Travelogue

Day 1, Hamilton to Halifax

As the economic benefit of Canadians crossing the border kills our economy stateside, we decided to bob when they weave. And so it came to be Wednesday was Day 1 of a 10-day trip to Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton.

Beth and I reasoned that we have several truths on our side. 1) Canadians, as a nation, hate our President but don’t hold it against us. 2) Trump can’t mess with the FAA or the TSA in Canada. 3) The Exchange rate (73%, USD/CD helps. That means $100 US=$73 Canadian.)

The drive

We headed across the Lewiston/Queenston Bridge without a hassle. “Where are you headed today?” asked the guard, “Hamilton airport.” “Where are you traveling to?” “Nova Scotia.” “What is the purpose of your trip?” “We are on holiday.” (Saying vacation is to speak American.)

We headed out the QEW until hitting traffic, navigating with Google maps which took us onto a sideroad to miss morning congestion. That seems smart as you zip past traffic until you catch up with the 487 people smart enough to do the same thing and now embracing an alternative traffic jam.

We halved our traffic consumption when we moved to the Falls from Clarence. Everything used to be 20 minutes away. Now it is 10. It is a quality of life issue. The closer you get to Toronto, the uglier it gets. We weren’t even to CheektoHamilton and here’s trouble.

We arrived at the airport, found easy parking and headed inside. Smaller than Buffalo, more exciting than Niagara Falls Airport.

Inside the door, a chipper employee greeted us with a smile and welcome and let us know since we prechecked there was no need to queue for the counter, we could go straight to security.

Security and the terminal

The staff was cheerful, helpful, multi-national and decidedly polite. Every item passing through needs to go through the scanner, from belts to wallet, phone and keys. The woman behind me didn’t see I was not nearly naked and grabbed the next bin.

“I need one more,” I said. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing it toward me. It was my first gratuitous Canadian apology of the morning.

Our screener didn’t speak much English and I didn’t hear her ask if I had a laptop. Now it was my turn to apologize because I held up the line. Honestly, I did not understand her and we travel infrequently enough I didn’t knowbetter. If I were Mark Twain we could be “The Innocents Abroad” but that’s a different book.

After a quick scolding and a rescreen, I apologized so profusely as I redressed the second screener gave me an “I’m sorry, it’s OK.” (No. 2 of the day)

Reflecting on Canadian Crowds

It was the second time in two days dealing with Canadian crowds. Tuesday, I had a Canadian/American driving tour. We take guests to the Maid of the Mist, Goat Island, DiCamillo’s, my front yard (OK, not really but that’s what I call Whirlpool State Park. I am having trouble with Aunt Kathy’s new name, Niagara Falls State Park, Whirlpool Park. There were 5,000 people there last weekend just because of the name change. That’s 500 people each counted 10 times, but hey, that’s how they count in Albany.)

Stateside Niagara Falls there are limited crowds. Everything is peaceful, lined with a quarter-mile of greenspace and parkland. Canada is chaos, ruled by car-friendly infrastructure and crowds.

Anyway, after eating our DiCamillo’s lunch at a picnic table in my front yard, we headed across Lewiston/Queenston to taste some syrup at Maple Leaf Village. It is a big, commercial , car-friendly tourist trap with obsequious staff, a Mounty cutout to pose with for that special family photo and free syrup tasting.

We sipped our sugar shots and my guests grabbed a $27 pint of dark for the road. (Hey, it’s not that expensive, you know, exchange rate. And who cares if you need to scan, tap, slide your card 15 times before the machine relents and lets the transaction go through?)

After syrup, we followed the road next to the river past the honkytonk hotels, Wolf Lodge and other polite nonsense preceding Table Rock parking lot, stopping to let the crowds pass at the crosswalk as orange-vested gendarmes waved us on, whistle clenched in teeth in case we needed to be blown into compliance. Table Rock charges $38 to park in the mall-like lot. After walking a half-mile across the lot, you enter a mall-like space where honky tonk beckons.

Within, “Niagara Takes Flight” is a virtual reality ride complete with mist, sound and motion. Canada celebrates how it has preserved the nature and heritage of the place it has overdeveloped by shaking you in a multi-million dollar indoor amusement park ride.

My guests were headed for “Journey Behind the Falls”, one of four attempts in Canada that tries and fails to replicate Cave of the Winds.

It seems like there is no line – hey, timed tickets. What can go wrong? What they don’t tell you is you will be heading down an elevator to a mural-filled room with a rope queue and 250 of your closest, multinational friends before walking down a dank tunnel to get a view of the Horseshoe Falls up close and personal but without the chance to get pounded by Bridal Veil Falls on the Hurricane Deck. (I tell our Punjabi visitors it is the typhoon deck.)

I bought a coffee and waited in the mall-like foodcourt. A slice of Cheektowaga’s Walden Galleria just a stone’s throw from the desecrated national wonder.

It took about an hour for my guests to return and head outside to enjoy the online thing that is better on the Canadian side, a view of all three waterfalls at one time as cars zoom past and crowds press forward. The view looks wonderful. The fumes? Not so much.

I delivered my guests back to their stateside hotel. We had proven a truism again. The only thing better in Niagara Falls, Canada is the view of all three waterfalls at the same time and the wonton soup from Country Fresh Donuts. (You have to try it but cash only). It was the 2nd time in two days a small, private tour ended with guests showing tears of gratitude, hugging me and giving a $100 tip. Dang, maybe I’m good at this, anyway, back to the airport.

Back at the concourse

You can have any gate you want, as long as it is A or B because there are only two. The choices for eats are narrow, a coffee shop with a surprisingly good pastry selection, a narrow version of Tim Hortons and a bar for that early morning Bloody Caesar. I went for a medium Americano and an almond crescent oozing with sugary goodness.

I had time to finish before they called our seats for boarding. Porter Air flies smallish Bombardier jets with four seats per row. After they call your row, you walk across the tarmac and carry your belongings up the staircase. We each had a carry on and a backpack as our personal item. No one gets stuck with the middle seat because there is none. There is also no seatback TV.

Once we reached altitude over Lake Ontario, the Porter flight attendants pranced through the aisle offering almond, cookies of chick peas. I opted for the garbanzos. Salty, crunchy and grown in Canada.

As I munched, I grabbed the Re:Porter magazine from the seatback. It was the May/June edition and decidedly dog-eared. It offered bulleted suggestions for things to do in Porter destination cities like Calgary, Vancouver, Cancun and Halifax with particularly Canadian respect for diversity, First Nations people and just enough quirkiness to keep it interesting.

The beverage cart came through with complimentary offerings including red and white wine, Molson, Moosehead and Cracked Canoe as well as non alcoholic drinks. (I don’t know if it was British English or a typo, but complimen/complement). I was ready for a Cracked Canoe, because I never heard of it, but when I noticed the server gave the guy in front of us a solid 6-ounce wine pour I went for it, mouthing “red”.

She saw white and I accepted it in silence. It could have been apology No. 3 of the day but I didn’t want to see wine go to waste. As we traveled, there were lakes, streams and freshly plowed fields passing below.

I dozed off hard, waking with a start, disoriented, not knowing where I was. Not as badly as July of 1987 when we were on a ViaRail train to Quebec on our wedding night, but close. It sounds trite, but I am still madly in love with my first wife. I still remember waking on that train to the click-clack of the rail car not know where I was. It’s worked out OK so far.

Adding it up

I had tour guests in the Falls last week ask where they could read my writings. I gave them a business card for www.niagaraexpress.town.news but then I thought about it some more. I need to build out collateral and a Website for private tour business.

As it is now, I have AirBnb and Bed and Breakfast owners who several times a year refer me guests for a private tour. The difference between me and the big operators is 1) I charge less because it is just me and maybe one or two carefully chosen guides and 2) Many tour companies say they will share revenue with people who send them guests. I actually do.

That said, on the Express Website, several categories will remain. It’s just that if I remain consistent, if you go to my site and search, “Travelogue” “In Depth” or “Tour Tales” you will have a mediocre compilation of my ramblings to peruse.

“In Depth” for interviews with important community figures. Next two are Niagara Falls Mayor Restaino and retiring School Superintendent Mark Laurrie. Sara Capen, Janelle Faso and Don King are on my radar as well.

“Tour Tales” for writing about the guests with whom I have the privilege of sharing my city.

“Travelogue” for when Beth and I journey to places like Ireland or the Maritime Provinces and I write about it.

We travel differently than most people, seeking small places, mom-and-pop businesses and real people trying to stay off the highways and among the real.