We drive home quietly through Greenwich Village, upon centuries-old cobblestone streets lined with historic buildings and churches.

It’s New Year’s Day, and Gatsby cannot remember a day when the roads were so deserted. He glides his shiny Mercedes blithely through the potholed streets, making every light.

When we arrive home, he leaves the car at a lot across from his apartment where an attendant parks the car. Gatsby pays the parking people $400 a month to look after his car, about what I pay for my mortgage. He is a partner in a law firm, but there is no apparent ceiling on the cost of things in Manhattan.

Gatsby and Daisy know the streets well, and their ability to find (and quickly occupy) parking spaces in the most popular places of the city is remarkable. My brief stay with my nephew soon comes to an end, and I have to continue my journey. The Mercedes is waiting for us, washed by the attendants eager to please.

"This is the most expensive car wash in the world,” Gatsby shrugs. Gatsby doesn’t remember asking the parking lot people to wash his car. They automatically clean it, spending my nephew's money with careless abandon.

I finally used up the memory of my Alphasmart and dumped all my words onto a floppy disc on Gatsby's computer. No problem. When I re-hooked up Gatsby's keyboard again, it didn’t work. My initial reaction was that I destroyed his keyboard, but I couldn’t see how. I figured it was broken already because all of the other systems seemed fine. I apologized profusely, knowing that I do have an unfortunate way with digital equipment. Gatsby wasn’t upset.

Daisy and I dismantled the keyboard but could see no problem. I hooked up my Alphasmart Portable Intelligent Keyboard to the PS2 slot in the motherboard of my nephew's computer and the keyboard worked fine. Conclusion. Gatsby's keyboard had failed. I offered to pay for a new one, but Gatsby would hear nothing of it. Nice kid. I’m sure they’ll sort this one out quickly. I’m always willing to take responsibility when I am even remotely associated with a problem, but I don’t think I caused this one. Strange.

Thursday, Jan. 3, 2002, 12:30 p.m. Sitting on board Amtrak's Adirondack, Montreal-Bound

I have my ticket and my passport accessible as well as two large Subway sandwiches and two newspapers for when I get bored. The words pouring out of the Public Address system of the Amtrak Adirondack are all staticky and indecipherable, so I have no idea what's being said, and it's probably something I need to know.

I’m usually pretty frantic when I get on trains, but I’m starting to get used to the routine. My luggage is on the overhead rack, and it miraculously fit. How about that! (there is no baggage car.) Good thing I took the smaller luggage. There is only one track leading northward, not two as is usually the case.

3 p.m. Ticonderoga, New York.

Although I managed to find myself a seat in the oldest car on the train, it has the best, most sensible bathroom I have seen on my entire voyage so far. It is also, by far the smallest. Imagine squeezing through a tiny cubicle with a floor area of one square meter. You carefully lock the door and directly in front of you is the mirror and a sink with hot and cold running water. On the back of the door, facing you is a hook where you can hang your coat. Behind you is the toilet and a roll of toilet paper, within easy reach.

Everything is right where it ought to be, and a person does not need to make any weird contortions while doing one's business. This bathroom is easy to clean and easy to keep clean. What more can a person possibly require? With all the sparkle of the newer cars, nothing can be more convenient than this old bathroom.

As I travel further and further north the snow gets a little deeper; there are more lakes, lots of trees, and beautiful Victorian houses. The tracks are in awful shape. Far worse than anything I have ever seen. They shake you to the core. They make your head ache and your stomach rattle. We encounter some hard banked curves. Then black rock shale, peeking through small patches of snow.

A pristine blue lake with snow-capped mountains fills the distance. And I’ve noticed a lot of people are starting to speak French! We must be getting closer to Canada!

Chattanooga Choo Choo plays on my portable CD player as a bald eagle flies above a cobalt blue lake. A beautiful family is playing cards in front of me, and there is even a phone booth at the front of the car! Calls are $1.99 a minute.

I’m getting tired, but I don’t want to miss a thing. Huge mountains are looming in the distance as the train climbs higher and higher up a 15-degree grade. The sky is pristine blue with not a cloud to be seen. It's cozy and warm in the coach car.

The snow covers the ground outside, the roads are icy, and the trees are barren . . . Mostly birch trees. The train is rocking back and forth as we negotiate some thrilling twists and turns.

I’m wearing my heavy green flannel shirt, my vest, my engineer's cap, long underwear and corduroy pants. There’s a cute French boy in front of me with his handknit stocking cap and the slightest suggestion of hair on his upper lip. He is fingering his long brown hair that falls on his white, Pink Floyd T-shirt. We exchange glances from time to time. He’s cute and so is his sister across the way. There are lots of cuties on board. Oooh la la, those brunette Canadian French boys get me hot. Time to gargle with salt water — think I feel a sore throat coming on.

7 p.m. The Adirondack pauses at the American border as we prepare to enter Canada. Customs gave me the third degree. Where was I going, how long would I be there, am I bringing along any gifts and what is their value? What a royal pain in the ass! I got a headache from all that waiting and questioning.

I was finally interviewed by a tres bon gal who found me to be harmless. Now we’re finally on the move after waiting for a freight train to get out of the way and I am concerned that I will be arriving in Montreal late. Meanwhile, I had a nice chat with a fellow passenger and a friendly customs agent.

Crossing borders stresses me out. You should have seen the size of the German Shepard the two border guards brought through the train sniffing for drugs and explosives! Then the two guards started bickering between each other like an old, married couple. “I told you not to talk to me except when we’re between trains,” the senior officer whined to the younger.

Now the train is moving again, and the tracks are clickety-clacking beneath me. We’re picking up speed, making up for lost time. The train’s horn is bellowing like it means business. Better get my stuff together. Now we’re heading in a straight, flat line instead of through treacherous mountain passes. Everybody seems to be speaking French all of a sudden and I have no idea what they are saying.

9 p.m. The Bus Station, Montreal Canada.

When the Adirondack arrived in Montreal, I was delighted to discover that the train platform came right up to the train. All I had to do was pull my two bags across a 6-inch gap and not work my way down a couple of steps. The train arrived 45 minutes late, and from there I decided to take the Metro to the bus station, instead of a cab. The decision to use the Metro was a no-brainer for me, but that's probably coz I don't have a brain: I'm a sucker for trains, especially subway trains that ride on rubber wheels!

I soon began to wonder whether I had made a big mistake in taking the Metro because, unlike even the most primitive stations in the States, things are not necessarily handicap-accessible here. What this means is that you will invariably have big trouble with your luggage, even if it has wheels. Eventually, you will meet steps, and there won't be an elevator or an escalator or moving sidewalk to be found, anywhere. You will be truly screwed.

I dragged my bags from the Amtrak Terminal to the Central Terminal by following the signs to the “Metro,” some of which were very small and difficult to read. I asked people to point me in the right direction, and they very politely pointed me in precisely the wrong way. Fuckers.

I eventually found the Metro terminal and was asked to pay out $2.50 for a ticket. Linda had sent me $60 Canadian Dollars, so I got change and instructions to get on the Bonneventure Metro (Henri Borrisa) and get off at the fourth stop (Berri-UQAM).

To get to the proper subway, I had to descend two very long escalators and eight steps. The subway train, the space age Metro, complete with silent rubber wheels and a propulsion system straight out of “Star Trek” arrived almost immediately and it was there that I met a young black student who was heading, like me, to the bus station. We compared our directions and checked the map. We decided that we had been given proper instructions and decided to stick together in our attempt to arrive at the “Autobus.”

It was quite a relief to be able to talk to somebody in English because everybody, and I mean everybody, was speaking French. Thankfully Montreal is not Paris, and just about everybody was friendly and helpful. They opened doors for me, and that alone was a huge help. The Metro on its rubber wheels zipped right along to the Berri-UQAM stop. It had very friendly sounding announcements gentle station bells, its clean and cheerful interior, unmarred with graffiti, its young and beautiful urban commuters.

I arrived at the station and asked around for the Greyhound station. Its called the Voyager in Canada, but everybody seemed to know what we meant and directed us up an escalator and then pointed to a huge flight of stairs.

“Merci,” I said and then in broken English, “Est-ca-la-tour? El-a-vay-tour?”

“Non non.”

Well, I got the idea, and so it was time to schlep my bags up those fucking steps. I was hauling my heavy carry-on and personal item and gravity was starting to get the better of me. I couldn't handle them both. I grabbed my first bag and brought it up the first flight of stairs. Then I went down the stairs and carried up the second bag. Then I carried the first bag up the second adjoining set of stairs and lo and behold some perfect stranger was bringing my second bag up to me! I was shocked and delighted.

“Merci! Merci!” I said. And that was pretty much the extent of my French.

My good Samaritan seemed pleased with my comments, so I threw in a “gracias” for good measure and also a “thank you.”

He got the message, and I proceeded to the bus station. Thankfully there were no more steps to ascend, and I finally arrived at the service area which was clean and organized. I encountered a long line under a signed that read "Billets," triggering something from French 101, which I barely passed. I got my ticket ($32.50 Canadian) and was told to head out to gate 13. The 9 pm bus was scheduled to leave in 10 minutes so I just barely made it. I got on the bus and settled in for the ride.

I’m the only person with the reading light on, typing away on my little keyboard, listening to all the French chatter and dripping in my sweat. It's nice to get off the rails for a while, but my bus seat is small and cramped, unlike the large Amtrak seats that are built like Stratoloungers. My arms feel OK, so I guess I didn’t mess them up in transit.

I would have missed the bus had I taken the cab and definitely would not have had as much fun. And judging by the distance I traveled on the Metro to get to the bus station, I probably would have run out of Canadian money, as well. My bags are securely stowed away beneath the bus, and I was grateful for the help the attendants showed me in helping me stow them away. I was tired of saying merci all the time and just said, “Hey thanks, man.”

I am the quintessential American: I can’t speak a word of French and I am entirely at the mercy of strangers. Montrealers seem to be extremely friendly, helpful and kind. (Odd how the locals laugh at me when I say this, maybe I got lucky.) It just seems like everybody is going out of their way to help me get to my destination. Only one problem: I forgot where I’m supposed to go once I get to Ottawa. I lost the little piece of paper with the address of the Bed and Breakfast where Linda and Paul are putting me up. The Royal Albert Inn? The Albert Inn? Oh shit.

Well, I’m sure they’re staying up waiting for my call and I definitely have enough money for a cab. Think I’ll just call them when I get to Ottawa. The real hard part is over now. But I’m hungry and thirsty because I haven’t eaten in over 16 hours. One hour to go till I get to Ottawa. The wind is beginning to chill me. Better put on my sweater, even though I’m still drenched in sweat from all my exertions.

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This marks the end of the TWENTY-FIFTH installment of "The Last Hoorah." If you'd like to start from the beginning, then please click this page.

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