Jan. 16 – On board the “Maple Leaf” from New York City to Toronto, disembarking at Aldershot Station, Burlington, Ontario.
The train’s too shaky to handwrite legible notes, but at least it’s quiet and spacious, as there 
are few of us on board. We rolled out of Penn Station, along the broad Hudson River, the cliffs on the opposite shore burnt orange in the morning sun. There is snow on the ground in upstate New York, frozen rivers, bare trees, quiet towns. Few people are stirring on this, a holiday Monday. I’m in the first wagon after the locomotive, which periodically blasts its melancholy horn over the cold countryside.
Including today’s trip, I have traveled about 30,000km. Half of that distance has been overland, another 10,000km by sea, and 5,000km by air. I’ve taken 21 trains, two buses, two flights and one ship. I have passed through 18 countries, crossed one ocean and two seas. I have navigated the subway systems in eight cities. I have mentally converted Canadian dollars into ten different currencies. This is the 77th day since my ship passed under the Lion’s Gate Bridge in Vancouver. Thirty-four of those nights, I stayed with friends; eighteen in hotels/hostels, fifteen on a ship, eight on a train. Two nights, including last night, I had no place to stay.
The nearest direct train to Canada departed from New York City, so yesterday I took a bus four hours south from Boston along the Interstate, the guy next to me watching the Giants-Packers playoff game on his laptop, online. I arrived late in Manhattan, and would be leaving early, so saw no point of booking a hotel. Instead, I checked my luggage – 45lbs/20kg read the scale – and set out on foot, one last time. If this city never slept, then for this final night, neither would I.
It was a bitter cold. Siberian cold, almost. Walking fast to keep warm, heading uptown, I thought back to that comically frigid day at Lake Baikal, digging into smoked fish with frostbitten fingers. I stopped to buy a warm pretzel. Three dollars! U.S. dollars! Well, my fun money is almost all gone, I thought, so what difference will three bucks make? I ducked into a Japanese fast food place on 42nd Street and ordered a beef and vegetable bowl with rice. It was terrible, easily the worst meal of my journey. Insipid, shriveled, grey meat. A few limp onion shreds the only semblance of vegetables. I should have known, looking at the lackadaisical staff behind the counter. Teenagers preparing Japanese food! And frantic salsa-pop music, tambien. No mas!
Times Square. Tiananmen Square. Red Square. Trafalgar Square. All dramatically different, but all renowned. People go there, because people go there. This is a famous place, where millions have gathered over the years. And I was there too. See? Here’s my picture. In the multicolored flash of giant screens and neon, police officers huddled, mouths muffled in face-warmers. Groups of tourists strode purposefully, took their photos, and moved on to the warmth of the tacky gift shops on Broadway. Cold! Kalt! Froid! Kholod! Frijo!
I sought shelter at the AMC Empire Theater on 42nd, nearly empty, for the 11:20pm screening of “The girl with the dragon tattoo.” A good thriller, stark and tense. Even funny, almost, in a Scandinavian way. But its main virtue on this night was its length. Three hours out of the elements! At my increasing age, I’ve learned to conserve energy when traveling. Never stand when you can sit. Eat food, use the toilets, get warm, stay dry. You never know when you’ll have the opportunity again. And saving energy means you can spend it, too.
From midtown Manhattan to Battery Park and back, on foot, in January, from 2:30am to 5:30am. Well, why not? Over to Madison Avenue, looking up at the luminous Chrysler Building,past Bryant Park and the New York Public Library. And south down Broadway and through the NYU campus. The orange cabs prowl, no other cars about, save an occasional police siren. White noise, then the distorted bass thump-thump-thump from nightclubs, here and there.
I work my way around the World Trade Centre and 9/11 Memorial, still a gigantic construction site. Then, finally, I’m at the waterfront, no longer sheltered from the wind by skyscrapers. I’m the only one here – the ravers and ranters don’t bother with Battery Park. Across the water are the Statue of Liberty and the dark shape of Ellis Island. I head back north along the East River, under the Brooklyn Bridge, then in a staircase pattern back towards Penn Station. Gradually, the city awakes. Coffee shops now have one or two patrons. Delivery trucks rumble onto the streets, through the humid steam belching from ground-level grates. I’m clenching my fists inside my gloves to keep my fingers warm, but they’re getting numb. Time to go back inside, out of the cold.
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My journey won’t be truly complete until I return to Vancouver, and that will happen in February. But as far as this blog goes, the round-the-world trip ends tonight. Thank you for reading. Having readers means accountability – it forces you to cut the crap, cut to the chase, and I hope I did that.
Freedom isn’t free, as they say. I have been very lucky to have the money, health, and time to pursue and achieve these dreams. Whatever your aspirations, big or small, may you have the same good fortune.
