment on Cole Harbor
Road. I would be staying with Kathy Pooler (the daughter of Dad’s fiancée),
her husband, Geoff, an aero-engine technician with the Canada Air Force, and their baby
boy, Danny. I rode to their apartment building. In their small two-bedroom
unit, I had, for a time, a sense of family and of home.
Life with the Poolers quickly
settled into routine. Geoff, tall with black hair in a military crew cut: Kathy,
slim and winsome, and cherubic fair-haired Danny and I would pile into their compact car
for tours of the area – past the oil refinery, the guard ground so CFB Shearwater
where Geoff worked, the Autoport with its legions of parked imports ready for domestic
deployment, and on through Eastern Passage to Lawrencetown. We crossed the two
bridges over The Narrows into the city of Halifax, touring the main streets, Citadel Hill
and Point Pleasant Park. When Geoff was working on aircraft engines and Kathy was
working at Shopper’s Drug Mart, I babysat Danny, feeding him his Gerber foods and
changing his full diapers. In evenings, we watched TV shows or looked at photo
albums while I sewed crests onto the Odyssey Jacket, or played euchre with Geoff’s
mother, Mary Grace, who came by for visits. I helped Kathy shop for groceries and I
helped them celebrate Danny’s first birthday.
I also helped Kathy and Geoff
celebrate their second wedding anniversary. Their special day was also Memorial Day
in the U.S., the day that five and a half million people joined hands in a 4,152-mile line
across the U.S. in "Hands Across "America", singing "We Are The
World" – a campaign to raise money and awareness of hunger and homelessness in
the U.S. The line had gaps but the spirit was united. It was also the day of Bob
Geldof’s "Sport Aid", which drew 20 million people in 78 countries to run
10-kilometer "races against time" and such events to raise funds for hunger and
poverty in Africa. The highlight was Sudanese runner Omar Khalifa who carried a
torch from a refugee camp in his homeland through 12 European capitals the UN headquarters
in Geneva, touching base along the way with France’s President François
Mitterrand, and Britain’s Prince Charles and Diana, Princess of Wales.
While Kathy and Geoff went out, I took care of little Danny .
I made my own explorations on
Melawend. But I was in Halifax for the primary purpose of getting out of it –
to get a passage to England. What came as no real surprise was that while high hopes
and made me think of Halifax as my Port of Great Departure, reality had made it my Great
Wall of Canada – I could not get beyond it. For three weeks, I hounded the
administrators of the Port of Halifax, the general managers and secretaries of
containership lines and Canadian airline companies for onward passage to England,
sponsored or as a workway. I even approached the military. I would call them,
leave messages, drop in unannounced, or if I was lucky, by appointment. I would
bombard them with ideas and plans and thinly disguised pleadings. I dropped off
typed proposals of photography and publicity in exchange for passage. Melawend and I
zipped up and down Barrington Street I don’t know how many times.
And I waited. I
would sit on Citadel Hill near the famous town clock and watch my time pass away. I sat at
he base of the A. Murray MacKay Bridge, hopeful as a huge ACL container ship passed under
it – surely there was room aboard for me and a little scooter!
I often met with Ian Spencer of
Burgess Travel, which was also an American Express outlet. I got my mail from Ian. He was
about 55, an Aussie expat and a kindred spirit. From time to time, we would just sit
at his desk and talk about life.
One day, I met an attractive girl
downtown as she stood beside Melawend with a pad and pen in her hands. She seemed
more nervous in giving a ticket than I was concerned about receiving one. She had
just started this job. She was friendly and eager to learn about my journey.
"I'd love to go on a trip like that someday," she said. There was a gleam
in her hazel eyes. She let me off with well wishes. As Melawend and I rode
away, I began to wonder if making this trip alone was such a good idea, that maybe I
should have waited to find Her and then taken this on as a couple. Would my desire
for a soulmate distract me from my overall mission? I concluded that it would not,
at least I would try not to let it get in the way. But I also decided that I
wouldn't close my eyes to romantic possibilities, either.
I spent hours reading from a paperback I had bought for
25 cents at a yard sale years ago, By-Line: Ernest Hemingway, a book that
I planned to take around the world. I often turned to his writings and found inspiration
for my own. I read about Paris, Pamplona, Rome and Nairobi – places I would be
visiting – and felt a sort of traveling companionship in having his words with
me. To myself, I referred to him as "Hem".
As my recurrent mentor, I took Hemingway with me, all the
way around the world, in the form of By-Line: Ernest Hemingway. See
Chapter 7.
Photo: Ernest Hemingway in the courtyard of 113 rue Notre Dame des Champs, Paris,
1924. Inscribed to Sylvia Beach: "To Sylvia, With love, Ernest
Hemingway". This image of Hemingway was the basis of part of the artwork on the
cover of the above-mentioned paperback: Bantam editon, July 1968 from the original edition
published by Charles Scribner's Sons, 1967. THIS PHOTO MAY NOT BE
DOWNLOADED. It is used here with the permission of the Department
of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library - Ernest Hemingway.
What I really wanted was to work
my way across the Atlantic on a ship, just as Jimmy Bedford had done. But before I
even heard of Jimmy, I had read a book by Alistair Boyd about his journey: Royal
Challenge Accepted: Around the World on Five Pounds. He had worked his
way around a little after Jimmy’s time. Boyd wrote: "No longer can you approach
the master of a vessel and persuade him to take you on a workway. His hands are tied by
laws, regulations and union protocols."
So I was forewarned. But
rules could be bent, I reasoned, and I had decided to go for it. And now, someone in
Halifax had even advised me to check out the bars where ships’ crews hung out and see
if I could sneak aboard with some of them and plead my case to the captain. But I
found it was not worth the effort: it was true – I was told the line would fly in a
union mate to fill any gaps in crew. Consortiums, mostly based in Europe owned the
ships, and without their permission, which was unlikely, there was no way. There
would be no paintbrush and passage for me.
I sought passage – I
collected rejections:
"These things are an
administrative nuisance," an airline executive said.
"We like what you are doing,
but we can't help you. Why don’t you try (so and so)?" said the
dock-office manger of a shipping line.
"I can’t justify the
expense," said the district manager of an airline.
"If you had come to us a
month ago…" said another manager. The local representative of one of the
shipping consortiums echoed his words (but he was openly pessimistic).
"Where did you get my
number?" snarled another dock-office manager.
Everyday life in Halifax went on
around me – well-groomed people shuffled between offices and stores and restaurants
and there was lots of city traffic. It was a pretty city by the sea. You'd
hardly imagine that in 1917 it had seen the world’s largest man-made explosion prior
to Hiroshima, after two ships collided in The Narrows. The accident touched of an
explosion that obliterated the northwest part of the city. But today, this was a
city swarmed with people moving about with immediate purpose. I moved among them
like a ghost and felt myself fading away.
Things got hectic in the city
when a NATO conference was held there. While Geoff tended the aircraft of the
foreign ministers, I sidestepped armed motorcades. The group of 16 ministers, which
included Canada’s Joe Clark and America’s George Shultz, had a broad agenda.
They debated the U.S. decision not to abide by the second unratified Strategic Arms
Limitation Treaty (SALT II), having charged that the Soviet Union had repeatedly violated
the 1979 agreement. They discussed potential sites for a new fighter training center
for the Alliance. Before the closed meetings convened, trained dogs sniffed the
rooms – terrorism was also high on their agenda.
My agenda was falling
apart. My last hope seemed to be with a military flight. Major Lison of CFB
Shearwater had said that only Ottawa could authorize a "flip" for me to
Europe. Bruce Sherry of Girve Fretz's staff laisoned with the Department of National
Defense on my behalf. I sent of a proposal and waited. I later learned it had
been reviewed personally by the Minister of National Defense himself, Erik Nielsen, who
also happened to be our Deputy Prime Minister. In a personal letter to Girve, Mr.
Nielsen explained that transatlantic flights had been reduced because of "priority
assignments and major aircraft overhaul work" and that remaining flights were booked
for months. He said that to give me passage "would displace a duty passenger
for whom commercial transportation would have to be purchased using Departmental
funds." So be it. (And I do thank you for your consideration, Mr. Nelson.)
In the eleventh hour, Tony
Edwards befriended me. He was a producer of Motorsport Atlantic – a cable TV
show that aired on Wednesday nights. We met at the studio. Though he was
enthusiastic about raising local interest, I thought, why would Maritimers be interested
in helping the son of a distant community? That sentiment had been implied by
a local newspaper reporter. Tony was a nice guy, making my enterprise seem so
worthwhile, and a TV spot would have been a fine opportunity to shed some inhibition and
talk about the journey, but it all seemed futile. And I could not go on maybe’s
anymore. I had already decided to return to Ridgeway. I would sell my car and
get Melawend and myself to England.
There was a little finger of land
that jutted from the area known as Eastern Passage into the channel known as Eastern
Passage between the mainland and Lawlors Island. I had thanked Kathy and Geoff for
their kindness and support and had driven fully laden Melawend onto that open spit of sand
and stone and grass for a parting view of the Atlantic Ocean. The sea was fittingly
gray under brooding skies.
"We are going to
cross it," I said aloud to Melawend. She groaned over the stones on the way
back to the road, then jauntily bore me west, homeward bound.
I
backtracked the whole way: to Mactaquac where I listened to two girls who wore halter
tops, and who had set up camp near to me and had come over to my site for a visit, go on ad
nauseam about being hit on by guys whenever they went camping; to Leclercville where
Rose Bellarance kindly let me camp on the front lawn of the rectory where I had a splendid
view of a ship making its way up the St. Lawrence toward the Atlantic; to Rigaud where I
again found solace and solitude at the shrine; to Ottawa where I met Bruce Sherry and
bought provincial crests for the Odyssey Jacket; and to Diane’s home where I rested
up for the ride back to Ridgeway.
"What are you doing
home?" I thought you’d be in…" was said by surprised home folk.
I kept to myself. Dad was
supportive. I checked into fares for flights and freight charges to England while I
advertised to sell my car and other items. There were no buyers.
Finally, in my calling for
airfreight charges, I tried a local freight forwarding company, Peace Bridge
Brokerage. I wasn’t looking for sponsorship when I called; I was shopping for
prices. I talked Ed Freeland, PBB’s founder, chairman and CEO. Dad and
Mr. Freeland had once served together on a local industrial commission.
"Come in and lets talk about
your trip," Mr. Freeland said.
I drove to the company’s
newly built corporate headquarters on Walnut Street in Fort Erie, across from the truck
freight lot below the Peace Bridge. I was escorted to Mr. Freeland’s lavish
office where I sat in an upholstered chair in front of his wide desk. He came
in. He was bald with a fringe of white hair. He was a solidly built man of
average height. He wore glasses with thick lenses and an expensive beige-color suit.
We exchanged some pleasantries and he sat down behind his desk.
"How may we help you,
Tom?"
I told him about my project and
that I was simply looking into prices. Silently, I hoped he might offer a
discount. He had already read the first story I had written for the Times-Review.
Just two minutes after we met, he called the company manager, Mike Carroll.
Mike seemed too young to be a
manager, with a boyish face, a ready smile and the simple straight style of his
hair. He looked like a university grad who just finished his exams and this was his
first day of work. But he was corporate office manager of the company Ed Freeland
had started from a single local office, turning into a corporation with offices throughout
North America and with affiliates in 38 countries.
"We’re going to
underwrite the air-freight of Mr. Smith’s scooter to England, Mr. Freeland said.
"Please show him around, Mike."
I was flushed. From then
on, it was truly "magic carpet service" – the slogan of the company.
Mike gave me the grand tour. I was introduced to cordial administrators and staff in
rooms that still reeked of fresh paint, new carpeting and state-of-the-art business
machines. I saw the immaculate cargo bay and the friendly crew that would be
handling Melawend. Mike shook my hand and turned me over to Mary Mattiazzo, the
manager of Freeland Travel Services. As she told me about her travels in Europe,
unwittingly giving rise to my wanderlust, she booked my flight to London.
When I stepped back into the hot
busy streets of Fort Erie, I felt like a bona fide man-with-a-mission, a credentialled
traveler – I could not believe my good fortune! And Mr. Freeland had not asked
for anything in return.
I took one last long solitary
walk along the abandoned railway line west of Ridgeway. Once again I felt alienated –
but very content because this time the leaving was assured and there would be no turning
back.
On a clear night a week later,
almost two months after I had scooted our of Ridgeway, I was sitting by a window on
Quebecair Flight 558 out of Toronto’s Lester B. Pearson International Airport, bound
for England. Cramped into the seats next to me were the Madon’s, an
African-Canadian couple who lived in nearby Mississauga. Shavak was an accountant
who was originally from Zanzibar (an island, now part of Tanzania). His genial wife
Frenny, snuggling at his shoulder, was from Mombasa, Kenya. They were one their way
to the wedding of a friend or relative in London where they had lived for five years
before coming to Canada many years ago. From London, they would be going to Africa
to visit family.
I left the Madons to their
affections. Their warmth was reassuring in a world that could be cold. I felt
hopeful – maybe I’ll even find Her out there,
somewhere. But their lovey-dovey ways made me feel my aloneness, and this
exaggerated my apprehensions. The drone of the engines powering me far away from
home made me realize that I couldn’t just turn around, even if I wanted to. It
didn’t help me to listen to Neil Diamond’s "America" on my walkman
when it would be so long before I would see North America again, if I did. I shut it
off. I took some comfort in knowing that my journey was finally, undeniably
underway. But as the Madons canoodled, I drifted off to sleep off wondering, What
the hell am I getting myself into?
