Trains and planes to Toronto and back

On Wednesday, Nov. 1, we climbed aboard the Ocean for Montreal, our eventual destination Toronto.

It was a funny train. Up front, and doing the work, were the big diesel engines. At the back, like some large, comfortable auntie, was the dome car. In between were smaller, skinny coaches and sleepers, built in Europe, a bit like underfed models.

Not long ago, VIA Rail bought a bunch of rail coaches meant for the Chunnel, the tunnel running under the English Channel. Designed so that they would take up the minimum amount of space, they were so small that you had to turn almost sideways to walk up and down their corridors.

The big, comfortable coaches and sleepers were taken off the Atlantic run and put on the trains going west, so that tourists could pay large amounts of money to travel the rest of this country in the style to which we Maritimers were once accustomed. Despite all that, the trip was a great deal better than the Air Canada flight back.

Soon after getting on the train, as it neared Truro, we were sitting in the dining car eating a nice meal of chicken and pasta. The purpose of the trip was to show the great-grandparents in Toronto the family’s newest addition, and she charmed everyone with her gurgling and smiles as we ate lunch.

Traveling on the Ocean is slower than flying, but steady. The bonus is that you can enjoy the travel itself, watching the scenery flow by, getting up and walking around, talking to fellow passengers, sitting in the dome car, having a drink in the lounge below. We were well into New Brunswick when we walked through five cars to the dining car for supper, starting off with chowder and then having salmon on a bed of lobster risotto. It was delicious.

Then it was an evening of talking and laughing, and preparations for bed in a little roomette complete with its own bathroom and shower. We settled in for sleep, me on the top berth, the motion of the train lulling us. The only untoward thing that occurred during the night was that I kicked off the duvet and had to climb down to retrieve it. Early in the morning, as we neared Montreal, we returned to the dining car for fresh coffee and a fruit platter.

Allow me to contrast that with the trip back. The Toronto airport is on the fringes of the city, and to get to it requires that you leave hours early and $60. When you get there you make your way through a huge, new, grey terminal to the departure area.

I was strangely unsurprised when a lady at a table said it would be easier for us if we removed our clothes, but it turned out that what she actually said was remove our coats. Then she sorted through our carry on bags. She made us dump out our flasks of drinking water and I had to throw away my shaving cream. She reluctantly let our daughter keep a bit of boiled water in a sippy cup for the baby.

Then the bags were x-rayed, and we were gone over with a beeping wand. I had to undo my belt buckle and my change purse was sorted through (I actually appreciated their thoroughness). Another long wait, and we were allowed to board our Air Canada flight to Halifax, jamming ourselves into tiny spaces where stretching our legs was impossible.

A stewardess brought me a small ginger ale, but if I was hungry I could buy a tiny packet of Pringles for $2. For $5 they would warm up a frozen package of President’s Choice cashew chicken. For solace I turned to the tiny screen on the seat ahead to see a movie called the Last Days of Sophie Scholl, but it was only halfway through when we began our bumpy descent to Halifax and the screen went blank.

After getting our bags, we went to find a taxi into the city. We needed one with five seats, one for the baby’s car seat. The commissionaire running the airport taxi booth was the most unhelpful person we had met on the entire trip. Even though it was pouring outside, he refused to use his phone to call up a minivan taxi, saying we could go outside and ask the drivers up and down the line how many seats they had.

The taxi at the end of the line had five seats, but it was not allowed to move up to the door to load our bags. We had to lug them and the baby through the rain a quarter off the length of the terminal to the taxi. We got settled into the cab and left the airport, thankful that at least part of the trip had been by train.

Tom Sheppard can be reached at tsheppar@ca.inter.net.