Canada, naturally

Massey Creek

A truth I've confessed before is that Toronto and environs do not float my aesthetic boat. "A city within a park," proclaim signs at the entrances to Toronto's city parks. H'mmm. Unconvincing. But lately my harsh opinions are softening as I explore cycling routes along the Pam Am Path, leading from the lakeshore up the Don River and beyond. True, getting there can be harrowing, and the noise of cars on Lakeshore Drive, the Gardiner Expressway, and the Don Valley Parkway follows me for a time, but eventually I reach flowing rivers and a waving lake and wildflowers, and recently, bright-colored leaves. Eventually the roads vanish and only cyclists and walkers remain.

Husband had been wanting to visit Canada's first 'urban national park', established a couple of years ago on the eastern fringes of the city, so over Canadian Thanksgiving weekend we took a family walk  to check it out. "Not as...wild as I was expecting," mused husband. I guess the clue was in the adjective. We did see colorful leaves and a huge fish zip through mere inches of water--quite a sight.

Thanksgiving in Rouge National Urban Park 

Rouge National Urban Park

           

A fisherman friend informed me later that it was a Chinook salmon, swimming up the Rouge River to breed and die. I was very impressed to think it had managed the journey all the way to Lake Ontario from the north Pacific, but the friend gently informed me that the species had been transplanted to the Great Lakes. Still, it put me in mind of the book and film Paddle to the Sea which the kids loved back when they were small. After our mini-hike we visited Fool's Paradise, the former home of the late local artist Doris McCarthy. It perches dramatically on the Scarborough Bluffs overlooking Lake Ontario, and serves as an artist's residence. The current artist-in-residence had kindly invited us for post-Thanksgiving tea and cake.

Recently I visited Moncton. It is in New Brunswick, the province sandwiched between Maine and Nova Scotia, home to wonders that Raffi, the Canadian children's singer, enumerated in his song  C-A-N-A-D-A. One of these, the 'tidal bore'--not to be confused with the 'reversing falls'--can be seen right in the middle of Moncton. I did not make the trip with the specific aim of witnessing this phenomenon, but when work sent me thence and the conference hotel proved to be five hundred meters from Bore View Park, I knew my chance had come.

As I could have predicted from the name, the tidal bore is linked to tides, in particular the incoming tide, which happens but twice a day. I looked up a tide table and discovered that for the days of the conference, these times occurred in the late afternoon or the unspeakably early morning. At a meeting scheduled for 2:30 the first day I checked my watch obsessively and prayed that we would finish by 4:30 so I could slip away in time for the 4:54 event. But we had much to discuss, consider, debate, and plan. At 4:30 I could stand it no longer. "Hey," I said brightly, "How about we walk and talk? There's this thing called the tidal bore..." After some doubtful glances, my lovely colleagues indulged me and off we trotted.



It was I'm afraid a bit of a dud. Monctonians we met along the riverside path assured us that when the moon is full and the sun is high, the phenomenon truly is something to behold. "People surf it for 29 kilometers!" said one enthusiastic woman. "Here, I'll show you the video on my phone." I politely declined, as it was then a choice between watching her recording or the real--though underwhelming- thing. But I did find YouTube evidence of actual people surfing the bore.

Moncton offered good food, insane taxi drivers, cars that screeched to a halt at the mere sight of a pedestrian on a curb, and most excellent coffee at Café Cognito. I'd go back just for that. I missed visiting Magnetic Hill, another possible reason to return (or not; opinions vary).

The lesson I learn again and again, through trips to cities like Thunder Bay, Winnipeg, Halifax, and now Moncton (as well as through national elections) is that Toronto is not Canada, in the same way that London is not the UK. In England, I lived in Durham and Brighton, i.e. in Not-London; I railed against articles in The Garudian travel section informing readers that Bath is only a two hour drive away (from LONDON, maybe. NOT from Durham). It is easy, however, to forget that similarly Toronto is its own bubble. I have lived here for nine years (gasp) and feel I know it fairly well. But I remain pretty ignorant of Canada. Perhaps I need to listen to Raffi more.