PART 3 - CANADA
(PART 4 - ICE HOTEL, QUEBEC)
(PART 5 - THE CANADIAN - ACROSS CANADA BY TRAIN)
We have a booking at the Ice Hotel in Quebec, and the only way to get there is via Montreal. Back in the rough itinerary stage, I found that the trains weren’t an option, as one route had us going all the way back to New York for the night and another route had us staying overnight in Albany. The Greyhound bus, however, went straight to Montreal from Boston.
Unfortunately, that meant we had to get back to Boston bus station and be ready to board the bus by ten. That’s after driving back, getting rid of the car, and catching a cab to the station. It’s an early morning start that sees us out of bed just after six am.
We make it as the bus is about to drive away, and the counter staff radios the driver to hang on for us whilst we complete the admin. With no time to grab any refreshments, we literally run to the bus and board, embarking on a nine hour trip through Massachussetts, New Hampshire and Vermont. The further north we get, the more appalling is the weather. The roads are hardly discernible from the verges, but everybody speeds along regardless.
Our driver seems to be a miserable old coot. As well as a passenger vehicle, the bus doubled up with parcel delivery. He knew there were smokers on board, but whenever we stopped, he made no comment, there was no friendly “Five minutes for a smoke, people!” He just cleared off, left the door open, and started unloading. Later, at Burlington, the drivers swapped and a slightly more genial fellow took over, a Lawrence Fishburne lookalike who at least offered us a “Morning!”. Also, another passenger boarded, an older white guy who went straight to the back of the bus and struck up a conversation with himself. He was very funny, at least he thought so, because he was soon chortling away and having the time of his life.
When we stop for immigration at the Canadian border, this guy is ahead of us. He won’t tell the guards where he lives. We pass through another guard, listening to the conversation.
“Where do you live, Sir?”
“Ah, it doesn’t matter. What do you want to know that for? Awww, I’m only gonna be here two weeks. Awww, you people.”
I’m kind of glad of the commotion he causes as it gives us more time for a smoke whilst we wait at the other side, on Canadian soil. Eventually the driver goes back to check what’s happening, and when he returns he says “He has a bag of hunting knives on him. He ain’t getting on my bus.”
We get to Montreal about seven. Walking out of the bus station, I like what I see. It’s open, sprawling, and there are people and shops everywhere. We walk to see where the hotels are and a guy calls us over and says he’ll do us a room for $60 CAN. He’s standing on the doorstep of a small but decent looking hotel, so we go inside and take a look. The room is like a studio flat, but it’s clean and warm and we’re right by the transport links so we agree and check-in.
We leave the bags and head straight out. It seems to be another gay spot but I really like the place anyway. We cross a big, open common and I stop dead at one point because I think I’m on the surface of a pond, but I’m already committed and carry on.
Even the beggars are friendly here. One guy asks us for some money, we tell him no, he tries asking for a smoke. We let him have a couple of cigarettes and he starts to tell us his life story.
We go for a meal at ‘Mike’s’. It seems to be very cheap, but when the bill arrives (sorry, check) we see the drinks are horrendously expensive and there are two taxes to pay - state and provincial. A $60 bill jumps immediately to $70, and when I give the waitress a $4 tip she says “Fifteen per cent is normal,” and adds she’d like $9 instead. Now the meal costs $80, a third more than the [--]hotel!
We walk around the shops some more, and one of the beggars asks us for a job. We tell him we’re not in any position to employ him. Then he asks for some plain old money and we apologise and say the waitress just cleaned us out. He makes do with a couple of smokes and says he’ll sell them for food.
It’s cold here. Parked cars have icicles hanging from the bumpers.
Up early, as is becoming the norm, and we try to get the train to Quebec. We chat with the proprietor whilst we wait for a cab and he tells us Montreal is a brilliant place to be in the Summer. The snow will last until March. This is the first realisation that the weather here really is more than something that affects your choice of coat for the day. The snow and ice is a permanent fixture for about for months a year, and your entire lifestyle revolves around it.
The taxi arrives and takes us to the train station. We have just missed one, and the next isn’t for nearly three hours. We phone the bus station and there’s a bus every hour, they take the same time to get there, and are much cheaper. Before getting another cab to take us back, I try an ATM to get some cash but either the machine or the bank isn’t playing ball. Only mildly concerned at this point, we get a cab and leave.
PART 4 - THE ICE HOTEL
From Quebec, the cab to the Ice Hotel costs $60 CAN. We disembark at a large wooden building and wander into the reception area. Through the windows, we can see the hotel itself. It looks unfinished. Diggers and people are shovelling snow everywhere. We see a bride and groom emerge from one of the entrances, having just been married in the ice chapel.
We check ourselves in and go outside to see whether the fuss was worth it. It doesn’t look that impressive, to be honest. However, we change our minds once we step inside.
The place is deceptively huge. It’s like a labyrinth, a maze of ice rooms connected by tunnels and walkways. There’s not a stone or brick in sight, everything is literally carved out of the ice and compacted snow. The blend is beautifully done - clear ice forms gigantic pillars, ice furniture and ornaments, and the opaque snow forms most of the walls and ceilings, many covered in embossed reliefs. The building is solid - tapping the walls or structural supports reveals the frozen materials are as hard as rock. It’s amazing to think that you’d be hard pressed to knock this place down with a bulldozer, but the Spring sunshine will bring it all down in a quiet silence.
The attention to detail is astounding. Apart from the reliefs, there are ice chandeliers, tables, chairs, reception desks and carved telephones, and a number of large ice sculptures dotted around. There are even ice pictures, in ice frames, hung on the walls.
There are dozens of bedrooms, and every single one is different. We are free to wander in as many as we like before nightfall, and we gawp at the different themes and layouts. We later hear that there’s a competition each season, and this year a bunch of design students did the plans and the winning entries are the ones we see.
We go back to the main reception building for a warm-up, a coffee and a safety talk from one of the staff, Yanek, which lasts 30 minutes and almost puts me off staying the night. We have an intricate ‘mummy’ sleeping bag each, and various coverings. The enemy is moisture - rather than sweat, Yanek advises us to sleep naked. Sweat equals moisture equals freezing cold at 2am. He said avoid coffee and alcohol. He added that some people like to jump in the spa - inside the ice hotel itself - then run outside and roll naked in the snow before jumping back into the spa.
We’re starving. We haven‘t eaten today. There is a large hotel complete with restaurant about a quarter mile away. We go and have a big, expensive feed, and then discover that they have a free internet pc in the lobby. We check our emails, and sit on the plush leather sofas for a while, staring into a fire in the enormous hearth. Soon we’re in that happy, warm and tired state where we could just lie back in the sofa and sleep. Steph says that it’s only half-eight. We’re in for a long night. We have to be up and out for six-thirty tomorrow morning, as we have to get a train at Quebec at eight-twenty.
We go back to the Ice Hotel for our free cocktail. When the guide said to avoid alcohol, he must’ve forgotten that a free cocktail is part of the package. The bar area is spectacular, dim but dotted with pockets of light in cosy corners. I say cosy, but that’s a relative term. Deerskins line ice benches, set into coves. We get a free shot of flavoured vodka each, served in an ice tumbler, literally a block of ice with a hole sunk into it.
Some woman with a load of camera equipment ambles over, helped by an assistant, and asks if she could take our picture. She’s a student of some kind, and whatever she’s putting together I forget, but she takes a couple of shots as we try to act like fashion models and look cool.
Then, after we try out another spot and sit on another bench in a more open spot, a guy with a video camera ambles over and asks if he can film us. To top it all, a reporter from the Boston Globe introduces himself and also asks if he can take our picture. We say OK, and answer a few questions about what we’re doing here. Passing through, I tell him, on our way to the greatest show on Earth, the Ultimate Fighting Championship in Las Vegas. He asks if he can take a picture of us in our room, and we agree, but then he wants us to get undressed and actually pose like we’re sleeping, and I politely tell him to [--]off and find another couple who are willing to freeze their asses off in the name of newsworthiness. He leaves, a little upset I think.
Yanek pops his head into the room and calls us at six-thirty the next morning. We dress quickly. The taxi driver is already here. A staff member gives us all a free coffee and we drink up and leave. Just as I’m walking around the front of the taxi, I slip like Joe Pesci in Home Alone and land on my *** in a puddle. It will take nearly two hours to dry out.
The cab driver does 100kmh, tailgating and switching lanes on roads that are as icy as [--]. I’m close to telling him to slow it right down, but we hit some congestion and he takes his foot off the gas. For the rest of the way, he’s forced to take things easier, but the odd grunt and curse in French tells us he doesn’t much like it.
He drops us off at the station and I sign the paperwork. As I’m ordering the train tickets to Toronto, he reappears. Cab drivers are apparently charged ten per cent for any VISA transaction over fifty dollars, so would I take the paperwork back and sign two separate bills for $40 and $30 instead? He’s already charged us ten dollars more than the first cab, but I don’t say anything because at least he made it to pick us up at some ungodly hour. I sign and he thanks us and leaves.
We board the train and spend three hours going to Montreal, where we change and spend another four hours or so getting to Toronto. There, we change some our US currency into Canadian, so at least we have some cash again.
Outside, it’s cold. Colder, it seems, than the very furthest corner of the Ice Hotel. We don’t have much time to see Toronto, so the important thing is to get to the hotel and then get some food.
The woman checking us in at the Best Western has been to our home town of Birmingham, and we have to laugh when she mentions the Bull Ring. She hands us an envelope. The guy I booked the cross-Canada rail trip with has done his job and arranged for the tickets and documentation to be here when we arrived. I love competency, it means we get to have a good time and relax.
We’re on the eighteenth floor. The view from the window is…. high.
We go out about 9pm to get some food. It’s FREEZING. Various people we speak to tell us it feels colder here because it’s a damp kind of cold, brought in on the wind from the great lakes. We settle on a Pizza Hut mainly because if we don’t get indoors quickly we’re likely to end up frozen solid. |
