A Day on a Train – Canada 1985

2 September morning

At the Gâre Central in Montréal on Friday morning I was given a fine taste of mis-directed Gallic temper. As I was gathering my pack to descend the stairs, an irate Québequoise accosted me with a steely glare and said, “To ze back of ze line, young man! I have been waiting for an ow-ware.” A bit shocked at her rudeness, not to mention her mistake, I did not say what I was thinking and merely pleaded my case in an offended tone. The Americans who had been waiting next to me for an hour backed up my story.

She went down the stairs to board The Canadian in a huff, sure in her mind, I supposed, that she had been victimized once again by an American-led Anglo-Saxon imperialist conspiracy. I should have pointed out to her that two Francophone girls had indeed jumped the queue, but why stir up an international incident on such a fine Sunday morning, eh?

Anyway, wasn't it true that an ancestor on my Dad's side had indeed participated in the ill-fated proto-American invasion of Canada back in the 1770's? So perhaps this was karma?

It should be fun to mark where I take the photos in the Rail Ventures book. Unfortunately, I put 100 speed film in instead of 1000, so the first roll will probably be fuzzy.

Rural Québec: corn, goldenrod, rolling hills, trees, some quaint farm-houses, some plain.

Taking shots of scenic objects cited in the rail book. Excitement like “interesting ruins of stone fences” between Coteau and Alexandria. It all makes me feel rather Japanese. Am I enjoying the trip? Or is it the excitement of spectacularizing the trip for my friends at home what interests me more? I imagine that I'm a travel correspondent and thereby creating images for other to view (as audience) and this ability to mediate the rail journey, to turn it into a text of words and photographic images, gives the trip meaning and purpose.

I am alone in my traveling compartment. Any meaning given to the trip, at least until other passengers arrive to engage me socially, will have to be invented by moi.

The conductor often blows his train whistle, making a pleasant punctuation point to the ongoing rattle and sway of the train as we begin our journey from civilization to Indian country.

Just an hour-and-a-half out of Montréal I am beginning to feel truly relaxed. At last the gentle effects of leisure are beginning to work. I have nothing I must do, no one I must see, and not even any of the work of travel – tickets, rooms, porters, bitchy Québeckers – to be concerned with for the next three days. Ahh! This train-traveling business is rather nice.

Rural eastern Ontario. More of the same, with an occasional “English” touch now and again in the pre-fabricated Tudor-look house. Plenty of black and white cattle too.

Ottawa is next, then Toronto. For some reason, I feel as though I am now in the “real” Canada, or perhaps the heartland of Canada. The federal capital and the largest city are here, along with the only national Canadian newspaper, The Globe and Mail. I think it is true that when we Yanks think about Canada (which, sad to say, is not too often) it is really Ontario we are thinking of. Truth to say, it is Ontario which most closely resembles (so far) much of the US of A, at least in the look of its farms.

The very next stop is Maxville, Home of the Glengarry Highland Games. Oh god. Do you suppose anybody's playing bagpipes at the station?

After Casselman I see maples, scrub oaks, birch, ferns. Yes – some red maple leaves!

2 September afternoon

A pleasant lunch -- a cheesebuger, soup, 1/2 liter of wine for $C14.00. Met a couple of Anglophones from Montréal on thier way to North Bay. He looked just like Buddy Hackett and she a bit like Sally Jessie Raphael. When I told them, after talking about Montréal for a while, that I wished my French was better, he said "Why?" with an incredulous look. After explaining that I thought it would make visiting Montréal more fun, she said, "So you can catch everything they say, eh?", using much the same tone as an English-firster might in the States. So I see we ugly Americans don't have a stranglehold on cultural jingoism.

Speaking of cultural distinctions, here's one. French-language television in Montréal is noticeably different from English-language channles, whether from the USA or Canada. Lots of talk but not in the Anglo-American "talk show" format. It's more like "an evening at the café with Jean and Marie." I watched a show about the current international film festival on a French station. Neither of the two hosts was blandly beautiful in that Hollywood way. They made many interesting comments and were visibly enthused about the films, without the hype and "thumbs-up, thumbs-down" bull of a typical Siskel and Ebert episode.

On all of the French-language café-style talk shows people were debating art, culture, film, politics and fashion with tremendous élan and engagement. The news and sports shows were exactly like their English equivalents. The commercials even more so -- often the exact same except with a French voice rather than an English one.

What does all that signify? Is it related very closely to the way that French-Canadians and other Latin cultures (French, Italian, Spanish) "read" and "write" their cities? Perhaps I can generalize and say -- with major exceptions noted -- that Anglo-oriented cultures are more apt to create a "city walking script" that is utilitarian and pragmatic, that puts a great deal of effort into maintaining patterns of personal space, that "writes in" the "sacredness of the individual" while at the same time surrenders it completely to "otherness" in terms of recognizing and elevating the power of the seller and producer over that of the consumer.

At Ottawa station two American buusinessmen agree that "nothing stands up against a Caterpillar."

Here the announcements are first in English, followed by badly-pronounced French. But the stewardess has two perfect accents.

Passed the Canadian equivalent of the Internal Revenue Service on the way out of Ottawa. Somehow it struck me funny that the sign said "Revenue Canada" twice, that is, in English and in French, despite the fact that it is exactly the same in both languages. Harumph, I thought, taking on the Anglo perspective, isn't it a bit "Francophonic" to use the somewhat Gallicized form, putting the adjectival part of the name after the noun in the case of taxation? In other words, doesn't "Canada Revenue" sound more correct to an English speaker?

I like this country immensely. The conductor is a knock-out, eh? People wave at the train! And Montréal's gay boys are the best...

Overheard in the dining car:

Ugly American #1: "Is Nova Scotia a province? How about Newfoundland?"

Ugly American #2: "No. That's an island."

Ugly American #1: "I can't tell one province from another."

After Ottawa's suburbs, more rural Ontario. Lots of short pines, birch, maples, more suburbs and condo-clusters, some downed phone lines.

ZZZzzzzzz -- time to take a nap.

OK. After Arnprior, now there are sheep, log barns. Starting to look a bit more like Ohio or something. Big pines, though. Hmm.. a billboard for McDonald's. Brown and white cattle. A Westinghouse factory.

The sign in the Men's Lav states, in 2 languages of course, that spitting and gambling are not permitted in any Canadian National rail cars. Must remember to keep that in mind. I wonder if the Ladies' has the same warning?

A herd of white cattle running away from the train reminds me that I've never seen cattle running before.

"Fred Street" is in Petawawa, Ontario, where all of the businesses appear to be owned by Germans. Haven't seen any signs in French in quite some time now. You can, however, book a trip directly from Petawawa to Britain, one sign informs me.

Took a trip to the bar car at 4 PM. Found a table full of French-Canadians drinking and talking with the cook. One of the "Caterpillar" businessmen from the Grand Old Republic was glumly drinking alone.

A handsome young lad on his second Labatt's sat and looked bemusedly out the window.