This summer marks the 50th anniversary of Paul Theroux's The Great Railway Bazaar, the rollicking account of the four and a half months he spent riding trains through Europe and Asia before coming home (he was then living in London) on the Trans-Siberian Express. I wrote an appreciation of the book for The American Scholar that turned into an examination of travel writing over the last 75 years: https://theamericanscholar.org/the-great-american-travel-book/
Five days in a city and you start to feel settled, so it was a good feeling to get on the train to Quebec City, where the taxi took us down a narrow street lined with old stone buildings, into one of which we carried our bags and then took the elevator to the fourth floor (really fifth) and opened the door to our room, walked through the foyer, and found exposed brick walls and a window overlooking the museum across the street, a small sliver of the St. Lawrence River, above its roof, shining in the late afternoon sun.
In Montreal we strolled the streets of the Old Town, browsed the colorful Jean Talon Market, discovered a kouign-amann bakery (that sold nothing but the buttery Breton cakes), visited the Musée des Beaux Arts, talked to visiting mathematicians at a Persian restaurant and, wandering through Congregation Shaar Hashomayim Cemetery, looking for the grave of Leonard Cohen, saw a beaver.
“It’ll be nice to arrive in a city at a decent hour,” I said to Charles two weeks ago as he drove us to the airport for our 12:30 Air Canada flight to Montreal. On our last two trips – to Buffalo and Raleigh – we had arrived around midnight, the latter occasion because I had booked a 9:30 pm flight thinking it was at 9:30 am one. I was looking forward to a late afternoon stroll.
After passing through security, I received a text from the airline informing me about a delayed departure of 45 minutes. Not a problem, I thought. A new text came shortly after that, moving the departure back a little further. Before noon, I learned that the flight was now scheduled for 5 pm. This was due to a maintenance problem, though a number passengers expressed the suspicion that it had something to do with a threatened strike by crew members.
I had never been to Terminal 2 before, and now we would have time to explore it. We quickly discovered that it is the smallest terminal with probably the worst food at FLL. Though in the culinary realm it has stiff competition. With our food vouchers, I got a cobb salad and learned a lesson: never order healthy food at a fast food counter in an airport. I received a Styrofoam valise filled with reams of tasteless lettuce topped with stringy, tasteless chicken; a glob of blue cheese occupied a corner.
I heard a table speaking French, and asked if they were going to Montreal. The man in a ball cap said they were. “Do you think there will be a plane?” I asked.
“Non,” he said, strangely cheerfully.
The afternoon passed, in Terminal 2. We sat with all the other passengers, looking wistfully at the Fort Lauderdale skyline. I resented the fact that, because of the delay, I was being forced to spend a summer’s day in an overly air-conditioned building, unable to step outside for some air.
A new message arrived from Air Canada: The new departure time was 8 pm. This seemed ominous, suggesting - to me at least - that the next one would tell of the flight's cancellation. I joined a line of passengers waiting to get information from an Air Canada employee at the gate. Some of the people in front of me were trying to get on an earlier flight, one that left around 7, though it filled very quickly. When my turn came, I asked the woman if, indeed, there would be a plane for us that evening. Rumors about the strike, at least among passengers, were now rampant. She was not adamant that a plane would arrive, but she didn’t deprive us of hope. I asked what the maintenance problem was, and she said it had something to do with the “arm" of the plane. “The arm?” I asked, thinking she meant the wing. No, it turned out, the problem was with the door.
We got new vouchers and went for Japanese, where I had the most half-heartedly constructed chicken teriyaki I had ever seen. I left half of it. Our new departure time was now 8:30. I wondered: Are they just toying with us now?
We bought some magazines and chocolates. The chairs in the waiting lounge filled with people for the earlier flight, which arrived without a problem. It was painful having to sit there and watch them board. “We were here first!”
But then, as if by some miracle, as darkness fell, our plane arrived. Actually, happily, not our original plane, but a replacement. We boarded quickly, hoping to get in the air before the strike, and arrived in Montreal right around midnight. Customs was a breeze, as was finding a taxi. Traffic was light. The drive seemed to take an unusually long time. I kept looking for signs of downtown but we seemed to be in some distant wasteland. Finally, the driver pulled up to a hotel that wasn’t ours.
He had confused the name of our hotel, which I had given him in decent French. He apologized, and headed in more civilized direction. We checked in a 1:30 am.
One day later, Air Canada crew went on strike.
Our first stop, after picking up our rental car, was at the Carrboro Farmers Market. It was smaller than I expected, and subdued because of the heat and the absence of dogs. Carrboro’s is that rare outdoor market than bans canines, one of the chief attractions of markets (at least for Hania).
We checked into our Chapel Hill hotel and, on a recommendation from the receptionist, drove to The Pig for lunch. I was tempted by the bahn mi pulled pork tacos but went with the more traditional pulled pork sandwich, accompanied by a side of fried okra. Of all the things that one fries, okra may be the best.
Back at the hotel, Hania took a nap and I went out to explore. Franklin Street featured a handful of shops selling Tar Heel garb but no store that sold the Wall Street Journal. A fire engine passed, painted the same baby blue as the clothing in the stores.
I drove to the library and asked if there was any room devoted to Thomas Wolfe. The young man at the circulation desk didn’t say “Who?” Instead, he told me of the library, closed on weekends, that has a collection of Wolfe’s papers. Then he directed me to the garden dedicated to the writer that I once was addicted to and now never read. But I remember his writing about Chapel Hill, how he had arrived to the leafy campus as an awkward mountain boy from Asheville. His overwrought prose had given the town, and the campus, an almost sacred air to me.
The garden sat behind one of the old college buildings. It had a couple of benches, donated, according to their plaques, by members of the Thomas Wolfe Society, and an abstract sculpture titled “Look Homeward Angel.” The shade from the trees provided little relief from the heat.
But I still made it over to the student store, which had more baby blue clothing – the color, I was told later, is known as “Carolina Blue” – and rows of books and basketballs, many of the latter painted white. The others, encouragingly, were brown not blue.
Raleigh, where we were last week, was hotter than Fort Lauderdale. This was disappointing – it made walking around difficult – but I thought: In two weeks we’ll be in Montreal. No chance of a heat dome there.
Last night I learned about the forest fires in Canada, and that the northeast is blanketed in smoke.
(Impressions from North Carolina tomorrow.)