When I moved to Toronto, one of the first orders of business was to sell my faithful little Pontiac Pursuit (which my grandparents named The Hot Pursuit, as I drove it while chasing down stories – “Boy scouts are planting trees on a farm!? What a scoop! I’ll get to the bottom of this!”).
Having a car in the city just seemed more like a burden than a convenience (good luck finding parking ever), and I certainly didn’t need the added expense.
As such, usually the only way for me to leave the city is by bus or train (or rental car, I suppose, but I far prefer the more environmentally friendly option of public transit). And, since I get ridiculously terrible motion sickness on buses, one luxury I am always happy to pay a little more for is Via Rail.
While it’s a bit of a coin toss whether or not your train will depart or arrive on time, overall, I really do love taking the train.
I love that I can read or chat or just stare out the window at the beautiful countryside as I’m whizzed along to my destination. And I really love being gently rocked to sleep as it trundles along the tracks.
And, if the other passengers decide to behave impolitely and make a move for my last nerve, as happens on occasion, there’s always the bonus luxury option of buying a lovely little juice box of wine from the bar cart and just easing into a nice mellow buzz.
A word to the wise though, do not be the obnoxiously drunk guy on the train, singing “Mockingbird” repeatedly and yelling “BAM!” at irregular intervals.
Nobody likes that guy.