Where I last left you on my quest to see a live episode of Saturday Night I was sleeping, or trying to sleep, on a sidewalk. On that sidewalk I made a discovery.

People made themselves right at home.

Do you know why homeless people are grumpy? It’s because they sleep on the sidewalk, and there’s no such thing as a good night’s sleep on a sidewalk. If there was only one lesson to be learned from my excursion to NYC it would be that. This revelation doesn’t mean I’m going to offer my bed to the next homeless person I see. That would be both unsafe and less than practical; I would have to wash my sheets more often than scheduled. But now, if nothing else, I can empathize as well as sympathize with their situation.

That all being said, I did get some sleep that night, and I must emphasize the brevity of this sleep. This sleep was only had after Will Ferrell drove past in a black SUV. If people in our line could trade one of their digits for his autograph there would be a lot of people counting to nine – or lower depending on their level of celebrity enthusiasm.

Fortunately there was a light at the end of the dirty paved tunnel. At 7:00 that morning we would get our standby tickets for the show. 

In order to better appreciate the decision Liam and I were left with I will briefly explain the SNL standby ticket distribution policy.

Saturday Night Live rules!

At the seventh hour of the sixth day, those who have proudly stayed the course are given numbered standby tickets to that night’s show. BUT, and I must emphasize the largeness of this caveat, you, the recipient of this ticket, must choose whether you would like a ticket to see the live show, which quite obviously is the one you and I struggle to stay awake for most Saturday nights, or you can get a ticket to the dress rehearsal that happens earlier in the evening. There are no guarantees for either, and after talking to some seasoned veterans – experts at waiting in line that is – there was no real strategy to be had. You pick and stick.

Having come this far, Liam and I took the ‘Go big or go home’ philosophy and went for the live show. Our ticket numbers were 25 and 26. We were told – by ‘experts’ – this wasn’t a terrible position to be in, that here was hope. The two hundred people behind us on the other hand, were, for a lack of a better word, fucked.

This is 'nature' in the big apple.

So pleased with ourselves and now unshackled from our concrete tether we fled to Central Park to sleep more, or sleep at all. We had our tickets, we did not have our Canada Flag chairs. In the thrill of the moment we had left our chairs on the sidewalk we called home. By the time we realized our mistake we were too tired, weak and far away to get our Canada flag upholstered chairs. I assumed a nice homeless couple would use them to masquerade as stranded Canadians. A Canada flag chair is as good as a passport at the border. We were wrong, but not about the chair passport thing.

In Central Park Liam and I did our best to get more shut-eye. Despite being more comfortable than concrete, neither of us got any more sleep. On some days it feels like my body and brain are not working towards the same goal of survival. Sleepless in the park, I decided there really is no where in Manhattan for a man without a bed to get a decent nights sleep. This should not come as a surprise.

After visiting the cultural institutions of New York – FAO Schwartz and the Apple Store – it was time for lunch. And through the miracle of mobile phone technology and roaming charges costing 75 cents a text – which Bell was happy enough to remind me about – I had arranged with my cousin Erin to meet up for a picnic in the park.

All of my relatives live in America. As such I don’t see them very often, but some even more seldom than others. Erin held the title of the most distant relative. It had been around fifteen years since our last meeting. With this in mind there were a few possible problems with our picnic.

1. Erin might not recognize me
2. I might not recognize her
3. Erin might not like me
4. I might make one or both of her kids cry – which happens a lot, especially in South Korea
5. I might make her husband cry – which doesn’t happen often
6. And finally, the biggest problem of all (cause everybody likes me ) what if we just couldn’t find them in all the madness of the city?

We did find them, and we had a swell picnic in the very park we had just tried to sleep in – Central Park was becoming something of a lifeline for the trip.

Mike did show us a good spot to eat. Mike even hand delivered us on time to line up for SNL. I still like Mike.

Chairs, we meet again.

And it was while with Mike that the fate of our Canada folding chairs was discovered. As we approached the 30 Rockefeller there was no mistaking the two Canada flag chairs still right where we left them. There were a few problems with our discovery.

1. We couldn’t bring chairs into SNL
2. If we picked up the chairs people would know that it was us who left them behind.

I’m not proud of our decision but we left the chairs in their new home, the New York sidewalk.

Finally inside 30 Rockefeller we once more waited in line, but this time Mike was the latest addition to the ‘family’. As the clock counted down to 1130 – the start of the live taping of SNL –  it became clear, not many people were going to make it into the show. In fact, only nine people out of the two hundred or so did make it into the show. Liam and I were not one of those nine people. No one part of our group was either.

The show started without us. Our group didn’t have much time to mourn either, every tear wasted precious seconds of the SNL show we had risked everything to see. Two of the members of our posse, Niky and Tim, had a hotel room within sprinting distance of Rockefeller Plaza.  And so like any group of adults who had just slept on the streets of NYC waiting for tickets to Saturday Night Live and failed, we ran through the streets to go watch television in what was, essentially, a stranger’s hotel room. 

We left two chairs in New York City.

But before we could start the sprint we had a run in with our chairs one last time. Right outside the entrance were our chairs, but this time they were in a garbage can. We asked the custodian cleaning the sidewalk – a thankless job – if we could take a photo of the chairs. He asked us, “Are they your chairs?” To this I responded, “No, we’re Canadian and we just think this ironic.” I was impressed I had the capacity to still be clever.

Kodak moment behind us, the race through the streets and the blur of neon lights and jaywalking was the most fun I have ever had running. It felt like something out of a Zach Braff movie, but nobody got the girl at the end.

And so, in the hotel room of someone who we had just met the day before, we all huddled around the television as if it was the moon landing. It wasn’t the Live show we had come so far for, but something about that hour was even better. Maybe it was because I could get up to pee whenever I wanted.

The show ended but our smiles didn’t for some time, but even with the show over the day wasn’t done. There was still the race back to the Rockefeller Plaza to try to talk to cast members.

We waited and jockeyed for position behind the crowd control iron fences that had been the walls to our sidewalk bedrooms. There I met my soul mate, Will Forte.

Will – we’re on a first name basis – had been a cast member in past years and had come back for a guest appearance. I am a big fan of his work, particularly MacGruber

That's a new best friend smile.

Being a great guy, and my soon to be new best friend, Will came out eager to meet and greet his fans and satisfy their ravenous desire for autographs and photos. I was just like everyone else, frothing at the mouth.

I asked Will to sign my failure stub – my term for a never used ticket. He obliged. I asked Will if I could take a photo with him. Again, he obliged. Quietly, I asked him for a high-five. Oh, he obliged.

In addition to being hilarious, I discovered Will Forte is freakishly strong and has hands made of granite. After winding up with his entire body, Will performed a tornado manoeuvre that culminated with the skin nearly breaking from the impact on my hand. The sound barrier was broken, and Will went back to signing autographs. I squealed like a girl scout who had just sold the most cookies in her troupe when really her grandmother had bought them all.

In short, Will Forte nearly high-fived me into the hospital. And I say so proudly.

I moaned and groaned about the state of my hand. I then shouted to Will, “Hey man, I’m Canadian, I don’t have any health coverage down here!”

Will came over, and like a true gentlemen, confirmed that my hand was not in fact broken.

Will again went back to signing everything in sight, and someone in the ravenous crowd suggested Will and I patch things up over a cold drink, which would ice down my hand nicely. I tried to sweeten the deal, “I’m a warm hugger Will.” Will laughed… and then shuddered. We haven’t spoken since.

Liam, Mike and I left shortly thereafter. There was only one couch at Mike’s apartment, but it was a large L-shaped couch. No sacrifices of dignity or spooning was required.

After two hours of sound sleeping on a surface other than grass or concrete, the adventure to NYC was over, but the survival drive home was literally on the horizon. I can’t say with any degree of accuracy what the breakdown of my thoughts were for the drive, but I would venture to say 95% of my mental capacity and strength was dedicated to staying awake. Once and only once, I thought about sleeping, and lets just say, thank the pavement gods for the invention of the rumble strip.

Now you’re probably wondering how much, or more accurately, how little sleep I got on the trip. I’m proud to say between Thursday morning and Sunday night, a period of roughly ninety hours, I slept less than seven hours. Some people, actually a lot of people, said going to New York for just a weekend was a waste of time, but if you look at how long I was awake for I was actually in New York and conscious – to some degree – for nearly three and a half days. Good value if you ask me.

When I reflect on the entire saga I can appreciate how some people might chalk the entire SNL fail as a loss.  I would like to think I got something better out of the trip, and it wasn’t a good nights sleep or the autographs that I could sell on ebay or two blog posts.

The plan was simple, Liam and I would drive to New York City and try to get tickets to Saturday Night live hosted by none other than Will Ferrell – try being the operative word. The basic itinerary for this ‘relaxing’ weekend was to drive through the night on Thursday, arrive in New York city Friday morning, and wait in line until Saturday morning for Saturday Night Live tickets. This is where the plan ended. I never said it was a good plan.

They clearly were not talking about my times.

I do have cousins and friends in the big apple, unfortunately, aside from informing them I would be in the greater Manhattan area for the weekend, I made no firm plans to visit them or their couches. This was not a well planned expedition, but the best ones never are in my opinion. I hope Liam is still of the same opinion. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, let’s go back to the beginning of this urban adventure.

Liam and I left Thursday at 8:45 PM. I had spent the day making a two car garage disappear with a sledgehammer and sawzall, and Liam had spent the day playing catch up at his office so he could sneak away from work a day early. In short, we were both starting our marathon of fun very tired. Excitement overrides exhaustion, at least for a while, but we would find out for exactly how long.

The drive was going well..until half past three in the morning when the fun fuel tank started to run dry. I found what is best described as a haunted restaurant that could double as a horror movie set – but everything looks haunted at night with the exception of a tanning salon – reclined my seat and got exactly forty-five minutes of desperately needed shut-eye. I slept in the car, and I never sleep in cars.

Now what happens next has largely been retold to me by Liam, because I don’t remember a lot, which in itself is a little scary. Something woke both Liam and I up in the same instant, but we each had very different reactions. In one fluid motion and without hesitation after waking up, I did the following: put my seat upright, start the car, put it into reverse and drive away. I then drove less than a minute down the highway, pulled the car over, peed in the ditch, got back in the car and said to Liam, “I don’t know what just happened.”

Apparently my first reaction when I am suddenly awoken is to drive more. I was born for road trips or to be a truck driver, but I don’t like peeing in bottles.

Welcome to the centre of the universe.

We drove hard the rest of those early hours when even the busiest highways need to sleep, but by the time we arrived in NYC just after eight the world was again in full swing. Unlike us, the world had gotten a good nights sleep and had not sleep driven onto the interstate until the need to pee woke them up.

I didn't make the list.

After arriving at the centre of the universe the strangest thing happened in Brooklyn: when we pulled into a garage to park my car, someone parked it for me. I don’t hang out at valet parking venues so handing the keys over was a foreign feeling. I had visions of Ferris Bueller, fortunately my car is a 2008 Kia Rio with only one working speaker; the worst joyriding option in North America…unless you love getting great mileage whilst breaking the law. This would be a very small demographic of criminal, because if you’re going to steal the car you’re probably also not bothered by stealing more gas, but I digress.

Liam and I survived phase one of the plan, get to New York, it was now time for phase two, camp out for SNL tickets.

We arrived to discover that dedicated New Yorkers had been camping out since the Wednesday for a chance at tickets to that week’s episode hosted by Will Ferrell.

Having just driven ten hours, we unfolded our very discreet Canada flag folding lawn chairs and got comfortable. However, there are two problems with this.
1. The sidewalk is not a comfortable place to call home.
2. Camping chairs lack the lumbar support needed to comfortably sit for 24 hours.

Welcome home.

It was going to be a long 24 hours, especially when all of our neighbors had so many creature comforts to comfort. Some had chairs that had evolved to recline, others had beds, and some brought nothing – I was not envious of these people.

Over the course of the most sleep deprived day of my life I saw, heard and experienced a lot from the sidewalk we came to know as home. Oh and I felt physically uncomfortable, very uncomfortable.

I heard the engines of the thousands of tour buses stopping right beside our chairs; I overheard people complaining about ‘how far’ they had come all the way from New Jersey to wait in line; I heard the romantic clip clop of horse and carriages – and enjoyed the fecal souvenir they left behind; and I heard one question thousands of times: “So what are you guys waiting for?”

The sign says it better than I ever could.

These four words were said so many times that a sign was posted in an effort to save us from answering. Apparently people don’t like to read though. ‘What are you waiting for?’ started to lose all meaning, so we got creative. People started saying that dead celebrities were hosting SNL, we were in line for Dr. OZ or Ellen, but my personal favourite was my own creation – obviously – “We’re waiting for the bathroom.”

The family.

But I’ve overlooked perhaps the most important part of the trip so far, the people in the lineup. Going back to the moment of our entry into the SNL lineup, it didn’t take long to make friends. As a joke, I asked if anyone in line knew how to play euchre, because, to my knowledge, I have more fingers and toes then there are people in America who know how to play this Canadian card game. As luck would have it, two of those nineteen people were in front of us in line. These were two of our first new best friends.

The group would quickly expand. Before we knew it, the sun was setting and we were in a heated royal rumble of sidewalk charades. The group was as follows: Liam and I of course, Shey, Lauren, Nikki, Tim, Patrick and Julie. And so, we became a bizarre dysfunctional family with terrible dining habits. The whole family ate, almost exclusively, either fast food or gourmet cupcakes. Strength in numbers, not in eating habits.

It's a bed if I decide to sleep there.

After the cheeseburgers and cupcakes had been savagely devoured, we all packed it in for the night. Liam lucked out and slept on the curb while my bed was a little more central sidewalk.

Earlier that day, I had commented on a butterfly that was floating around me. Tim informed me that it was a moth.

One man’s moth is another man’s butterfly I guess.

PS. You might be asking, “Did those two stooges ever get into the show?!” Well, you’ll just have to tune in next week to find out won’t you. Or just call me and ask, your choice. Oh and if you were wondering what line culture is like watch the video below.

Nik vs. Mountain

The Via Rail train rattled us awake just outside Vancouver, the end of the line. It was sunny. This is apparently rare for west coast.

When we parted ways with the train all of the Via Rail staff were there to wave us off wearing smiles. Usually when people say goodbye to me they are not in such a good mood.

I’ve crossed Canada twice now, and this years crossing has taught me a few interesting lessons about train travel and travelling first class.

First class train travel guidelines:

1. Non-stop shaking

Writing, or trying to.

It should come as no surprise that it’s hard to think clearly on a train when you’re being rattled like a tambourine all day. You will eventually get used to it, but don’t expect to find the cure for cancer on a train. There’s a reason why you’ve never heard of any great discoveries being made on a train.

2. Sleeping on a train

There are two things worth mentioning about sleeping on a moving train.

a) Don’t expect to sleep well. If you signed on for sleeper train as a way to catch up on some lost shut-eye you will be very disappointed. Being shook, rattled, and vibrated all night makes a person restless in weird ways.

b) For whatever reason, when you do finally get to sleep you will experience some of the most bizarre bed head when you wake up. I woke up looking like Wolverine. Sure this is cool, but what’s most frustrating is that I can’t get this to happen to my hair in my normal non-moving bed. On a train the forces of physics exert themselves in strange ways, but only on hair.

4. Wolf in sheep’s clothing

I travel first class all the time?

People in first class can sense when someone is amongst them who doesn’t normally travel in luxury. I’m not sure if they can smell it, or if it’s a certain aura that common people give off that only they can see. Either way, they know. While dining (first class travellers don’t eat, they dine) one morning, a woman asked us bluntly, “Have you ever travelled first class before?” I knew my cover was blown. In all fairness, ‘Wolf’ is probably a generous description of myself in the title, I consider myself more of a coyote or large stray dog.

5. “Looks like some people joined us.”

When you’re travelling first class people don’t get on the train or board, they “join you”. Pretty classy, I know. When people join you, they will be sharing an experience of a lifetime. When people board, they are preparing themselves to sit in a seat they hope isn’t beside a crying baby. How horrible.

6. Showering

Showering on a moving train isn’t as much fun as it sounds. Yes, you will get clean, and yes, the water is hot, but when you have to stand with your feet on either side of the stall to stabilize your swaying and soapy body, well it’s just not awesome. Also you can hear the water whistling out of the drain and onto the tracks, which is probably a lot like being whistled at in the prison showers when you’re ‘fresh meat’.

7. Great balance

Mountain Goat

Spend a few days living on a bouncing and wobbly train and you will have the balance of a mountain goat. I can guarantee this the same way infomercials guarantee you can cut through a can with a knife.  Don’t believe me? Try and push me over, I dare you.

In all seriousness, I had a great time on the Via Rail train all the way across Canada. If the sights out the window aren’t enough, the staff will certainly put your experience over the top.

My advice to anyone who happens to find this blog, take the train.

Me and my train.

On day four of the trans Canada train with Via Rail I woke up in Edmonton, and surprise surprise, just like Winnipeg they also have snow. In this expedition across Canada I’m starting to realize that Toronto does not experience much of a winter compared to the rest of the country. As a city we  have few grounds to complain about the weather. This is probably part of the reason why the entire country makes fun of us for calling in the army when we get more snow than we can shovel in one morning.

This is the extent of my visit to Edmonton.

On the Movember front, things were not going so well either. Did my moustache add to my train experience with Via Rail? Not really. In fact I was so afraid to shave on a moving train that the clean-cut lines of my moustache were blurred with stubble. I didn’t look so much like a Movember champion as a man recovering from a fairly vicious weekend bender.

Aside from realizing that Toronto is a city full of complaining wusses, there wasn’t much else to do in Edmonton. It was the furthest north I have ever been and I did not feel particularly different. It was dark, it was cold, and if it was not for oil I had trouble seeing much reason to be living up there. Edmonton does have the world’s biggest mall, The West Edmonton Mall, but I did not get to see that, so I can’t comment on this attraction. I do know that the West Edmonton Mall has more working submarines than the Canadian Navy. This is something the mall should be very proud of, and that the Canadian Navy should be very embarrassed about.

We left Edmonton with the sun chasing behind us and breakfast ahead of us. The meals have become the only thing to set your watch to on the train. It’s refreshing to live with nothing to do but relax, nowhere to go except across the country. Meals have also become the primary topic of conversation among passengers, because aside from being bottle up in a steel torpedo, the food is the only thing we all have in common.

The Via Rail dining car, classy right?

Two things did happened that were noteworthy at breakfast. The first being that I was finally brought a full bottle of ketchup. Up until this point on the train I had always been left to fumble with ketchup packets like a peasant at every meal. Not very first class if you ask me. With a bottle of ketchup I could finally use that red nectar the way every man should, plentifully and uninhibited.

The second occurrence that I could not help but take note of had nothing to do with the food. I overheard (see eavesdrop) a group of well aged travellers in the dining car bragging about how often they frequent the gym. Who knew seniors got such a thrill out of lifting one pound dumbbells? I’ve overheard twenty-year-old men brag about how many times a week they pump iron, but I guess people never change, including seniors.

With the day running on, we rolled out of the prairies and into the Canadian Rockies. It was raining, which is never how anyone pictures the mountains. Mountains should be tucked into a fresh bed of snow, not soggy like a wet homeless man with nowhere to dry off. The mountains didn’t have a shopping cart full of empty wine bottles, but the mountains also didn’t ask for spare change.

I found a mountain goat in Jasper.

The train pulled into Jasper and it rained harder. Jo and I walked around the damp tourist town only to discover that through the fog and clouds you could not actually see even a nibble of a mountain peaking through the thick soup we were swimming through.

The mountains in the rain are a sad and soggy place; like the snow, the magic melts away.This was unfortunate, but I had a plan to bring up my spirits and celebrate walking around for twenty-five minutes. I treated myself to a pile of poutine with enough cheese on it that would leave the lactose intolerant in tears.

I also found the best toy ever in Jasper.

The train left Jasper full of passengers. I left Jasper full of cheese, gravy, and fried potato. With the rain thoroughly set in it seemed that the Rockies were experiencing a little stage fright. As much as I did look forward to seeing those jagged peaks, it would not have ruined my trip if I did not see those mountains that John Denver said were so rocky. For me the train was the trip, and what a trip it had been.

Things change, and in the mountains they change quickly. Only a few minutes on our way out of Jasper and the mountains had a treat for our train. Like a switch had been flicked by some giant hiding behind a mountain, it snowed. What once was a downpour of rain, became a flurry of snow. Sitting in the dome car, we were a bubble in a blizzard.

Rain becomes snow in the Rockies.

We started the day running away from the sun, and we finished the day chasing after the sun as it tucked itself behind the mountains. It was the final night on a train that I had come to love. Not just because there were no dishes to do or meals to cook, which was nice, but because of something intangible about travelling a great distance by means of an antiquated mode of transport. The experience of a lost art.

With flight at our fingertips travel has been cheapened. The world has become a much smaller place than any train conductor could have imagined in the age of steam. We have lost perspective of what lies beyond in the age of instant gratification.

The mystery and the unknown are gone, but I like to think that Via Rail has given me a taste of what once was.

I would say good night, but with the Rockies all around me it was a great night. Although I still had trouble sleeping.

The train needed some extra muscle.

On the second day of this Trans Canada train adventure I woke up to snow, the last call for breakfast and day 25 of Movember. ‘Wake up’ implies that I was asleep, regretfully this was not the case. To be more accurate, I got out of bed. Over the course of the night I got maybe thirty minutes of sleep, and ALL of those minutes came when I the train stopped occasionally to let another train pass by.

I have never spent a whole night so exhausted in a comfortable bed and been completely unable to sleep one bit. Our porter, Cal, had warned us that the vibration of the train can ‘mess’ with you, which creates a very unique restless feeling. He recommended using the complimentary ear plugs. I had lost mine before I even went to bed. I tried music, but louder noise covering a loud noise isn’t really conducive to a great nights sleep.

No sleep meant that my first full day on the train wasn’t starting well. I was tired and late for breakfast; things could only get better. Breakfast was good, and with two helpings of bacon I was able to muster the strength to write a review of the mornings meal, which I will post later.

My moustache is still well-defined at this point by I fear the worst in a few days. I don’t think I will be able to shave in a train that shakes so violently. Any attempt to do so would probably look like I tried to shave with a cheese grater in a bumper car. With this in mind my moustache will likely lose integrity and definition by the end of this trip. For this I apologies, but I’m not sorry about the two servings of bacon I had at breakfast. That’s what men with moustaches eat.

At breakfast no one looked well rested, and as it would turn out everyone confirmed that they were having a rough time

I replace sleep with breakfast.

sleeping. I imagine that I will eventually become so tired that no train or herd of elephants could keep me away from a late night date with my face and a pillow.

Aside from being unable to sleep, the sights and sounds of the trip were limited pretty exclusively to trees and water. Fortunately for me, I happen to be a big fan of both of these pieces of nature’s furniture.

I did learn one fun fact on my first full day on the train. Via Rail will let you off and pick you up anywhere it has tracks. This includes in the middle of absolute nowhere, which I tested with one of the porters asking, “What about right here?” while being in the absolute middle of nowhere. I like this idea, and look forward to exploring the wilderness in the near future by piggy backing on the train.

With our train about to enter Manitoba, there was a presentation made in the dome car about the history of the province and its capital city, Winnipeg. And you know what I learned Manitoba has a tradition in? Floods. In fact it floods so often and so violently that the natives didn’t even want to settle in the area.

Every senior citizen on the train, and there are a lot of them, chimed in their two cents about the last flood that they remembered. I think I might have even heard someone say that they used to buy Moon Pies for a nickel.

I am now something of an expert on floods. With the power of this expert knowledge, I have decided that I will always live on some sort of hill or high ground, and more specifically, never in Winnipeg.

Our Manitoba information session was flawless, save for one interruption from a radio request for a tooth-brush. Our presenter responded “Get it yourself.” The staff on board the Via Rail are a pretty entertaining bunch, and if I get tired of watching the trees they aren’t a bad secondary source of entertainment. In contrast to flight attendants, it seems like Via Rail staff are allowed to have their own personality.

I’ve learned a few other locomotive facts as well. On the first night of the trip they announced that there would be no smoking on the train, and I thought, “What a great way to quit smoking cold turkey, take a four-day train!” Well scratch that, the train stops for smoke breaks.

Hornepayne RULES!

For our second ‘smoke break’ we stopped into Hornepayne. I have never heard of or seen on this place on a map. Jo and I thought it best to stride into town and breathe in the local culture. Oddly enough, for a town with no sidewalks they sure had a lot of souvenir shops, two to be exact. They also had the biggest LCBO that I have ever seen. I guess the only thing you can count on to keep you warm in the north is hard liquor and souvenirs.

What I’ve written about today does not eat up an entire day, so you’re probably wondering how I kept busy on a train. Let me break down my day.

My Day in Detail:

eat breakfast
write
nap
read
eat lunch
walk around HornePayne
nap
write
nap
played scrabble (and lost)
eat dinner
nap
watch a movie
write
sleep

A read with a view.

With the exception of sleeping, all of these things were done with a view out a window.

As you can tell it was an action packed day, but in all seriousness I had a great day. That being said, if you’re not big on writing, reading, napping, sitting quietly, or staring out windows, I would strongly advise against taking the train across Canada.

Surprise!

I promised you something special for the last leg of Movember, and so I’ve taken my moustache to the tracks. My moustache and I have decided to enjoy the Trans Canada train from Toronto to Vancouver.

This adventure will combine my two secret passions in life, moustaches and trains. This trip will also deprive me of what has become a necessity in my life, the internet. On average I spend all day on the internet at work. When I come home I write on Google Documents, a completely web based writing service. In fact this is the first time in a while that I have written on a program that isn’t somehow connected to the internet. I feel like I’m cheating on Google, I hope she doesn’t find out.

Giving the internet up cold turkey for four days will, in all likelihood, be a lot like kicking a nasty heroin habit. I will want it all the time, but never have my thirst for blogs or youtube quenched. I won’t be able to sleep, I’ll sweat a lot, and when no one is looking I’ll huddle in the corner and shiver. I don’t have a problem, I can quit whenever I want…I just never have.

Three things ran through my head when I first realized that I wouldn’t be connected to the internet

1. What will happen to my Klout score?

According to Klout I’m an expert in guitar. I may not play the guitar, but I would hate to lose that online credibility.

2. Will my reader abandon me?

There might only be one person who reads my blog, but my god he/she is loyal. I would hate to disappoint someone who has such great taste.

3. Will anyone even notice I’m gone?

This one is the hardest pill to swallow, because the answer to this question is probably not.

So, how did the trip start?

Our sexy train, 'The Canadian'

Surprisingly well actually. When Jo and I got to the train station our gate looked a lot like the greyhound station I slept in in Phoenix. American Greyhound stations are not very nice. I have felt safer sleeping on the side of the road.

We went to check in at the desk and were asked, “Sleeper or seater?” When we informed them that we were in the sleeper section of the train, they smiled at us. This was confusing for me. We were travelling first class, and apparently first class passengers do not get treated like cattle.

I have never travelled by any form other than the lowest possible class. In the past, if there was an option to stay with the livestock I probably would have taken it. Now I was being told that I would be ‘taken care of’? No one has ever taken care of me, and the only time I hear someone say they’ll take care of someone is usually in a gangster film. This is not the nice kind of ‘taken care of’ either where you get chilled beverages. In fact the only time that I’ve been taken care of is when I got kicked out of a truck stop while I was hitch hiking from Flagstaff, Arizona to Windsor, Ontario. It was not friendly and it did not come with a drink.

The Via Rail station was like cheers, except no one knew my name, although they were really excited to learn it. The chipper gentleman that I was dealing with was ironically named Sunny. Which made me wonder if anyone has ever been named overcast, drizzle, or thunderstorm. I would like to meet a happy person named overcast, that would be a real life struggle. Being named Sunny means you are basically born into happiness. In my mind this is cheating.

Under the umbrella of being ‘taken care of’ we didn’t have to wait in the gate with the rest of the peasants; we had our own lounge. I usually stare at these things with envy because they’re filled with nice snacks, beverages, and they do not smell like despair.

Stepping inside we were greeted and informed that there was a fridge full of complimentary beverages. Finally I know, this is how the other half lives. The chairs were padded, not torn and they didn’t have any gum stuck to them (that I could see). Best of all the floors were carpet, the last garnish of sophistication.

Drinking my crispy ginger ale I could not help but notice one very obvious thing, everyone was old. The average age was high enough that almost every male had a moustache. This was disappointing. Worse yet, none of the people in the lounge looked like they would be good euker partners.

I eaves dropped on the conversations around me, and you know what they discussed? Their preferred dining hour, where the train stops, the weather in Ohio, and just about anything else that you can imagine that does not matter. There was a pretty intense debate over whether we could board at 9 or 9:30. I’d like to say it got heated, but I think someone fell asleep.

Are people born this boring or do they grow into it the same way a baby does with its big head?

Then I realized it, this is what it’s like to be retired. The stage of life where the two biggest problems in the day are deciding when to eat and how not to fall asleep in the soup. I’d always wanted to vacation in a retirement home, and now I was getting my chance. The food would be soft, people would remind me when to eat, and there aren’t a lot of stairs. Welcome to the good life.

At this point I also realized my bag has a whistle. This might seem like a strange thing to notice at this moment, but stay with me for a second. My bag is meant for outdoor adventures and the whistle is meant for survival situations, but seniors get in lots of survival situations. For instance if their water is too cold and it hurts their teeth. As you can tell I’m really starting to get into the right head space.

The train boarded and we got the grand tour from our cars attendant Cal. He ran through the ins and outs of train life, including a safety demonstration on how to escape the train through a window. This seemed substantially more light hearted than any in flight safety demonstrations I’ve had to sit through.

To conclude his performance, Cal informed us of the long list of situations that we could call upon him for using or ‘summon’ button. He did not call it the summon button, that is a Nik ‘ism’.

The last scenario he mentioned was falling out of bed in the night, which I suppose is a real issue if you are on your second hip. As an additional reason I suggested, “bad dreams.” I think it might have taken Cal a moment to realize that I was not serious. That being said, I’m half tempted to call him after a night terror to see his reaction.

Walking...and looking good

Having been thoroughly briefed by Cal, Jo and I journeyed to the back of the beast to the highly touted dome car. Before the dome car there was of course the bar, which will no doubt become a popular spot once people spend a few days cooped up in this sardine can. I hope the bar is well stocked with Tom Collins mix.

Then there it was, the dome car. I personally would not call it the dome car, more like skylight car or car with the most windows. That type of advertising does not put asses in seats.

The Dome Car (during the day)

With a view from the top of the train I felt like I was in a James Bond fight scene. In that scene I know that I would probably be one of the nameless extras who falls off or gets hit by a low bridge. I wish my imagination was not so realistic.

The steal snake slithered its way through Toronto. In case you have never taken a train, the experience on board a departing train is much less thrilling than a plane taking off. Ironically, with a view from the dome the train felt more like a space shuttle launch than a plane does though. A really slow spaceship that does not have much of a chance of making orbit unfortunately.

I always fantasize about being an astronaut. Unfortunately, the second thing that comes to mind after space travel is my talent for getting violently motion sick. I went for a stunt flight once, and let’s just say it did not go well. I have first hand experience confirming that this fantasy would become my worst nightmare.

While perched atop the train in the dome car, the conductor or captain made his opening remarks. He informed us that there is a railway tradition that includes no smoking on the train. Which got me to thinking, if train ticket sales are struggling, why wouldn’t they market the Trans Canada train as a retreat for smokers to quit cold turkey?

On second thought, this might not be such a good idea. There could be disastrous results if you stuff a handful of irritable smokers in a train. Once they sucked all the nicotine from under their finger nails someone would surely be murder. At which point the train would turn into a life size version of Clue.

In the last few minutes of being pensive in the dome car I was given hor d’oeuvres in the dark. I was given four different kinds and they all tasted the same. The waiter said the ham and cheese was the best. I could not even tell you which one had ham on it.

I’m done for the day, but the train and my moustache are still going strong. It’s deflating to see almost every man on the train with a moustache, but I suppose I fit in well. I might even have the greyest moustache on the train.

Some of you might be saying, “Hh this doesn’t sound awesome, hanging out on a steel torpedo with handful of geriatrics!” I beg to differ. I want to relax and read, better yet I want to be reminded when to eat.

I can’t wait to see what the Trans Canada train (ie, being temporarily retired) has in store for me next.

I consider myself a man of the people, in touch with with the collective norms that our society lives by. Well, for the most part at least. On a recent trip to Banff, I was shown that I am in fact, completely disconnected from reality.

While on a business trip to Calgary, myself and my two co-workers, Dustin and Eric, decided to use our Sunday off as a chance to see how rocky the Rocky Mountains really were. To see for ourselves if John Denver was telling the truth.

After a long day of sight seeing the only fitting way to relax in the rockies was to visit the Banff Hot Springs for an evening soak. Unfortunately, we didn’t bring our bathing suits. You might think all is lost, but wait!

Luckily, like any good tourist swimming hole they rent out bathing suits. You might think that’s disgusting, but let’s get real. It’s no different than using a hotel towel, which we all do. Get over yourself.

In addition to the traditional trunks for rent, they also rent out even more traditional swimwear, vintage swimming dresses for men. Early 20th century swim costumes is men’s swimwear at its most majestic. An era when men wore modified dresses to go swimming and that was cool because it was conservative. An age when seeing a man’s belly button was considered scandalous beyond belief. I thought that given the right situation that it might still be cool. I would soon be proved wrong.

Both vintage and current bathing suit styles were two dollars, I obviously chose the vintage version. Historic swimming costumes, how could I resist. I have a history degree, it would do my education no justice to miss this golden opportunity. I wanted to plunge into history…wearing a dress.

I was genuinely excited about getting my swim costume, although no one else seemed share my enthusiasm for cotton. I assumed that many people embraced this novelty on a daily basis. Apparently, I could not be more completely disconnected from the real world with this assumption.

I requested my bathing suit at the counter giggling like a child in a candy store with fistfuls of sweets. The women at the register rolled her eyes, and we ran into the change room. I never thought I would ever be so excited about renting an old heavy cotton bathing suit, but there we were the three of us getting changed into these beautiful swim garments.

Wearing our swim costumes and smiles we stepped out onto the pool deck to realize that out of roughly eighty people we were the only ones who elected to rent and wear this slice of history. We were probably the only people who were renting bathing suits at all.

I felt like a leper. Never have I felt so vulnerable while being so conservatively dressed.

As if we had a horribly contagious disease, we stood in the middle of the pool with a completely vacant radius around us.

People laughed, children asked questions, we were embarrassed. It never feels good to be in a pool and have people pointing and laughing. If I wasn’t so completely pleased with my swim apparel, my ego might have been bruised. Fortunately, I was far too self obsessed with my beautiful cotton man dress.

The costumes were everything I could have hoped for, ill fitting, heavy wool, unimaginative, and beautiful. If you weren’t a strong swimmer, these puppies were heavy enough to drag a full grown man to the bottom of the spring.

I can honestly say that I thought that some people would have seized this bargain opportunity to swim through the ages. I was wrong. I’m willing to wager that we were the only bathers in Canada wearing this slice of prehistoric swimming fashion.

I thought I was a man of the people. Apparently, I’m not… and it took me wearing a man’s swimming dress to realize it.