Bleary-eyed backpacker bussing it east

Wednesday 15th was exciting because Queenie and Percy were heading east. At last! A bit of travel. Queenie packed the bags bright and early and lugged them downstairs. Hopefully the next hostel would have a lift (although as Queenie already knew the next hostel was a decommissioned ice-breaker that was unlikely).

The big bag is a pain. Of course, those of you who have been reading Percy’s Depressed from the beginning will have guessed that it of course contains Percy, and all his armour and weaponry, and is very heavy as a result. But when people comment on the size of it – and they always do – Queenie has to pretend she brought a lot of clothes and camping gear. And this makes her look like a twat, which she doesn’t like.

Never mind. One of the advantages of lugging the Big Bertha Bag from Hell around Canada is that random men clamour to carry it for her, to prove how BIG AND STRONG they are.

Men are simple creatures, really. Simple, but adorable. Well, apart from Austrians. But more of that anon.

Anyway, due to the kindness of several random, big, strong, powerful, muscular men, Queenie and Percy made it onto the Montreal bus and headed off to Kingston, Ontario for a few days R and R and a chance to meet Caelen’s dad. Caelen from Springtown, not Caelen from Phibsboro.

The countryside wasn’t terribly interesting. Mostly it was very like home. Lots of pastureland with hedgerow separating big pasture fields. Then we passed through some meadowland, complete with flowers, which was fantastic. You rarely see that in Ireland now, it’s all been pesticided away, hasn’t it. It made Queenie think of that great project on Clare Island, to gather wild flower seeds and sell them. Maybe we should be buying them for our gardens as it is a valid project in more ways than one.

Finally, we passed through some wooded areas, but they looked farmed rather than natural and before long we hit Kingston.

First Capital Day – Queenie stands for God Save the (other) Queen

Queenie arrived in Kingston on one of its many holidays – First Capital Day – which celebrates the fact that Kingston was the capital of Canada for three years. Before they moved it inland to Ottawa. (Lakefront Canadians talk about the great lakes like they’re some kind of ocean. Which I suppose they are, considering that L. Ontario is bigger than Ireland). Kingston has a lovely old English feel to it as a result, its old centre, today’s downtown, meanders along the lakefront. There are lots of lovely Victorian clapboard houses and brick villas, and a substantial city hall and cathedral. Like its Irish namesake though, the waterfront is being desecrated by modernity, and there are a couple of monstrous high rises poking up through the vista, most noticeably a horrible Radisson Hotel. Boo hiss, Radisson.

Anyways, Kingston today is famous for a number of things, apart from being the First Capital. It is a retirement centre for Canadians. It is surrounded by five penitentiaries. It hosts some class of a base or an army training centre. You can’t smoke anywhere in Kingston apart from on the street. As a result, there are a lot of burly men with crew cuts and luxurious moustaches walking around downtown, smoking.

Queenie walked to the City Hall and Memorial Park and headed slap bang into a parade of cadet brass bands. And people walking around in Victorian costume. It was like a mini Vintage Week, without the old cars. A real army officer was overseeing the proceedings and we all clapped dutifully when ordered. I even stood for God save the Queen. A tv cameraman sitting near me commiserated with me – coming all the way to Canada to have to stand for the oppressor’s anthem. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we do it at rugby internationals all the time.

The bands were pretty good, even though the MC kept messing up the marching orders and causing them to bump into each other. One of them played ABBA and The House of the Rising Sun.

Being hit on by other backpackers – oh god I’d forgotten this bit!

Afterwards, I headed back to my lodgings, which are in the Alexander Henry, a decommissioned Coast Guard ice cutter. I’m staying in Cabin 19, used by junior seamen. I have the cabin to myself, oh bliss. There are two bunks, an iron box that can be used as a wardrobe, a small sink with orders not to drink the water from the tap. And a porthole. The cabin is wood-panelled and hasn’t been updated since the sixties I’d say. Although it is a little musty it is lovely. Really cosy. The ship is managed by the local maritime museum and there is a day manager, who is as daft as a brush, and several local teenagers who are the ‘hostesses’ and who stay on board overnight to make sure the backpackers don’t set fire to the place. And let us in after eleven.

There’s a weird system of keys where we don’t get a room key, but they will come and lock or unlock your door as and when you want. Which is really annoying, but I’m sure there’s some Canadian logic to it. I eventually figured out how to lock the door from the inside but it took a while, which is why I allowed the following incident to occur.

Queenie forgot that when she goes abroad she gets hit on by wankers ALL THE TIME. I’m okay now, a week into it, I have the stern look, the piss off hand gesture and the ‘Idon’twishtohaveaconversationwithyouthankyouverymuchallthesame’ tone in place, and when I was being pestered by a drunk US Marine sniper sergeant – who wanted to tell me all about FREEDOM – in the pub last night, I got rid of him in about ten minutes.

Honey, I got all the FREEDOM I need, thanks all the same.

But I forgot about other backpackers. They’re the worst. When I was in Toronto, I used to hang out in the hostel with an Irish Canadian bloke and a Scottish bloke, who were very nice, but who used to take turns to hit on me in a very desultory manner. Which is just annoying, because you know they are thinking ‘two arms, two legs, female, why the hell not’. Which is a little insulting I find. Or maybe I’m just the fussiest bird on the planet.

Both probably.

Anyways, they shared their room with a very strange Austrian roommate, with an unpronounceable name, which seemed to roughly translate into Engelbert. So that’s what we’ll call him.

Engelbert used to get drunk every night in that maudlin, central European way. You know, where they suddenly realise that the world is a terrible place and we should all just kill ourselves. Or at the very least, you should let them cry on your shoulder for a little bit. He was tolerable when the others were there.

I was sitting outside the Alex Henry having a smoke when the Moose bus pulled up and the Moose heads trundled up the gang plank and who should be among them only Engelbert the Depressed himself. So we did the usual pretend surprise that the other person should be in the same part of the backpacker loop and chatted a bit and then agreed to have a beer later. Which we did. One. ONE FLIPPIN’ CAN OF BEER. During which we discussed what we thought of Canada (To give him his due, he came up with the best description of it I have heard yet, which is that it is a kind of Nordic Australia). And then I departed, not wanting to have to deal with a drunk Engelbert on my own. I went to bed and straight to sleep because I was really exhausted after Toronto.

But a little voice in the back of my head said “Queenie, you don’t seem to be able to lock this door from the inside, so put your backpack up against it.” Because just as we were going inside to our cabins, Engelbert the Depressed had grabbed my bare foot ‘to check it wasn’t too cold’.

Yeah.

I woke up about half an hour later to someone knocking on the door. I held my breath, hoping he’d go away. To my utter amazement, he opened the door. The backpack held it closed, thank goodness. To my complete horror, he pushed hard, got the door open and stuck his head in. To be greeted by my head (I was sleeping in the top bunk).

What do you want? No you can’t come in. Get the fuck out of my room. Goodnight. SLAM. I think I caught his head in the door. I hope I did anyways.

I rolled around my bunk howling with laughter. There were two Aussies sleeping in the next cabin. The knocking had woken them up. They were howling with laughter.

Splutter, choke, chuckle “You alright, girl? You need some help?” Howl………

“No, I’m grand.” Snortle…………..

After a while I calmed down and did that usual female thing of ‘did I over-react?’ I decided I’d decide when I met him over breakfast.

Next morning, we played tag as I tried to get into the dining room ahead of him and he lurked in the men’s washrooms, which were across from my cabin. He won. I got in first, but he legged it in after me. I studied the coffee machine for a long time, until he sat down. He busied himself with the toaster. After a while I got pissed off with all the footling, so I just eyeballed him. And do you know what he said to me?

Did you sleep well?

Did I sleep well? Did I sleep well?

I SLEPT FINE UNTIL YOU BROKE INTO MY ROOM, YOU PERVERT!

He didn’t talk to me again after that. And I figured out how to lock the door from the inside.

Sigh.