This article appeared in Fredericton, New Brunswick's Northside News on September 7, 2001 at page 21. Northside News has the distinction of being one of Canada's smallest bi-weekly newspapers in the picturesque province of New Brunswick.
By
Frank Boyd
Each spring, like a rite of passage, Atlantic Canadians make the annual, obligatory, business pilgrimage to Toronto. Yet, as I begin this "business" trip there are, struggling within me, a conflicting persona - the businessman seeking cash rewards and the tourist seeking something that's been lost - community, a sense of belonging.
My tight agenda - carved on granite tablets and impeccably organized to be cost efficient ~ leaves no time for unplanned stops. In fact, to avoid the cost of a hotel room, I am undertaking a 12.5-hour trip over night. Just consult the computer and you will find websites that can get you to Toronto, defining the shortest, most cost efficient route in miles, or kilometers. The weather is sunny; the temperature is rising, the day is June 6th and the time is 4 p.m.
My travel route begins in Fredericton and extends across Maine, through New Hampshire, and Vermont on to Montreal and down the 401 to Toronto just in time for business to begin the following morning.
At Houlton, Maine we pick up the Interstate 95. It's a smooth performer. In no time I am passing the base of the Appalachian Mountains. In the distant haze one can see the Longfellow range.
At Bangor, where I gas up and take Route 2, Maine becomes a study of contrast with the towns and villages of Canada. Time, in Maine, has changed the landscape very little. Maine is, still, the sportsman's Mecca it used to be; it is now, after all, home of eccentric novelist Stephen King. So, Maine does have some diversity. The towns of Maine blur as I pass them- Newport, Skowhegan and New Sharon.
The Village of New Sharon's public library must be famous the world over for its small size. It forms a stark contrast to the mammoth Chapters of Fredericton and other places in Canada. Yet, there is still something quaint, a timeless quality to what you see. Like a journey through a bygone, yet unforgotten, era, the 50's in Maine shall never die.
As I cross the Maine - New Hampshire border at Bethel, there's a sense that the era of the 50's is behind me, and a new era is about to begin. Although sunset has not occurred, daylight is starting to fade.
Between Gorham and Lancaster there's New Hampshire's Mt. Washington and the White Mountains, where here tourism is king, and where manicured motels and Inns are in abundance.
At Lancaster I enter Vermont and between Danville, Barton and Orleans the sun is setting, but the Green Mountains can still be seen. In the shadows of this mountain I can see Vermont's history, its old General Ethan Allen, his Green Mountain Boys and Benedict Arnold at Fort Ticonderoga during the Rebellion.· "Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year."
We have a unique heritage which binds us, we Canadians and Americans, and sometimes it even eludes us. If we lose sight of what we have, a border of thousands of miles and on both sides a common heritage, we are lost.
An accident is on the horizon, if, I don't soon rest. As that thought fades, it happens. Somewhere just ahead in the darkness, I am catching the glint of eyes reflecting my headlights back at me. A deer or a moose perhaps! Slow down! My foot hits the brake, I dim my high beams and I flashed on my caution lights and substantially reduce speed.
I see it clearly now. It's a large deer. It looks well practiced or trained in crossing roads because it seems to look both ways before it saunters past. Like crosswalks for ducks in Nova Scotia, perhaps Vermont will lead the way and establish deer and moose crosswalks with flashing caution lights.
By
Frank Boyd
Each spring, like a rite of passage, Atlantic Canadians make the annual, obligatory, business pilgrimage to Toronto. Yet, as I begin this "business" trip there are, struggling within me, a conflicting persona - the businessman seeking cash rewards and the tourist seeking something that's been lost - community, a sense of belonging.
My tight agenda - carved on granite tablets and impeccably organized to be cost efficient ~ leaves no time for unplanned stops. In fact, to avoid the cost of a hotel room, I am undertaking a 12.5-hour trip over night. Just consult the computer and you will find websites that can get you to Toronto, defining the shortest, most cost efficient route in miles, or kilometers. The weather is sunny; the temperature is rising, the day is June 6th and the time is 4 p.m.
My travel route begins in Fredericton and extends across Maine, through New Hampshire, and Vermont on to Montreal and down the 401 to Toronto just in time for business to begin the following morning.
At Houlton, Maine we pick up the Interstate 95. It's a smooth performer. In no time I am passing the base of the Appalachian Mountains. In the distant haze one can see the Longfellow range.
At Bangor, where I gas up and take Route 2, Maine becomes a study of contrast with the towns and villages of Canada. Time, in Maine, has changed the landscape very little. Maine is, still, the sportsman's Mecca it used to be; it is now, after all, home of eccentric novelist Stephen King. So, Maine does have some diversity. The towns of Maine blur as I pass them- Newport, Skowhegan and New Sharon.
The Village of New Sharon's public library must be famous the world over for its small size. It forms a stark contrast to the mammoth Chapters of Fredericton and other places in Canada. Yet, there is still something quaint, a timeless quality to what you see. Like a journey through a bygone, yet unforgotten, era, the 50's in Maine shall never die.
As I cross the Maine - New Hampshire border at Bethel, there's a sense that the era of the 50's is behind me, and a new era is about to begin. Although sunset has not occurred, daylight is starting to fade.
Between Gorham and Lancaster there's New Hampshire's Mt. Washington and the White Mountains, where here tourism is king, and where manicured motels and Inns are in abundance.
At Lancaster I enter Vermont and between Danville, Barton and Orleans the sun is setting, but the Green Mountains can still be seen. In the shadows of this mountain I can see Vermont's history, its old General Ethan Allen, his Green Mountain Boys and Benedict Arnold at Fort Ticonderoga during the Rebellion.· "Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year."
We have a unique heritage which binds us, we Canadians and Americans, and sometimes it even eludes us. If we lose sight of what we have, a border of thousands of miles and on both sides a common heritage, we are lost.
An accident is on the horizon, if, I don't soon rest. As that thought fades, it happens. Somewhere just ahead in the darkness, I am catching the glint of eyes reflecting my headlights back at me. A deer or a moose perhaps! Slow down! My foot hits the brake, I dim my high beams and I flashed on my caution lights and substantially reduce speed.
I see it clearly now. It's a large deer. It looks well practiced or trained in crossing roads because it seems to look both ways before it saunters past. Like crosswalks for ducks in Nova Scotia, perhaps Vermont will lead the way and establish deer and moose crosswalks with flashing caution lights.
''My engine's going"
Here's Newcastle and my motor's getting very loud. I am pulling over for assistance. That was quick the mechanic tells me my engine's gone. That's when you get deeply suspicious of mechanics, isn't it?
In an instant of losing control, an enormous mental transition occurs from that of "getting somewhere" to that of "being somewhere". Events occur so rapidly that I became an accidental tourist almost without realizing it.
It's noon June 7 and in 2 hours my appointment in Mississauga is scheduled to begin. I postpone my meeting until tomorrow, Friday, June 8, at the same time, 2 pm. In my hotel room I collapse and fall to sleep.
The new connections take a lot less time to make than even the travel time from the downtown hotel to this office. So, I take the subway back to the hotel. Out the front of the Hotel is Jarvis at the back is Gould. At the end of Gould there is an unexpected and very remarkable place, a plaza.
In an instant of losing control, an enormous mental transition occurs from that of "getting somewhere" to that of "being somewhere". Events occur so rapidly that I became an accidental tourist almost without realizing it.
It's noon June 7 and in 2 hours my appointment in Mississauga is scheduled to begin. I postpone my meeting until tomorrow, Friday, June 8, at the same time, 2 pm. In my hotel room I collapse and fall to sleep.
The new connections take a lot less time to make than even the travel time from the downtown hotel to this office. So, I take the subway back to the hotel. Out the front of the Hotel is Jarvis at the back is Gould. At the end of Gould there is an unexpected and very remarkable place, a plaza.
Dawn the "Accidental Tourist"
Tree trunks cut into stumps dot the plaza. They look out of place there, just like stumps in a clear-cut forest do. But in fact they aren't stumps at all; they are chess tables and what looks like stumps are really stools or chairs. At the intersection of Gould and Yonge Streets, this plaza, known informally as the Chess Corner, has an official name. It is called Hacksel Place, named after Alfred Hacksel, a one-time immigrant, who died in 1997 and who, since 1972, played outrageous chess there.
"It's unique to Canada," says Sandy, a South African who says he's traveled allover the world, and who's been playing chess at the corner for over 20 years. ''There· are master Chess players here from all over the world," says Casey from Poland, adding, "I have been playing here as long as Sandy." Like wrestlers, chess players here don't have, or don't use their last names. There's Ray, the Mad Egyptian; Gabriel, the Killer Kosovar; Larry, the American; Vince, the Italian; JJ, the East Indian and George, the Great Hungarian.
Four of the corner's Chess players and myself have dinner at Reilly's Sports Bar on Yonge Street to watch the women fight, the daughters of the boxing legends...Mohammed Ali and Smokin' Joe Frasier. In the bar chess is being played. The day is being toasted with drinks, iced tea, and now I am returning to my hotel. It's around 3 am.
At the Chess Corner they're still playing and there's one big game going on right now - a five-minute format game. The winner takes $20.00 a game.
Gabriel, the Kosovar, is losing right now to Dr. Hum, the illusive Asian. Both players believe that they can win; what looks finished is not - not until time runs out.
I play chess here for two more days and make acquaintances with some of the most interesting and shadowy characters I have ever seen and still I know no one's last name. The only tie between us is the game of Chess. Most important, I feel at home here and at peace with myself - I belong here even though I don't know anyone's last name and that is the way everyone wants it.
I find acceptance here without explanations as to who I am and what I do. At last I am renewing my long-lost sense of community that I once had enjoyed in the neighborhood of the small city in which I was born. Remarkably, what was lost is found again and in no place other than Canada's largest city - Toronto. Who'd a thought it?
Is it the trip or is it the destination in which we find personal fulfillment? I believe the pilgrim's ultimate objective is to find Orion's Gate; the doorway to forever, and once you find it, there are just two important questions left: Do I have the courage to open that gate voluntarily?
Do I have the courage it takes to pitch, or erect my tent inside?
"It's unique to Canada," says Sandy, a South African who says he's traveled allover the world, and who's been playing chess at the corner for over 20 years. ''There· are master Chess players here from all over the world," says Casey from Poland, adding, "I have been playing here as long as Sandy." Like wrestlers, chess players here don't have, or don't use their last names. There's Ray, the Mad Egyptian; Gabriel, the Killer Kosovar; Larry, the American; Vince, the Italian; JJ, the East Indian and George, the Great Hungarian.
Four of the corner's Chess players and myself have dinner at Reilly's Sports Bar on Yonge Street to watch the women fight, the daughters of the boxing legends...Mohammed Ali and Smokin' Joe Frasier. In the bar chess is being played. The day is being toasted with drinks, iced tea, and now I am returning to my hotel. It's around 3 am.
At the Chess Corner they're still playing and there's one big game going on right now - a five-minute format game. The winner takes $20.00 a game.
Gabriel, the Kosovar, is losing right now to Dr. Hum, the illusive Asian. Both players believe that they can win; what looks finished is not - not until time runs out.
I play chess here for two more days and make acquaintances with some of the most interesting and shadowy characters I have ever seen and still I know no one's last name. The only tie between us is the game of Chess. Most important, I feel at home here and at peace with myself - I belong here even though I don't know anyone's last name and that is the way everyone wants it.
I find acceptance here without explanations as to who I am and what I do. At last I am renewing my long-lost sense of community that I once had enjoyed in the neighborhood of the small city in which I was born. Remarkably, what was lost is found again and in no place other than Canada's largest city - Toronto. Who'd a thought it?
Is it the trip or is it the destination in which we find personal fulfillment? I believe the pilgrim's ultimate objective is to find Orion's Gate; the doorway to forever, and once you find it, there are just two important questions left: Do I have the courage to open that gate voluntarily?
Do I have the courage it takes to pitch, or erect my tent inside?
