We're on our way at last on The Canadian, a historic, gleaming silver train. At first glance, my roomette seems impossibly tiny, but I soon figure out it's designed to maximize every square inch of space. The Murphy bed folds down neatly and is very comfy–a little nest from which you can look out the window (I brought a pillow from home so it's extra cozy). The little sink even has a separate tap with drinking water. There's a basket filled with toiletries and towels, like at a hotel. And although the car has a toilet (with a solid, box-like lid on which you can stash some stuff), I decide I'd rather use the big public bathroom a bit farther down. Nearby, there's a separate shower room as well.
You could spend the trip sitting in your roomette and looking out the window, but unless you're anti-social or have a communicable disease, I reckon exploring is way more fun. So Carol and I dump our bags and head for an observation car, which has a second story with a glass-domed ceiling and panoramic views (there were four of these on our train, and they're popular, though so far people seem good about not hogging the seats).
En route we pass a dining car, which looks like it could be a setting in an Agatha Christie novel. Elegant, etched-glass panels book-ended a space with tables set with pink and white linens and fresh flowers.
Following a “welcome aboard” champagne reception, it's lunchtime. I choose the vegetable soup, a pulled pork sandwich with barbecue sauce and coleslaw on a tasty bun along with salad and a chocolate-coconut brownie, washed down with a pot of tea. Yummy. And then I head off to “read my book” (translation: have a little snooze, which I never seem to have time for at home).
Along with Canadians, we have already met a number of folks from England and Scotland and a tour group from Germany. The train seems pleasantly full of travellers, including families with children, and most are making the trek to Vancouver.
The staff is amazingly friendly and hospitable. Faith, the lovely young woman who is in charge of our car, bends over backwards to make us feel at home–you can tell she's proud of “her” train. When we hit Sudbury, she urges me to look out and see how once-sterile land has been reclaimed and is now dotted by healthy young trees. I figure it must be her hometown, but I'm wrong. She's from Winnipeg.
Some things we've observed: if you're used to rushing around on a tight schedule, you have to consciously slow down when you travel by train and get into its slower rhythm. And just like on a plane, there's no smoking on board, so if you need a regular nicotine fix, it can be a l-o-n-g haul between stops, as Carol discovers. Although there's an activity centre with lots of board games and regularly scheduled movies and stuff, I'm glad I have a bag filled with books, but I wish I would have brought some music.
That evening, the train makes a few quick stops in the middle of nowhere to pick up passengers, some of them who board with canoes (apparently, you just need to give VIA 48 hours notice and they'll make unscheduled stops to pick you up–how Canadian is THAT?). The rain glistens on the windows, and once in awhile there's a flash of lightning. Everwhere I look there are gleaming lakes and stands of birch, spruce, pines and tamarack, punctuated from time to time by a lone cabin, or a small settlement of a few homes. I don't see any people or animals. We are deep, deep into northern Ontario and it's vast.
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