No Cars Go

Stepping off the plane into the early evening air of Toronto we were immediately hit by a wall of heat and humidity, we almost thought the plane had detoured to the Caribbean instead. No, it was summer, in Ontario.

We drove straight out of the city and down to the Niagara Falls. We arrived late at night and were greeted by a view of the falls illuminated by multi-coloured floodlights beaming out from the casino across the road. We joined the roughly half a million people being soaked by the spray whilst walking along the viewpoint pathway along the falls. Apparently there are times that the water tumbling produces so much static electricity that visitors hairs literally stand on end.



The hints at tackiness (the lights, the street vendors) we saw at night became infinitely amplified by day, with the town of Niagara Falls being full of theme bars and restaurants, all-you-can-eat restaurants with queues of professional eaters lined up outside and some really nasty tourist attractions that it is amazing anyone wants to visit. But they do, by the coachload. Very tacky but at least it is what it is, there is no pretention at Niagara Falls. Perhaps the worst was the waxworks with a model of a Burmese longneck Padang tribeswoman playing music with a 50’s singer with a cheesy grin and a little monkey banging a drum in a cage.



The more genteel, and maybe slightly snobbish, side of the neighbourhood is situated just up the road in the town of Niagara-On-The-Falls. The town is full of colonial buildings housing boutiques and galleries and posh ice-cream parlours, all sat there on the shore of Lake Ontario and surrounded on the other sides by acres and acres of vineyards. We didn’t visit any cellar doors or even try and Canadian wines but they seem to be doing pretty well.



We left the Falls region and returned to Toronto, the economic powerhouse of Canada I guess. From a visitors point of view there is not a whole lot to see and do. Probably the most famous landmark, the CN Tower looms over the downtown, kind of to be expected from one of the world’s tallest buildings. We got to the centre a little bit late in the day and didn’t stay for long. I regret that we didn’t have time to visit the Hockey Hall of Fame and see the Stanley Cup but otherwise we didn’t really feel like hanging around. As a place to live however I can think of many worse places than Toronto. The city is a real patchwork of multi-culture. Not just superficially such as being able to eat virtually any global cuisine without leaving the city centre but it is also very obvious how the mixture of communities keep the city going across every strata of society.



From the economic capital we drove to the political capital, Ottawa. One of those quiet, unassuming capital cities that is always the answer to a trick question in a pub quiz. Monika kept accidentally calling it Canberra for the entire duration of our visit due to their similarity in this way despite visually being total opposites. The Parliament areas do nothing to conceal the British involvement in the history of Canada and sit in juxtaposition to the tall office buildings of the encroaching downtown area. Just across the centre of the town the area around Byward Market is the other main tourist centre, great for wandering around and browsing the stalls at the same time keeping a close eye on the dodgy dealers and hustlers loitering around.



The standard of driving in Eastern Canada is certainly no better than that in the West, perhaps it is even worse. Two highlights over the past week were the motorcyclist who couldn’t decide which lane he wanted to be in then stuck his finger up at me when he realised I was in the one he wanted to be in and then the police officer who undertook me, crossed the double-lines into the car pool lane (despite being on his own in the car) and sped away a fair few miles per hour over the speed limit. I lost count of the number of traffic offences he committed during that manoeuvre and its not as it was an emergency, there were no lights or sirens to excuse him.



We left Ottawa and, bypassing Montreal, headed into the Laurentian mountains in Quebec. We had planned to visit the Mont Tremblant region but were put off by reports of high entrance fees and poor organisation at a park that is not a Canada National Park but a Quebec National Park. We decided to visit the Saint Maurice National Park instead, operated by National Parks Canada. Here we spent a day on a demanding trek through the forest around some lakes and the next day relaxed on a beautiful beach in the blistering sunshine.



I find it strange that Canada embraces such a multi-cultural society formed by the different immigrant groups but that within the country there is so much friction between Canadians and French-Canadians from Quebec. On a CBC news broadcast in Alberta we heard the sports reporter commenting on the selection of the Canadian torch bearer for the Olympics state “At least they picked a proper Canadian, and not some guy from Quebec that no-one cares about” which seemed a bit controversial. On the other hand I found it astounding that across the rest of Canada almost all signs, adverts and public notices are in both English and French, wasting ink with these long French translations, but in Quebec there is no English on any signs at all. How does that work? Why should the majority of the provinces accommodate the language of one which is not willing to reciprocate the gesture. It is astounding that hardly anyone in Quebec speaks any English at all, I mean not even one word. In shops, bars and campgrounds we often had to wait whilst they hunted out someone who understood some English. Don’t get me wrong, this is often the beauty of different countries and cultures but I found it strange here to be in a region where no-one speaks the dominant language of the country at all. It is quite strange to hear the French spoken in Quebec though, known as Quebecois, a very different dialect of French. There is also of course the French influence most evident in the architecture. Finally, heading into Quebec everything seemed to suddenly get a bit more untidy and dishevelled and I had the distinct impression we had just driven back into the 1980’s. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out Quebec is much poorer than the other provinces we have visited. I could make one google search to find that out I suppose.



Arriving in Quebec City we were surprised by the amount of traffic on the streets. By the time we had reached the old walled city all the streets were bumper-to-bumper and we couldn’t work out why until we finally parked and asked a passing German tourist. Roger Waters was performing The Wall that evening just yards from where we had parked and a yacht race between Quebec City and St Malo in France, held every four years I think, was setting off the next day. This was especially exciting for Milada, being a yacht captain herself and a Pink Floyd fan. We wandered around the old town and photographed the famous Le Chateau Frontinac before heading down to the marina to visit the yachts and crews preparing for the race. We had time for a glass of La Boreale, the local Quebecoise biere, of which the dark version was very much to my taste. What better way to finish off a day in Quebec City though than with a plate of Poutine, arguably the national dish of Canada. Poutine is a plate of chips covered in melted, squeaky, cheese and gravy. Delicious. After this we slowly made our way back towards the Citadelle and joined roughly 20,000 people hanging out in the parks and gardens waiting for The Wall. With tickets starting at $100CAD just for general admission to the site I guess these people either could not get hold of tickets or could not afford them. Either way there was a real festival atmosphere as we sat waiting for the show to begin. The viewpoint was directly behind the stage so there was no chance to catch a free glimpse other than the impressive fireworks at the start of the show but we could hear the music quite well. After being disappointed by Bob Dylan and The Who in concert I made a vow not to watch any other vintage acts, reformed or otherwise, and I wasn’t tempted to break that rule here but I was very happy to observe how everyone came for a great time without buying tickets.



Our final stop in Canada was Montreal. For some reason I imagined a city similar in style to Quebec City so I was disappointed to find an urban sprawl surrounded by ugly industry being ground to a halt by the never-ending roadworks. Walking around the old town it was interesting to see the other tourists with maps looking up and consulting their maps and wondering, is this it? The Latin Quarter at least evoked a bit of gritty character through its strip joints, hot dog vendors and second-hand thrift stores. The streets populated by an incredible number of destitute and winos with the fashion here for beggars being bare chests which adds an extra piquantness. Imagine those films you see of a ghetto in Detroit or Philadelphia or whatever and that what parts of Montreal look like. You can almost see the dirt and grime steaming up from the pavements in the 35°c heat. Overlooking the whole city from atop Mont-Royal you can see all the separate areas meshed together, with the interesting Olympic Park standing guard on the other side of the city. We drove out of the centre to camp just south of town, following the signs pointing to New York.... We didn’t quite get that far however and the next day returned and headed for Montreal Airport. Canada was about to have it’s revenge on us however. We returned the car, checked in and all was going well. As we went through security we commented how dark it looked, despite being just after 5pm. All of a sudden a massive storm hit the city, cutting power for thousands of residents and grounding most aircraft. Milada was able to leave with just a short delay but Monika and I were forced to spend another night in Canada before flying home the next morning.