At 8am, dropping from the 17th floor of my hotel, via the panoramic lift, into a new reality – the sleeper class lounge at Union Station, Toronto.
I’ve waved goodbye to the city and at least three quarters of my possessions – not to be seen again for the next three nights – to be sat in a large art deco reception room with a quiet mass of strangers, sipping Earl Grey tea and idly browsing the dailies.
Awaiting instruction and news on our ridiculously long train journey ahead from the restless but jovial staff.
One of the first announcements being that there’s no wi-fi on the train – which goes down badly with the few people here who know what wi-fi is.
Me, I’m unconcerned … as long as there is scenery, a book to read, and an open bar, I’m good to go.
We all take what we can get away with (biscuits, muffins), then we all walk out in single file, like schoolkids, or young offenders.
We’re led to a dark place – underground, it seems.
The waiting silver train is like an infinite beacon of light, shining out from the dark insides of the station.
Cheerily welcomed on board and shown to my cabin, for a lesson in how to put things together, and how things work on board the Canadian; when all I want to know is … where’s the Park Car, and what time can I go there? (other end of the train; 4pm)
On time, the train starts moving – slowly. Trundling past the flared base of the CN Tower and out towards the suburbs, the grafitti becoming increasingly cheery the further out we get.
Scrawled in improbable places, things like “You’re beautiful” … “She told me she loved me” … and “CHOO CHOOOO” – all bringing an early-morning grin to my face.
Once we’re out of the city suburbs and into countryside, it’s time for a celebratory mimosa and a hot brunch in the dining car, sat with Klaus and Patricia from Philadelphia.
We’re running through all the usual stuff … where we’ve been, where we’re going to, where we come from – all answered with suitable vagueness for strangers who’ve just met in the dining car of a long-distance train.
Once our time is up, we’re quickly moved on for the next sitting.
I head back to the dome car in my section, checking out the bar as I head through … which disappointingly is a cubby hole looked after by someone who’s not here. I make a mental note … finding the real bar is a priority.
By early afternoon, we’ve got some good speed up, and we all become dyed-in-the-hair music enthusiasts, wondering when the next house gig is – me, Reeney and Sheila from St Albans.
Reeney is the resident artist on board, and serenades around seven of us with an acoustic guitar and sweet songs of love lost and won, while trying to stay balanced on the edge of a table.
Shortly afterwards, the train is ignoring my ill-fated attempts at an afternoon nap, throwing endless amounts of scenery at me via the window.
I’m gazing semi-lazily at passing lakes and forests and towns and villages with a smuggled-on-board beer, a smug grin forcing itself on me like I’ve never smirked at anything before.
How did I get here … the recurring question.
Mid-afternoon and we’re making a stop so that a man on a tractor can catch up with us.
It’s possible I’ve arrived on a filmset again.
While we loiter, some folk make plans for side trips off to more remote places, watched on by nosy polar bears.
And it’s only at this point that the length of this goddamn train becomes clear … we could be a mile long, is my thought.
At dinner, Chris and Terry drop in from Essex; I just know they’ve owned at least one Fast Ford.
Also with us – Carlos from Mexico, who speaks virtually no English.
So the three of us pommies all make an effort by wheeling out the little Spanish we’ve gleaned from watching Eldorado, Benidorm, and South Park.
Carlos responds occasionally with a nod and the odd word, but never removes his shades. And the dude is here for dinner in t-shirt, joggers and sliders! I wish I had his effortless cool.
We rattle through the house chowder and straight onto an enormous hunk of beef, by now speaking only in English and talking about the good times we’ve left behind and we’re hoping to find ahead.
It’s a damn fine meal, and it’s topped off by a large slab of chocolate cake, while I’m thinking … can we look out of the window now?
I walk the swaying mile to the Park Car and the prestige bar at the far end of the train … open for the hoi polloi from 4pm, but only for those in the know.
So much so that there’s no-one here, except for a few barstaff and me.
I’m welcomed with open arms, big smiles and some some enthusiastic chat, to which I reciprocate by taking a sour ale, proceeding out the other side and up the stairs, to enjoy it alone in the panoramic luxury dome car.
I watch the sun set as we speed through the Ontario wilderness and on to new territories.
An Outside World 