Plan B: The American shortcut (and a stop in Minneapolis!)

On most of my vacations I try to blog every day, attempting to capture the mouth-wide-open new experiences as well as the inevitable mishaps. This trip has been different, for reasons obvious and because nothing interesting has really happened, I mean unless you count comically delayed trains and sleeping car oddities interesting, and I hope you do because I’m about to tell you all about them. 

Okay, where did I leave off? Oh yeah, still in Vancouver, where I’ve managed to age enough to qualify for AARP. On the morning of our departure to Toronto, via VIA Rail , Canada’s favorite of the rails, we received a friendly call from VIA HQ informing us that our train was canceled and that no other travel accommodations would be provided. This was not a surprise, since we had been warned that the wildfires may disrupt our plans. I mean, it was about 3 hours before boarding so I had kinda convinced myself that all would be well, that this train trip, so meticulously planned for over a year by my very skilled (and very detailed) mom , would actually happen. Alas, the Canadian wildfires scorched that plan (sorry - had to) and we were stranded in Vancouver. Vancouver. As you may recall I spent a strange 9 days hanging out at a Vancouver-adjacent hotel, waiting for this train. (Did I mention my outing to the Japanese grocery store next door? No - I did not. I walked away with a satisfactory loot bag filled with kitty cat themed slippers, sarsaparilla soda, and sesame candy). So to have waited and then been disappointed seemed to fit quite well with the theme of this vacation.

 

Since this outcome was not unexpected, we had crafted a plan B for transportation to Toronto, where the last bit of our Canadian extravaganza was to take place. We could have flown there. But that would have required airport experiences, which were already problematic for us. And we’d be many days too early for our accommodations. So instead we trained back to the US and took Amtrak east 2,741 miles to Buffalo, via Chicago, where we’d board two more trains to continue our Canada trip in Toronto. I mean, at least we were taking a train trip, right? Well, right. And some of this trek across America was stunning, beautiful, awesome. But we also faced those inevitable mishaps. 

We booked our tickets last-minute, of course, so we did not get a sleeper room for the Seattle to Chicago leg. Instead we inhabited a Roomette. Sounds cute. Was cute. But it was really too small for two cranky travelers who could no longer remember why they had been gone from home for so long. And, mom and I were both terribly concerned for the others’ well-being at this point in the journey. So we sat in the folded down tiny sized lower mattress, adjusting our bodies to benefit the comfort of the other. “Does this position work for you?” “Can I put my leg across you?” “Won’t your butt get sore sitting that way too long?”  We sounded like new lovers gingerly discovering… I’m gonna stop myself right there. No one wants to see where this is going.

We spent two nights on the Empire Builder, across the US and into Chicago. I had the top berth, which was a bit more ample than a coffin. I tried to eat one meal up there, but wound up with indigestion, because I couldn’t sit up and ate hunched over my food pretending that this was normal behavior. Our journey was marked by delays, most notably outside of Minneapolis, where we spent over three hours waiting for a freight train in front of us to be repaired. I could have gone home, showered, said hi to George and the critters, grabbed lunch, napped, and returned to the train in the time it took the repairs to be completed. 

In Chicago, we sat through another delay, again for several hours, climbing aboard around 12:30 AM. During this wait, I ripped my pants, right through the crotch. They’d had enough of our endless train adventures, so I changed into my jammies, and wore them for the duration of our travels to Toronto. If you’d like a souvenir pair of black ripped pants from this journey, you can find them in the Metropolitan Lounge garbage can at Chicago’s Union Station. As the evening wore on, we amused ourselves in the waiting room looking at Trump’s mugshot on CNN and chatting up the Amish family next to us. They tried to sell me a natural cure for autism. That was weird.

I need to devote a little space to explaining our strange accommodations on the trip from Chicago to Buffalo. I had called Amtrak a few nights before to arrange red cap service at the stations to help Mom get from train to train. The kind lady on the line helped with this and she also offered to upgrade our roomette to the disabled room on the train. That sounded like a good plan, given the hobbling (though not so hobbly as last year, post knee surgery) mom. We boarded the train and found our cabin to the right, just past where passengers were embarking. Immediately, we noticed that there was a toilet in the room. Not in an attached bathroom. In the room. Strange. I wasn’t too keen on peeing in front of my mom, or anyone else for that matter. But look! There’s a privacy curtain. That makes it all better. Hmm. Also, the car designer put a window right above the toilet, where all of the passengers were boarding the train. Again, a curtain protected the pee-er from public exposure. Well, might as well get used to our new situation, I thought, so I closed the curtain, separating Mom and me, and got ready to pee. This whole time Mom and I were discussing trip logistics, and the conversation continued as the curtain closed, with Mom sitting on her bed, her knees almost touching mine, while I tried to focus on the act of urinating, which was really quite difficult in such close proximity to, well, everything. Oh, and then when I finished, I discovered that I neglected to close the curtain to the window behind the toilet. I mean what the actual half-past-midnight, curtain-draped-train-toilet, pajama-clad, Amish-hoodwinked business is this? It’s our business, how we’ve come to accept it on this trip. As I lay in my much more spacious upper bunk that night, I pondered our situation - until we began the journey - when the conductor raced out of Chicago at a speed that was alarming, so much so that the woes of the day disappeared, to be replaced by anxiety, fearing that my public pee may, in fact, have been my last.

Alrighty, let’s get moving. This is a long post. We didn’t die on the Amtrak pretending to be a bullet train, but we also didn’t get much sleep. And we did survive the trip to Toronto, marked by a stop at the border to visit the Canadian custom folks. Everyone on the train had to get off with all of their luggage for this visit, and then get back on the very same train. Everyone except Mom, who was treated to her own customs official in a house call (train call?). I was alone, in pajamas, carrying a bag that had “Celebrating 100 years of meat” written on its side (insulated cooler bag hand-me-down from Dad), getting ready to explain how I was just in Vancouver a few days ago but now I really want to go to Toronto. Apparently this situation was a bit suspicious to my new customs agent friend. He peppered me with questions about my intentions and was very tired. So when he asked what I’d be doing in Toronto, I said “I don’t know”. And then I followed with “Our train was canceled due to wildfires.” Things got tense until he asked who I was referring to when I said “we”. Oh, my mom is still on the train with her own agent, customs man. I’m not a pajama clad meat smuggler trying to slip into your country by myself. I have a mom. And that did the trick. Right quick I was back on the train, headed back into Canada. Didn’t think we’d make it did you? 

And that’s where we are now, on the 56th floor of a condo that I’m pretty sure is just a bunch of Airbnbs, judging from the number of suitcases we’ve seen on the elevators. We are resting for a day before heading out for more Canadian adventures. Stay tuned.

City of glass. City of smoke

Vancouver is sometimes called the city of glass because a huge majority of its buildings have floor to ceiling windows, with light colored building materials. It's the first thing I noticed coming into the city from the airport. It's kind of futuristic and very creative, with all kinds of shapes and building configurations. Vancouver is also called the city of smoke, and that's our experience this week. The Canadian wildfires have created hazy conditions. We can smell the smoke in the air. And speaking of wildfires, we are at risk of having our cross country train trip being canceled, depending on the path of fires to the north. That would be the cherry on top of this ill-fated vacation, wouldn't it? We are waiting to find out our fate today, indoors away from the smoke. Mom is also feeling sick, so that's on track with the theme of our vacation. 

Yesterday we visited Granville Island, a famous large market in town. It was really crowded and, although we found a few cool shops to visit, Mom and I took a quick tour and got the heck out on an Aquabus. Nothing about this was interesting, so there you have it. We had lunch at a lovely spot called the Belgian Chocolate Cafe and then took a short walk back to home base for some movie watching. This is the low-key vibe that has dominated our trip, likely due to all of the trouble and trauma that we've experienced. Fingers crossed for an exit VIA Rail tomorrow. If our train is canceled, we must find alternate transportation to Toronto. 

In which I talk about underpants too much

Can we get back to travel blogging already? No. Not quite yet. I've been reflecting on my time in suburbia Vancouver, holed up in the Hilton, adjacent to the biggest mall I've ever seen (except Mall of America, of course). And I thought I'd share a few highlights. Or weirdlights (that's not a thing but it should be). So, to set the scene again, I spent 9 days recovering from one of the worst "vacations" I've had. I was tired, physically and emotionally. In my favor, though, I had been upgraded to a suite and also given free breakfast for all of my stay, and not that continental garbage where you make your own waffle while yawning, half-dressed strangers give you side eyes for spilling the batter. It was high-end breakfast with waffles made by someone else, all kinds of eggs and egg add-ons. And cheese. Cubed cheese. 

Scene is set. Maybe 2 days into my stay, I ran out of clean clothes. Traveling with one backpack is key to a good vacation, in my opinion. But, in order to be successful at this and still have clean underwear, you need to rent places with washing machines. Which I did. Until I wasn't on my vacation anymore and instead, well, you know. To solve this dilemma, I hunted around for a laundry-doing place (laundrette?). But I just didn't have it in me to tow my bag of unmentionables four blocks to the establishment. Heck, I didn't have it in me to leave the hotel. So I hit up Hilton's laundry service. 

Ever used a hotel laundry service before? Me neither. This is how it went. There's this form you have to fill out, and at the Hilton, they have a men's section and a "ladies" section where you check off how many of each item you are sending to be cleaned. Mens: button down shirt; slacks; underwear; jacket, etc. Womens: slip, dress, blouse, slacks, nightgown, etc. That was problematic because nothing that I had really fit most categories. Here's my list: two each of the following items: underwear, leggings, t-shirts, normal pants. So I did my best filling out the form, making substitutions and adding columns. This was important because the prices for this service were outrageous. I'm not going to call my t-shirt a blouse when blouses cost $14 each to launder. And my leggings are not slacks, at $15. In the end, I just gave up and turned in my bundle to the guy at the front desk. Fast forward 8 hours later when someone comes knocking at my door. A kind man hands me a set of freshly pressed t-shirts and leggings, on hangers and wrapped in plastic. Then he hands me this small box, tied up with a bow. It looked kind of like one of those boxes that fancy cupcakes come in, with frills and garnishes and, as i said, a bow tying it all together. What could this be? A present? For me? They really are kind at the Hilton. After attempting to get through all of the plastic and hangers to get at those clean (and now very fancy) clothes, I sat down to open my present. And what do you know! Inside was my underwear, intricately folded with paper wrapped around them. This was a stunning sight, seeing my red pair with the avocado print and my blue pair with bananas on them. Just wow. This is a lot of writing about laundry, I know, but the bill for all of this madness was $74.50. I paid almost $75 for someone to fold my undies and wrap them up with a bow. I let that sink in for a bit.

And then, I came up with a plan. No more would I pay for the most pampered laundry on earth. I was going to make my meager amount of clothes last until I reached our laundry-capable Airbnb, a mere 7 days away. Before I reveal this plan, please, do not judge. These were desperate times. Here's how it went. I had one set of clothes that were hotel room specific. Then I had another set that was for breakfast time (remember fancy free breakfast?). Every morning I took off the hotel outfit and put on the breakfast one. After looking quite respectable with the other diners (although weirdly wearing the same outfit every day), I changed back into my hotel room uniform. I was also saving one outfit for departure day - must look your best when rejoining the human race. So, I had my hotel room garb, and then I had the flashy breakfast outfit. The rest of my clothes remained dirty because I just can't afford to have Hilton do my laundry in this economy. As you may suspect, my hotel room outfit got a bit, well, worn. But I was determined to succeed in this plan, so after the loveliest of baths, I'd don those unfortunate leggings and shirt every damn day for 7 days (except, of course, during breakfast). Aren't I a genius?

Now, I will treat you to the travel blog portion of my essay. Today, Reagan left for home in the early morning. Mom and I enjoyed a lazy time doing not much of anything until around noon, when we walked to the nearby Japanese gardens and the a-little-less-nearby Gastown. We found little things to bring back home for the family. We ate excellent pasta at The Old Spaghetti Factory. We witnessed the effects of gentrification as awful poverty morphed into tourist attractions block by block on our way to Gastown. Pictures of these adventures are below. No pictures of underwear were taken, which is really best for everyone involved. 

Welcome to Holland

There's this short essay called Welcome To Holland written by the mother of a child with Down Syndrome as an attempt to describe what it's like to have her expectations of motherhood change after learning she'd be raising a disabled kid. She likens the experience to planning a trip to Italy, but unexpectedly finding herself in Holland instead. Despite missing the experience of Italy, she learns that Holland is a pretty nice place too. Some love the essay. Some hate it. I don't have any real feelings about it and, having raised kids with disabilities, it wasn't really ever something that resonated with me. But I've been thinking about this analogy for nine days, really digging in to its premise. Because the literal interpretation of Welcome To Holland has been my reality. 

On the day of embarkation for our Alaska cruise, George was still not feeling well. He had been struggling since arriving in Vancouver but was able to get himself together and board the Queen Elizabeth 2. For an hour. Shortly after boarding the ship, George had a real break down, right in the middle of the ship, where all of the fancy older folks were milling about, eager to begin their journey. I'm not going to write about the details of what happened becasue that's George's story and not mine to tell. But the result of his upset was a quick evacuation from the ship, back to Vancouver. We had a couple of tough days before I was able to arrange a flight back to Minneapolis for him, and he is there, safe and supported, now. 

I could have gone home, however there's a whole second half of this vacation that's post-cruise, and I didnt' want to miss it. I could also have tried to rejoin the cruise. But after the traumatic hour on the ship, I just didn't want to face it again. So instead, I booked a hotel room for 9 days in the suburbs of Vancouver (it's so expensive here!). Nine days. I was surprised and delighted at my good fortune (about time) when I checked in by being upgraded to a suite. So, what did I do with all of this time? Nothing at all. Well, nothing productive at all. I have been lazing around watching bad TV, reading, taking loooonnnggg baths, putting together a 3000 piece puzzle, ordering from DoorDash, and playing Wingspan on my computer. And I discovered that this solitude, with zero expectations of me, zero places to go, and zero people to consider, was pretty darn good. When does a person ever get that chance, to completely disconnect from life? It was a balm for me. It was my Holland. 

Tomorrow I rejoin Mom and Reagan (who leaves for home the following day) for part two of our epic 2023 trip. I can't say I'm happy that I was in Holland instead of Alaska, but it was still good, and probably more needed for me than an exciting adventure. So I'm good. George is safe. And that's how it goes sometimes. For those who read my first blog for this trip, many, many days ago, the answer is, obviously, No. No, George should not have come.

We're here. But should we have come?

Today is day one of the 2023 Alaska and Canada extravaganza. It's a travel day. And by the end of it we will have questioned whether we should have left home at all. Here's a summary of the last 24 hours:

We board our non-stop Delta flight from Minneapolis to Vancouver around 9 AM, ready for a 10 AM departure. Soon we hear that there will be a delay because the pilot is sick. Gotta have a pilot to fly the plane. So we wait, but not too long, for swooping in to the rescue was pilot number two. Off we taxi to the runway, but we are stopped because the computers need to reboot (??? Okay?). Problem solved. Then, the crew discoveres a problem with the engine, so we taxi back to the gate for a quick look-see by the maintenence crew. Not to worry, it should just be a few more minutes and then we'll get going. Except for the part when Delta (rightly so I my opinion) decides that maybe it's not a good idea to fly 200 people across the country in this particular plane. We we all get off and wait for a replacement plane. As we sit, watching the newly-formed rain soak our luggage, we notice that the ground crew is using George's wheelchair to move luggage to the new airplane. I mean if it gets us up in the air faster... And it does. We are on our way, getting in to Vancouver a mere 4 hours late, which isn't too bad considering the challenges we've already conquored. And bonus, we are so late that we can meet up with my nephew Reagan, whose plane was due to arrive much later than ours, so that we could manage the challengees of navigating a new city together. What a relief. We are here. Who'd of thought that an elevator would be our downfall?

At our Airbnb, we are mystifyed that we can't buzz in to the large apartment building with the code we are given by the hosts. Luckily (and uscrupuloulsy by him) a resident lets us in. On the very tight elevator, with all three of us and our luggange and wheelchair, we cannot get the elevator to send us to the 15th floor. We get off, try another elevator with no luck, scan our directions from the Airbnb hosts to figure out what we're doing wrong. No clues. Another resident enters the building and I stop him to ask for help. Turns out you need a key fob for the elevator to work. The resident can't help us with that, though, because his fob only lets him on to the 17th floor. Mom has been here for a few hours, and we previously asked her if she needed a fob or any other device to make it to the coveted 15th floor. She did not. That's because when she checked in -- turns out that the Airbnb hosts remotely let her access the elevator from wherever in the world they are. But, we called her back after the fob clue was provided and discovered that there IS a fob on the counter of the kitchen. Hard to use when it's already in the apartment, me thinks. So Mom comes and rescues us. We arrive on the 15th floor. We are in our first home. Easy, right?

After all of the challenges of the day, George was not feeling his best and was struggling with anxiety and a true lack of belief that any of this would be fun at all. We were hungry, too, because our 7 hour flight experience didn't include a meal, and we had only airplane snacks all day. He was very upset and asked to go home, wanted to escape Vancouver and traveling all together, even though he'd been so excited for this trip for weeks. After much discussion and distress and discombobulation, I called Delta to send him home. But, even though I could have saved ten cents by switching his flight from his original departure to tomorrow, I just couldn't do it, as much as he begged in the moment. I knew it would all get better, so instead I booked a hotel for him and me so that he could have a place to decompress and start to rebuild his reserves. Off we go to the hotel. It's only 1500 meters away, so it should be a snap to get there, however...

Did you know that Vancouver is hilly? I didn't. We learned this fact very quickly as we followed Maps to our new lodgings. George and I had his wheelchair, two large backbacks, and one small bag as we made our way to the Sanderman Hotel. Shortly, we ran into a huge staircase. No worries, though, because there off to the side, was an elevator. Mobility crisis averted! Until we ran into the second huge staircase. But this too can be conquored with the second well-placed elevator. And then, when we were at our weakest and most vunleralbe moment of this never-ending travel day, there was a third set of stairs. No elevator. We were trapped, that is until I saw that there was a metro station to our left. And inside the metro station was an elevator! Our only obstacle to that elevator was our lack of a ticket to get into the station. So, as you do when you need an elevator, I purchased a metro ticket to unlock this last step in our escape-room-like trip to Vancouver. Er, not the last obstical actually. The lobbly to the hotel required us to navigate two steps down to the reciption area. We just hurled that wheelchair right down those steps and continued on, not letting anything stop us from reaching that haven of a hotel room. Or was it a haven???

It was actually, that is until 3:15 AM, when we awaken to the fire alarm. It's loud. We call down to the front desk and they tell us to evacuate, so we do, taking the elevator down to the ground floor (I know, I know, don't take an elevator during a fire emergency, but we had the wheelchair, of course, and it was so loud, that alarm. We risked whatever happens to people in elevators during a fire to escape that noise). We spend an interesting hour on the sidewalk outside of the hotel, enjoying the spectalce of 300 pajama-clad patrons milling about amongst Vancouver's finest, trying to sort out the middle of the night mess. When the all clear came, George and I waited for the (can you even imagine) the line of ALL hotel guests trying to get on the elevators back to our rooms. When we do return to room 1043, we snuggle down into the really comfy bed, only to be awakened two more times, 40 minutes apart, just enough time to really fall asleep, to the faulty alarm going off again and agian. 

It's now the morning of day two. We discover that what really drove most of George's distress (I mean other than the day I just described) was that he didn't take a med yesterday that is critical to take daily or else it can make a person, well, out of sorts. We are here. But, sincerely, should we have come?