An Irishman abroad

Canadian Road Trip - Part 1

CANADIAN ROAD TRIP – NOVEMBER 2002
PART ONE

"You're listening to Q101 the loudest radio station in the north east,” the DJ happily announced, before proceeding into some intellectual debate with the rest of the team in the studio about 'Sphincterene' - the latest in anal hygiene.

I woke up, groaning and rubbing my head - tender from the previous evening's activies, swearing to never do it again, when I realised that there hadn't been any 'activities' the night before. In fact, for three nights running I had been in bed before 10 am, with the total alcohol intake for those three days consisting of 3 Bud Lites (why oh why do them bloody Yanks insist on spelling words like that, in this way?) and the one Rolling Rock. OK - it's not exactly going to get me a lifetime achievement award at the Betty Ford clinic but comparatively speaking, I'm living the life of a Benedictine monk. That is, if these are the monks who don't consume any alcohol, compared with those Belgian monks that spend there lives worshipping God by brewing the strongest beer known to mankind and flogging it to touring English Rugby teams so that they can expose themselves publicly and set fire to their genitals.

So feeling refreshed from my life of sobriety, I bounce into the shower.

OK - this is perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. Night out or not, I never have been and never will be 'a morning person' the later and darker it is the better, as far as I'm concerned. After doing the "3 S's" (If this needs explaining then go ask somebody else - my Mum's going to read this!!), I return to the room where the chatter on the radio continues relentlessly. Seemingly one of the team had an embarrassing experience the previous week. One that he did not want shared with the doubtless millions of people that were listening to the radio on this particular Thanksgiving morning. After much pleading and begging that the story not be shared with the listeners, the head DJ, a guy with the catchy moniker of Greg Smith, decided to share with us the cause of this poor guy's embarrassment.
Let's call the guy Steve, err, because that's his name.
It seems that the previous week - Steve had been suffering from a bad case of 'the runs'. Unfortunately one of the 'attacks' took place whilst he was enjoying a refreshing shower. Yep, before poor Steve could do anything about it, he was doing the moonwalk in his one faeces in the shower.
Not one of the better starts to the morning I think you will agree.
Upon hearing this, the whole studio erupted in wild bouts of laughter. (I have to admit to the little snigger myself). But the guy sounded really pissed off and hurt that the story had been shared. Which of course encouraged his colleagues to laugh even more wildly and loudly. His comment "It's not funny - have you ever had to stuff your own crap down the plughole of your shower with your own feet?!" - practically gave the rest of the team a coronary. Myself included.

But I digress.

So as soon as I was dressed and packed for my road trip - I decided to nip into the office. (I know, I know - I'm too good for this job). So out I go to my rented car. My trusty steed for the journey. A Ford Sable for anyone that is interested - a beast of a vehicle. Certainly when compared to a Beetle at any rate. It took some time for me to find the car as it was covered in several inches of snow and ice. When I got to it, I unlocked the car with the remote on the key ring. I opened the door and threw my holdall across to the passengers seat cursing as I realised that I had just thrown it onto my CD Discman and my Garth Brooks CD collection.
Suddenly I realised - my Discman was back in Ireland and I have never owned, nor am likely to own a Garth Brooks CD - let alone the whole back catalogue!
I had actually opened the door of the car parked next to mine!! I felt so guilty! Covered in snow, I had heard the doors in my car unlock, but was unable to tell that I was actually stood beside the wrong car. Furtively glancing around the car park - I removed my bag and then went to my own car. Which was covered in snow and ice as well. 15 minutes of desperate scraping, wiper blades wiping, engine running, rear window heater, err, heating and eventually my car was more or less driveable.

Half an hour in the office and it was time to hit the road. 08:30 - by my calculations I would be in Cornwall, Ontario by 14:30.

For the first 200 miles the journey was spent around the 85 mph mark. The local authorities are obviously used to these sort of snowfalls, so when it came to the motorway - sorry highway driving - there was no snow on the road at all. There was, however, plenty of snow everywhere else to be seen, which offered some spectacular views of the Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Vermont countrysides - passing signposts bearing familiar town names such as Athens, Springfield, Dorchester, Derry, Londonderry, Manchester, Windsor and New London. (The first settlers weren't very original when it came to naming places, were they? - I suppose they were spending too much time fighting Mel Gibson)
After about 170 miles - I stopped at a service station in a place called Lebanon. (You'd think 'George W' would have passed a bill through the Senate to get this name changed). I stopped off and bought breakfast - 6 mini "dunkin' donuts" (glazed) and a bottle of Pepsi. Oh how quickly I was adapting to the US culture! I also bought a map. Which of course would have been a good thing to do BEFORE the trip started but, better late than never as they say. Much to my surprise I was still on track. Actually all I had to do up to this point was follow one highway for 45 miles and then another one for 160. And let's face it - as long as I kept following the signposts for north - I couldn't go wrong. I never really shone academically and geography wasn't my strong point but even I knew that Canada sits on top of the US.

So - suitably pleased with my purchases and thoroughly refreshed from my "good ol' fashioned traditional American breakfast" I went out to the car to read the map. Basically all I had to do, was follow the highway Interstate-89 northbound until just after a place called Burlington. Little did I know, but by leaving the Interstate, I was also leaving behind civilisation. If, Dear Reader, you are even remotely interested (and let's face it - why should you be?) you can check on the map. Leaving at exit 17 takes you across a bridge to an island (of sorts), called Grand Isle. Driving through this island for approximately 30 miles takes you through three towns: Grand Isle (and believe me it was anything but) and the wonderfully named South Hero and North Hero. Honest to God folks - there was nothing to see apart from a few campsites. I guess in the summer time they must get a lot of fishermen but at this time of the year - business is sloooooow. Granted - it was Thanksgiving, so I would expect things to be a little quiet. But this part of the world had a big sign in large pink neon letters reading "Jonny - this is no place for you". The night before I had watched the movie Misery and I have to admit, I was just doing all I could to make sure that the car stayed on the road....

Having negotiated my way along the island I came to Alburg, near Rouse's point, right at the top of Vermont State, on the border with Canada. At this point I came to a T-Junction. I could go left which read 'US-11 south' or to the right which said "To Canada". I can only surmise, what you dear reader would do if you found yourself in a similar situation, but what I did was make a break for the border and follow the road to the big flagpole with the proud maple leaf blowing in the wind. Canada here I come!!

After a mile or so, I arrived at the customs checkpoint, or "douane" as those bloody French insist on calling it (sorry - still trying to get over the whole Kodak experience). I was the only car at the checkpoint but was still made to wait five minutes whilst the lady finished her phone call. She pushed back the glass window and greeted me with a "Bonjour!". Fighting back the nervous twitch in my left eye as flash backs of cold warehouses and 36-hour shifts came flooding back I replied with a cheerfully strained "Bon Jewer - Sava?"
At this point I should point out to you, dear reader, ,that I am a dab hand when it comes to the old linguistics. I have been edumacated in the way of the foreign language, having received a 'C' in my GCSE French, after 5 years of study. It therefore came as no surprise to hear the ladies next question in English. I fear that she had finally met her match in this Irish cunning linguist.
"Where do you live?"
"Ammm, actually, it's a wee bit complicated - I'm from Ireland"
"So that's where you live?"
"Err, no - not exactly - I live in Belgium"
"So what brings you to Canada?"
"I am going to visit my aunt in Cornwall"
"When was your last visit to Canada?"
"This is my first time!" I proudly announced. I felt like some modern day Christopher Columbus exploring the four corners of the world - only to find that the Irish had got there already. I feel the need to mention this, because time and time again - I have heard this nonsensical theory that Columbus first discovered the Americas in 1492, whilst looking for a shortcut to India. Bah and indeed humbug!!. Everyone knows the Irish were already there drinking poteen, shagging sheep and fighting each other over their traditional route to Burger King long before old Columbo and his gang of reprobates set foot anywhere near the land of the free.

Anyway, back to the story....
"How long are you planning on staying?"
"Just until Sunday"
"Apart from clothing have you brought anything else, such as electronic devices?"
"No"
"What about presents?"
A sudden pang of guilt went through me. I hadn't thought to bring anything! But I quickly recovered and said "I'm the present!" and then gave her a heart-warming smile which felt about as heart-warming as receiving the news that you've just been given the contract to renovate Fred West’s patio. Still - she seemed to buy into it and stamped my passport.
"MERCY BOKE-UP!" I replied as I drove off into Canada - Cornwall, here I come!.

A few moments later - I came to a signpost that was in English and bloody French. I thought they only went for this sort of crap in bloody Quebec. Anyway, being the cunning linguist, I was able to translate what was said on the various signs (the fact that the English translation was there as well, was of course completely unnecessary).

After a few miles I saw a signpost for Montreal. Now this was a little bit worrying. I pulled off (not myself - the road) and parked to consult my map just outside a small place called 'St. Bernard de Lacolle'. (I mean - the clues were right there in front of me - but I am sure the more astute readers amongst you will already realise where this is going). Much to my horror I was in the province of the bloody French speaking Canucks - bloody Quebec, heading north away from Cornwall! I was supposed to go west! The only thing I could do was go back to the border crossing, into America and head west through northern New York State.

A quick U-turn and 15 minutes later, I was back at the crossing, only this time on the American side. This was a different kettle of fish all together. There stood a guy in the bomber jacket, shades, huge chest and obligatory military style buzz hair cut. His manner matched the image completely. Short, abrupt and devoid of personality. But after he had asked me what I was doing, who did I work for, where I was going, who did the car belong to, who rented it, how long I would be in the US for, looked in my 'trunk,' looked through my luggage, checked the back seats and checked out my passport - he was more than happy to send me on my way. Cornwall here I come - again!

Now - dear reader - remember what I told you about (not so) Grand Isle? Well - multiply that tenfold and you still wouldn't be close to the sites that I saw. I journeyed westwards along the north of New York State, going through (but never stopping) such places as Champlain, Mooers (snigger), Ellenburg, Chateaugay (naughty giggle), Constable, Westville, Bombay(?????!) and Burke (laugh out loud and contemplate getting my photograph taken stood outside the town's sign and emailing the picture to loaded magazine). There is a lot of poverty - and I was left to ponder just what these people do to make ends meet. Judging by some of the houses - the ends are far from meeting. So then I got thinking - what do they do to amuse themselves? I hadn't seen a pub in aaaaages. Come to think of it - since I left the highway more than 120 miles before I didn't recall seeing a pub of any sort. Now of course I realise there is many other rewarding and fulfilling ways to relax and socialise with fellow human beings (I realise this - but I just choose not to try any of them) but surely in a place like this - there would be even more cause for alcohol to serve up some sort of escape from the depressing environment? Perhaps they all dabbled in a little bit of "Ol' Grandpa’s cough medicine" as distilled by the locals.

It wasn't until I came across a reserve for native Americans very close to the border with Canada between Fort Covington and Hogansburg, , that I actually saw some of the finer sites in life. Casinos, bingo halls, liquor stores, duty free shops were all in abundance. It almost brought a tear to my eye!

A few miles up the road I arrived at the Industrial Plants Bridge, which was to be my second route into Canada over the Lawrence River. At the border patrol I went through some more of the same drill with a young customs officer. All the same questions were asked and answered in the same way as before.

Which was not a good idea.

When it came to the "When was the last time you were in Canada?" part, I replied "No - this is my first time". Of course, Dear Astute Reader, I am sure that you can already see the flaw in this response. As the guard studied my passport he came across the Canadian stamp on it, from my earlier 'visit' to Canada. Using the powers of all my verbal agility I had to then try and explain as to what happened. Obviously this worked an absolute treat because he then instructed me to park the car and to take a form to immigration control. So there I am walking into the office, confronted with three desks - 2 of them had miserable looking men and the third had a female who smiled a hello to me. I thought it best to go for her. When I walked to her, the guard shouted at me from his booth to "get to the far desk!". Welcome to Canada indeed!

So there I was answering all the same questions for the fourth time that day. At this point I made a mental note to write all the responses on a white card and pretend to be a deaf mute, should I ever find myself in a similar situation. Still, the guy turned out to be a lot friendlier than he looked, and because Cornwall is the first town that you come to once you cross the bridge it turned out that he was actually a Cornwallite himself. He even took the time to draw me a map showing how to find the library where my aunt Daphne worked. It was only when he admitted to being a couple of days overdue with a video that he had borrowed from the library, that I saw his hidden agenda. So with a thanks and a jolly "I'll see what I can do about that video" I bade him farewell and crossed the bridge into Cornwall, Ontario, CANADA!".

After driving for a few blocks (you see - I'm getting the lingo already) I arrived at the library at 14:25. Pretty good going - 5 minutes ahead of schedule, even with the detour into bloody Quebec. I approached a friendly looking lady behind the counter and enquired about the whereabouts of my aunt. It turned out that she was in a meeting and would be until four. What to do? So I asked her if she could give me directions to a nice bar where I could go and read my book.
Yes, yes Dear Astute Reader - the complete irony of asking in a library for directions to a bar where I could go and read a book was totally and completely lost on me.
For a few moments she wrestled for an idea for somewhere to send me, which I must admit, did get me more than a wee bit worried. She finally decided on a place called Mario's which was "nice, but a little bit out of town".
As I thanked her for her help, a customer (is this what you call somebody that uses a library?) came to the desk and suggested some other places including a rock bar with no windows that she described as a "little bit different". Sounded just the place for me! She offered to show me where the place was by following her in my car. So off I go following her car for a few blocks until we arrive at the scene of my afternoon tipple - "La Maison". Now as I explained before - I can 'parlley fronsez'. It was a bit grim despite the classy name but I thought, he who dares wins, and after thanking the lady I made my way for the entrance, my book firmly clasped in my hand.

It was at this point that I heard an annoying squeaking noise. I turned around and there was a homeless person walking with a shopping trolley loaded 6 feet high with all sorts of stuff. Now this on it's own, whilst being quite a sorry sight, is unfortunately not something which is a rare occurrence. Homelessness is all too prevalent back home as well. But the reason I tell this to you, Dear Reader is not to pull at your heartstrings but rather to explain my first proper dialogue with a real life Cornwallite (well two to be precise).
As I watched this guy pushing all of his life's belongings past in this trolley, two patrons of La Maison stumbled out of the bar, complete with lumberjack shirts, beards, body warmers and baseball caps. I felt like an unwanted extra in the de Niro movie, The Deerhunter.
One guy said to the other "Now that's one way of moving home!" and they both erupted into wheezy smokers laughs. I mumbled, more to myself than to anyone in particular, "yeah - the fucking hard way" and whilst it wasn't intended as a joke, it had such an effect it was as if I'd told the one about the three guys that go into the bar - one with a shovel, one with a gun and one with a parrot on his shoulder...but, ,once again, I digress. They cackled their creepy laughs, one saying "fucking right partner!" and off they staggered into their car. With a deep intake of breath I stepped into the breach......

...And was actually quite surprised. I suppose when you fear the worst, anything less than that comes as a pleasant bonus. It was quite a spacious bar. Dark and dingy, yes - but that applies to any Irish pub you ever go into - apart from Kitty O'Shea's in bloody Paris. There were several men sat around the bar and I bid them all a 'top of the morning' whilst I did an Irish jig bidding them to all "follow me to the end of the rainbow, foine sirs, for there's a pot of gold at the end waitin' fer yez all" OK - perhaps not. I gave them all a non-threatening nod of the head and sat at a stool away from them all and ordered a Labbat Blue Lite. Pretty tame stuff compared to Belgian brews but exactly what I was looking for. I opened my book and settled into it once more, occasionally surveying my surroundings. There were lots of TV's showing sport, pool tables, stage for the live bands and beards. It was like the annual convention of the Cornwall ZZ-Top fan club! I realised that I would have to make a real effort to grow some facial hair to blend in with this lot. It is only now as I write this on the Friday evening after having walked about Cornwall with the snow and the cold wet winds blowing in my face that I have learnt to appreciate the advantages of having a good healthy beard covering half your face (another helpful tip for you, Dear reader).

Still, they were friendly enough in a "Let's stare at but don't talk to the guy at the end of the bar reading a book with babies bum fluff on his chin as an excuse for a beard" kind of way. I finished my book and my beer and bid them all farewell. It took me some sweet-talking to convince them that I didn't know where any pot of gold was, and eventually they went back into the bar...

As I had left the library, following the lady in the car, I had happened to notice a bar tucked away in the corner of the library car park called Rosie McGoos. It seemed suitable enough for my requirements - dark and dingy, selling alcohol and right outside the library, so I made Rosie my next port of call.

to be continued....