Train to Montreal (a.k.a. Oh, Canada!)

Drinking shitty coffee on the train and working on a story could only be more romanticized if I was ashing into my previous cup of coffee and typing on a typewriter that magically materialized. Who would lug a typewriter on the subway, through Penn Station, and onto the tiny tray table of an Amtrak car? How annoying would it be if the person you had to sit next to for 11 hours was clamoring away on a Corona? Hmm. Ultimately that character would be thrown like Momma from the train.

Customs just boarded the train, and began interrogating me and then passed me on to another official. He didn’t believe my life. And I suppose that sometimes I don’t either. Being a lucky duck doesn’t translate well to border patrol apparently. But, after saying “It sounds too good to be true so it probably is. Right?” He slapped his stamp onto my passport, and walked away. No smile involved. Oh, Canada! After seeing the nice Canadians last night in Michael Moore’s Sicko, I was in for a nice surprise when meeting these staunch folk. Maybe Bill O’Reilly is right and Moore is a hyperbolic son of a bitch.

Another fun twist: the bathroom doors to my train car do not lock well and I have walked in on not one, but two other passengers peeing. The first time, the door quickly slid open, the woman inside and I were standing face to face as she buttoned her pants, we made eye contact and she quickly slid the door shut. And then we had to make eye contact every time I walked by her row. Talk about awkward.

In the mountains of upstate New York where the frozen ponds and white spaces look almost
Canadian