Moncton

I’m in Moncton. I’ve had to repeat it to myself over and over again. When I was talking Joanne’s ear off last night. When I woke up in Cyan’s bed this morning. Again at breakfast time. And now, again.

At around 9pm in Riviere du Loup I looked up the Acadian Bus Schedule online and discovered that I could have caught a bus to Moncton at 11am and would have already arrived there at 8pm. I could have been been tucked up in a familiar bed instead of being sleep deprived in Northern Quebec waiting for the Midnight Train.

My initial reaction was angry frustration. What the ****! I had asked all the right questions and been told that there was definitely only one bus passing through Rivieire du Loup at 4am. Yes it was a crazy time but there were no others. Sorry about that Madam. Why had I trusted the man? Why hadn’t I verified that he knew what he was talking about? Why hadn’t I gotten myself organised earlier? Why must I always procrastinate? My head was taking a severe beating from an imaginary plank.

A few hours later it had changed to resignation. In over 48 hours I had only had 2 hours sleep and my mind was spinning round and around, unable to make traction. I reconsidered my situation. Clearly I am supposed to be here. But why? Could someone please spell it out for me? Am I being punished for my lack of organisation? For being a lecherous old lady?

Just before Midnight my cab arrived, I dropped off my key in the Courier Box by the door and headed to the station where I was just one of two passengers. My ticket said that the train should arrive at 6 minutes after midnight (I love the degree of precision that VIA uses, given that most of the trains run at least an hour late) and I asked the man in the office if the train was on time. He responded that yes it was, which was interesting given that the train only got in at 30 minutes after midnight. I guess everything is relative.

I could only find a single seat (everyone else in the carriage was stretched out over a double) but there are times when being petite is advantageous and I managed to curl up in a tiny ball with my coat over my head and a via rail pillow and blanket for extra ‘comfort’ and slept fitfully for a few hours.

In Campbelton we got stuck for an awfully long time. I drifted in and out of sleep but each time I looked out of the window the Campbellon sign was still there. At around 5 they announced that due to freezing conditions some of the pipes had frozen up and they’d been defrosting them for the last 90 minutes. I sat there in my exhausted haze wondering if Winter had come as a surprise to them and whether this kind of thing happens every day or just once a year. Whether the engineers had stood there shaking their heads, muttering ‘Didn’t something like this happen last year too?’

Shortly afterwards I saw the sea. And then it dawned on me. I was meant to arrive in New Brunswick by train. The train follows the coast while the bus goes inland, through mile after mile of Irving tree plantation. The train moves from French, through mostly French, to to Bilingual, while the bus goes right from French to Angloville then back to Bilingual again. The bus would have arrived in the dark while the train arrives in daylight. The bus station in Moncton is just another dingy bus station, while the train station is a symbol of Moncton’s CN past. It took a whole lot longer to get to Moncton by train but I think that I needed that time. It had to feel like a real journey. I needed time to reflect. Not only on Quebec but on the voyage as a whole.

I arrived at the Moncton train station just as Joanne walked though the doors to meet me. “Did you just arrive?” she asked. “Wow, this is perfect timing.”

I had to agree.

Riding the Malahat to Nanaimo

The Malahat is the name of the train that runs from Victoria up to Courtney on Vancouver Island. It’s not the prettiest looking train but it goes through some marvellous scenery including over a really high scary bridge. Grant managed to get me there in time to depart at 8am, so I hugged him thanks and asked him to pass the hug onto Rachel who I’d only waved to in passing the night before. Chica had decided that it really was time that she took me for a walk to visit the cows and then to stare at the neighbors mansions and pee on their lawns (her not me) so I passed Rachel in the gloom as she was (as is her pattern each and every morning and night) turning off (or on) the irrigation.
The train ride was one of those blessed accidents that happens only because you don’t plan weeks in advance. I’d been talking about catching the Greyhound when someone in Victoria (I can’t for the life of me think who, but thanks!) told me that there was a railway line and, unlike most of VIA rail, it was actually cheaper than catching the bus.
I should mention that railways in Canada are hilarious. There is a rule that they must sound the whistle at EVERY level crossing and between Victoria and Nanaimo there were level crossings approximately every 50 yards. And they go so slow that I’m sure I could have walked there faster… but perhaps not with my pack on my back. But true to most railways they travels through the kind of spectacular scenery that highways users are denied, at such a pace that if you miss something with your camera you can sprint down the carriage and catch it as you pass it for the second time.

Ahhhh, preeety

2 and a half hours later (I think it’s only 1 hour by bus) I arrived in Nanaimo hoping that my Couch Surfing host had remembered that I was coming and was relieved to recognise him waiting in the car-park. I had chosen Jack out of a list of a dozen or so profiles based on the following criteria

• Not below the age of 25
• Logged on recently (and therefore was more likely to receive my last minute request)
• Preferably female
• Calm looking
• Interesting sounding
• Positive feedback from other couch surfers
• Didn’t look like a serial killer

Jack is a world traveller, originally from Saskatchewan, who chose Nanaimo over every other city in Canada as his home base. He’s also a very spontaneous kind of guy so while on the tour of the area he decided to swing into someone’s driveway and a take me to an open house (I’d just asked about the cost of houses in the area) of a $480,000 home that neither of us could afford to buy and the Realtor knew it.

We also took in their rather disappointing Farmers’ Market (it took 10 minutes to get around the entire thing), the harbour and downtown Nanaimo AND consumed some Nanaimo bars which were surprisingly good.

World Famous Nanaimo Bars

The entire time Jack was regaling me with fact after fact about the area, all of which was fascinating and which I was desperately trying to file in places in my brain where I might actually be able to retrieve them in the future.

I made supper that night and Jack offered to drive me out to Tofino. Now given that most of the time I have had no idea where I am (how very apt!) I thought that Tofino must be just up the coast. Perhaps a 30 minute drive away. So I accepted and said thank you very much. Then I went to sleep and slept like the proverbial log in a spare room decorated with artefacts from Jack’s work in the Arctic where he lived for 4 years as a weather man for Environment Canada.

Jack is a world traveller, originally from Saskatchewan, who chose Nanaimo over every other city in Canada as his home base. He’s also a very spontaneous kind of guy so while on the tour of the area he decided to swing into someone’s driveway and a take me to an open house (I’d just asked about the cost of houses in the area) of a $480,000 home that neither of us could afford to buy and the Realtor knew it.