Farewell America hello Canada

13 October 2013

It was almost dark when we got back to Central Park after our New York tour and we still had a way to walk from the Columbus Circle. After we’d packed in preparation for the morning and freshened up we went out for a final meal at Spring Natural Kitchen and an early night. Despite being up at the crack of dawn, our last morning was going to be a short one.  Our transfer was picking us up at ten forty five to get us to the airport by twelve thirty. Commando wanted to fit one last run in and I had somewhere I wanted to see before we left New York. After the debacle getting into America, I have to admit to a few nerves about getting back out again.

The place I really couldn’t leave without seeing was the Dakota Building, the spot where John Lennon was shot. This may sound slightly macabre, maybe it is, but for me the events of December 8 1980 had a profound effect. Maybe it was down to the way I heard the news. On the morning of December 9, I woke from a dream that John Lennon had been shot dead in New York, I sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and wondered how my mind could dream up such a twisted, horrible thing. The music of the Beatles had been a theme running through my life. As a child I’d listened to it on the radio, I’d watched the films, even learned to play some of the songs on the piano. After the band broke up, it was John I followed, his music that really spoke to me and I’d recently bought his Double Fantasy album, happy that, after a five year hiatus, he was releasing songs again.

Of all John’s songs, Imagine, had been one of my favourites, it spoke to me of a world I’d like to live in. The thought of someone shooting him was unthinkable. This, after all, was the man who sang and talked about peace. Of course it wasn’t a premonition. Every morning Mother got up before me and she’d put the radio on downstairs to listen to the news. The sound of that news report must have drifted up the stairs and into my dream. It wasn’t until an hour later when I was up, dressed and eating my breakfast, that I heard the next news report and realised it wasn’t my twisted mind making up a terrible story, it was the truth and the world that was evil and twisted. That was the moment I realised that no amount of imagining, or dreaming, could make the world the place John, or I wanted it to be.

Anyhow, we left the hotel at about seven and each went our separate ways. Originally I’d thought I’d walk through the park until I reached Strawberry fields and then turn back to the road but in the end I walked along Central Park West amongst a few hardy souls on their way to work or school. It was raining and the roads were fairly empty apart from yellow taxis and school buses. It was only ten blocks and the rain wasn’t heavy. Soon I was standing in front of the doorway feeling slightly emotional. I thought I might be questioned when I took a photo but the doorman didn’t bat an eyelid. I guess lots of tourists do the same thing. The building itself was shrouded in scaffolding, like so much of Manhatten seems to be so I crossed the road and entered the park.

Commando and I had agreed to meet up just after eight at Le Pain Quotidien cafe on the other side of the park for our last breakfast in New York so I set off through Strawberry Fields in that general direction. Two women walking dogs passed me on their way out of the park.
“It’s too wet for walking,” one said to the other, explaining why the park seemed so empty. Obviously New Yorkers are not as hardy as us British but it was to my advantage as the Imagne mosaic was finally free of crowds when I reached it and I stopped to take a photo.

The rain had stopped by the time I reached West Drive, passed the fountain and took the route I’d taken on the first morning along the edge of the lake. There were a few joggers about by the time I reached Bethesda Terrace and I stopped for one last look at the fountain with its clumps of papyrus and lily pads, wondering if I’d see Cmmando running past. Smiling to myself I climbed towards the Leob Boathouse through a canopy of gold. The grass was almost hidden by the fallen leaves and the little boats looked lonely on the bright green water under the weeping willow. It seemed such a calm and peaceful place only the tall buildings behind the trees reminded me I was in the middle of one of the busiest citys on earth.

A few more dog walkers passed me as I came to the trefoil arch and a couple passing asked me if I knew where the Alice in Wonderland statue was.  They were American and it amused me that I was able to point them in the right direction.
“There’s a Hans Cristian Andersen sculpture just before it too,” I said. “I’m going that way anyway.”
“Are you from England?” They asked.
“I am. Actually, I live just a few miles away from the place the real Alice is buried.”
“She was a real person?” The woman asked, seeming surprised and I explained about Alice Liddell and her grave in Lyndhurst.
When we reached the Andersen sculpture we went out seperate ways, they stopped to take pictures and I carried on around Conservatory Water with a quick stop for a final photo of Alice, the White Rabbit and the Mad Hatter.

There was no Commando at the cafe and a look at my watch told me I was a little early so I ordered a hot chocolate and sat to wait. Sipping my drink I thought about the fact that the two main things I’d wanted to see in New York, The World Trade Center and the Dakota Building were both connected to tragic events that had touched my life in one way or another. In my mind, the city had been a place where bad things happened and I realised this trip had been partly about laying ghosts. Maybe now I could think about it differently and remember the beauty of the park, the views from the High Line and the reflections in the tall buildings instead.

Within a few minutes I thought I saw a familiar figure coming down a trail on the other side of the water. We got ourselves a healthy breakfast of granola, fresh blueberries, strawberries and Greek yogurt and sat to enjoy it looking out over the park. Then we walked back to the hotel to finish packing up the final few bits and pieces before checking out of the hotel.

The transfer car was late, which gave us a few minutes of worry and reminded us of the time in Turkey when the transfer didn’t arrive at all and we ended up getting a taxi at the last minute. That time we had possibly the most terrifying drive of our life. The taxi driver thought he was a racing driver and even drove at speed along the hard shoulder at one point to get through the traffic. This time the transfer car did arrive but we were stuck in terrible traffic with a drive through Manhatten at a pace so slow we could probably have walked faster. With the prospect of another long queue and surly staff ahead this was frustrating and not a little worrying.

Finally we arrived at JKF. Sad to say leaving America was a much pleasanter experience than arriving. The high tech check in was a wonderful surprise, as were the helpful staff who talked us through the process. Although we were later than we’d hoped the check in was probably the smoothest I’ve ever experienced. The lady who scanned my passport actually smiled and said, “have a nice day Hon.’ Even the full body scan, put all your worldly goods on a conveyer belt and watch them disappear into an X-ray machine was stress free although it did feel a little odd to know the airport staff knew more about the inside of our bodies than we did. Soon we were on our way to duty free and our only MacDonalds in our whole time in America. It seemed a little sad that the same speed and good humour wasn’t employed on our entry to the country and it left us feeling that America was far happier to be rid of us than it had been to let us in.

Not being fond of flying I wasn’t looking forward to the flight to Toronto on a tiny Embraer, hardly bigger than a bus. It turned out to be better than expected and was over fairly quickly. Toronto seemed much happier to see us than America had been. There were queues of course, but they moved quickly and the staff were polite. Best of all two friendly faces greeted us in the arrivals area. Maggie and Alan, Commando’s uncle and aunt were there waiting and we were, quite literally, enveloped in welcoming arms.

Originally the plan was to stay with Maggie and Alan for three days in their house in Gravenhurst. Sadly, as their daughter Katie is seriously ill and staying with them, this wasn’t going to be possible, but they’d found us somewhere nearby. On the two hour drive from Pearson Airport to GRavenhurst, Maggie could hardly contain her excitement about the place.
“I just know you’re going to love it,” she said as we sped past a spectacular vista of trees so bright they hardly seemed real. If this was Canada I was already half in love with it.