The Albert House Inn was built by Canadian architect Thomas Scott (1836-1895) in 1875, and I’m staying in a large bedroom on the fourth floor.

Exquisitely decorated with Victorian floral wallpaper, the room has a toilet in a tiny separate closet room and a shower and sink in yet another small room. I don't believe there is a level floor in the entire house, but it is a substantial, well-built building and I am glad to be staying here after such an exhausting trip.

I was given an upgrade from a small studio to a spacious suite and felt ecstatic when I saw where I could have been staying.

Now that I have showered, powdered my balls and tranquilized my brain, it is time to put on my sleeping masque and get some shut-eye. Tomorrow is a big day: Linda and Paul will be here at 8 a.m.

Saturday, Jan. 5, 2002 Midnight.

Linda, Paul and I gathered for breakfast at the Albert House Inn at 8 a.m. and ate a healthy meal.

The cost of breakfast was included in my stay. Linda and Paul only had to pay $6 each for their meals, which was a bargain considering it was all you can eat. Linda and Paul liked their meal so much they asked the proprietors if they could eat breakfast here regularly but the answer was no.

I ate blueberry pancakes, hot bran cereal, orange juice, coffee and potatoes on the side. Linda and Paul opted for, among other things, bacon and sausage.

I’ve decided to stay away from breakfast meat for the duration of my travels because it bothers my stomach. After eating quite minimally the day before, this excellent breakfast rejuvenated my spirits and prepared me for a big day.

Linda, Paul and I hit six pubs today in succession with about an hour in between each. Most tried to emulate English breweries, and some succeeded quite well. The beer was fantastic.

Linda was quite at home watching Paul and me get crocked on some of the best beer produced on this planet. We walked from pub to pub, told jokes, snapped pictures and, in general, had a jolly good time. Even though so many people speak French in these parts, the flavor of Ottawa is British.

We walked by the Parliament several times, and I had the best fish and chips I've ever eaten even though I can’t remember if it was cod or halibut. The sauce didn’t taste anything like the tartar sauce back in the states, and I just loved it. I want to go back for more tomorrow.

Linda lives in the heart of downtown, does not own a car, and doesn’t need one. Cabs are cheap, and the buses seem to run at all hours. What a city!

After crawling the pubs for about seven hours and gossiping about every family member to exhaustion, Paul wanted to conclude with a visit to the Chateau Laurier, which reminded me of the Plaza Hotel in New York. I don’t like their ostentatious floral marble interiors, and quite frankly I got a pretty good idea why the French Revolution occurred.

I didn't want to enter its pub. Linda thought I was being difficult because I didn’t want to spend their money in it, but it wasn’t about money (although I do believe I saved them a bundle by not going).

And so we eventually made our way back home, grabbing a six-pack instead. Then we rented the video “The Man Who Cried,” and headed home.

We watched the video, and it was close to midnight when we finished it. They walked me back to my hotel, where I am now preparing to hit the sack. Tomorrow I sleep in.

My Sprint phone card does not work too well in Canada, so I’m using the Internet for communication. I checked my e-mail and got a detailed letter from Jennifer who said the smoke detectors were chirping and freaking out the dog.

6 p.m. I am settling into a coach seat on Canada's VIA train, en route from Ottawa to Toronto. I cannot believe I made it on time to board this train: Never underestimate the time it takes to get from A to B.

Linda and Paul hailed a cab from their condo at 4:40 p.m. It is now 5:50 and I just got settled on the train with their assistance. My big bag is in the front of the train, my “carry-on” is beneath my feet, and my jacket is in the overhead compartment.

The interior of the VIA feels cramped, and I cannot, for the life of me, understand the novelty of traveling on this train. I feel like I'm moving around an airplane which makes me miss the spacious confines of our American passenger trains, Superliners, built in the 70s. The only reason that I'm on VIA at all is that I'm fulfilling an Amtrak requirement says I have to take at least one leg of my east coast journey on a Canadian railroad --- so here I am.

Linda, Paul and I had breakfast at the Albert Inn this morning, and I fell into my usual routine (how quickly I establish them) of eating blueberry pancakes, hot bran cereal and fried potatoes with lots of orange juice and coffee.

They ordered their usual eggs and sausage delight, and we sat around eating and talking for the next hour. After all our conversations about Jennifer, Linda concluded that Jennifer and I were a happy couple and right for each other.

Well, judging from all the couples I have met lately, it seems that we are probably as happy as anybody out there.

Linda and Paul found it strange that I have to pay Jennifer to give me haircuts, but I explained that Jennifer is a banker’s daughter and cannot escape her capitalistic tendencies any more than we can avoid ours as children of a landlord.

Besides, nobody in our family can cut hair anyway, so why not pay somebody for a quality haircut. I’d have to pay a barber a whole lot more than the $20 I give her.

As far as the food problem is concerned, they think I should eat more salads and I agree. I don’t particularly like lettuce, so maybe I should cut some deal with Jennifer on the salad front.

And as far as protein is concerned, I get plenty, and it seems I eat better than anybody in the family does, even if I eat out.

After breakfast, Linda and Paul headed back to their condo just down the block, and I finished packing, only to discover that I misplaced my watch, which after an hour of frantic searching, turned up in my main bag with my shirts: I get sweaty and nervous when I lose stuff.

Paul appeared at about 10:30 and helped me transfer my bags from the Albert Inn to the condo where I dumped all my stuff in their living room. Then we headed out to have further adventures.

I proposed a long hike, and we walked along the Ottawa river and across it from the province of Ontario to Quebec. Along the way, we hit a bunch of pubs - so many I lost count. Linda started complaining about all the beer we were drinking, but we just humored her and continued.

Just for the record, the prize for the best pub and food in Ottawa goes to D’arcy McGee’s Irish pub that has an enormous selection of premium beers as well as the best fish and chips and sauce I have ever tasted. It also has the best view of the Parliament across the way (on the first floor). Go at around 2 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon in January, and you’ll practically have the place to yourself.

We had visited D’arcy McGee’s yesterday (a jam-packed Friday during lunch hour), and I insisted that we return because I know a good thing when I see it.

This time, however, I ordered two fish and chips instead of one because they were so good. I think they said the fish was haddock, but I need to check on that. Whatever it was, it was very creamy in texture, practically melting in my mouth. I accompanied the fish with a delicious beer brewed in Northern Canada which went down easy.

I wish I could remember what the names of the beers were, but in a sense, it doesn’t matter. It comes down to this, I explained to Paul: A beer is either a lager or an ale, and I don’t care for lagers. Beer is dark or light - take your pick, they’re both beautiful. And beer is either bitter (hoppy) or smooth and creamy. I prefer the latter. After all that, the beers are all great, some have more personality than others, but they are entirely fine.

One thing I’ve learned on this trip for sure is that the best beer comes off the tap. I don’t know what it is, but beer in a bottle pales in comparison to beer that comes out of a valve.

We hiked across the Ottawa River, along its banks, checked out the bathroom at the Museum of Civilization and snapped photos by their totem poles.

Then we crossed a beautiful old iron bridge, back to the Ontario side and paid tribute to a statute of Champlain, who stood on a high pedestal, carrying an astrolabe in one hand, looking kind of faggy.

There were many “Kodak moments,” especially lovely shots of the Parliament building, which I hope come out despite the slightly overcast sky.

We walked back to the city holding hands, hugging and reminding each other that, by far, the most important thing is “family,” and “blood.”

Anyway, back to today. We eventually made it back to the Condo and called a cab to take us to the VIA station and the next leg of my trip to Toronto and a night at the Comfort Inn.

We all boarded a taxi and took the long ride to the VIA station and then sat around and chatted for about an hour until we started loading. Linda, Paul and I go way back, like 30 years of camping, visits and partying.

They told me that one time we all occupied a pup tent together when I was about 14, and that they screwed while I was fast asleep. I don’t remember that, but I do remember lots of stuff we all did together, driving to all sorts of exotic places in Canada and having a great time.

With all our pub crawling and eating, the taxis and the lodging, I’m sure they spent well over $300 Canadian on me.

I admitted that I felt like a freeloader, but they wouldn’t hear of letting me spend my own money. Not a penny. But I guess it was a win-win situation, as they explained it.

Not only was I having a first-class time, but they had the place to themselves while I dealt with all the multitude of details that comes with traveling. And when it came to doing my wash, they were there to help me out, which we did last night, before we sat down to watch the video.

Linda teaches English as a second language practically across the street at a former vocational institute. $30 Canadian an hour and 30 hours a week, which can add up, but no benefits.

Paul works the information desk at the local public library at around $30,000 Canadian a year with benefits, but no internet access.

In short, I came to realize that Linda, Paul and I were really “working stiffs.” They don’t have much money, and neither do I. They live in a two bedroom apartment, first-floor condo just a couple blocks away from the parliament, in one of the most desirable parts of town.

They own their condo but still have to pitch in something like $600 a month Canadian in association fees and taxes. So we both pay about the same on a month to month basis, except in ten years, I will own my house, and they will always have to pay out association fees.

I’m not sure how much the condo costs if they were to buy it new: Probably somewhere in the realm of a quarter million dollars. But they already own it in that respect. Buried deep in the building is a huge swimming pool and sauna, which I checked out once before but did not this time around. I only had so much time and it seemed like the pub crawl was the way to go.

It was pretty frantic getting on the VIA. Linda was astonished at all the beer we consumed, and she had to work to keep us from hitting “just one more” before we got home.

Instead we went to a liquor store and bought a couple of beers to drink while I did my final packing. Then Linda started lecturing me about how it would be all my fault if I missed the train because of that one last beer, etc. etc.

Well, I would not have minded spending another day with them. They are delightful company, and I love them dearly.

But I’m on a tight schedule, and despite everything, I made it on the train in one piece. The bags stowed away, and I’m heading toward Toronto.

Before I left, we called Mom even though I was getting a bit frantic. Mom made it back to Pasadena fine.

I suggested another Mexican cruise, perhaps Acapulco, just because I’ve never been there. It doesn’t matter. Cruising extends her life, and she says she’ll “hire me” anytime to accompany her. No problem.

Well, we’re packed in here like sardines, and I am getting a much greater appreciation for Amtrak as the miles slip by.

In all fairness, the track is in great shape, the ride is super smooth, and we appear to be making good time. The windows on this thing are huge, too bad there isn’t much to see, it being pitch black outside.

This VIA train doesn’t have a dining car. A lady wheels her car through the narrow aisle selling snacks at reasonable prices. I just bought a watered down coffee for $1.50 and tipped the cute stewardess a buck; I mean a loonie.

Canadians are very much into minted coins, and I’m gradually getting used to that. They even have a two dollar coin called a toonie.

The rest of their paper money is multicolored and looks like play money of questionable value. I think one US dollar equals 60 Canadian cents, so the dollar carries quite a lot of weight around here.

The train is making its way through a winter wonderland of forests barren of leaves. There are occasional hills and sometimes some stunning landscapes to behold: Sometimes we pass old junked out cars, silos, or vast expanses of desolate fields with old brown husks of dead corn sticking out of the snow in a Cartesian array.

The fields still hold the shape of furrows from last season’s planting. They are dotted with farmhouses, occasional subdivisions, and little towns: flat, flat, flat.

The weather is cooperating, but there is the potential for some severe snow. The train’s horn bellows out its warning every few miles as it approaches crossroads.

I wonder about the linebacker at my side. Will he get hungry and have to go to the café for some food? Does he have his own food? Such human bulk must eventually require sustenance. Thus far my body says, no food. Those pancakes did the trick. And so did the hot spicy Chinese food the day before.

My throat feels a bit raw and my nose is stuffy, but there’s no fever. I call that a perfectly normal response to the climatic and geographic changes I am experiencing. Also a bit of what I shall coin “Amtrak lag.” I wonder if there is even a time change going on somewhere or other.

I have a very sturdy constitution, and quite frankly I’m pretty impressed with the way I’ve held up the last few weeks. It makes me wonder if illness is a psychological thing. There are times I wonder if we succumb to disease and sickness because we’re just sick and tired of the way things are going.

I know that some diseases are beyond the mind. Genetic illnesses, like Wilson’s disease, is a sinister enemy that lies deep in our chromosomal makeup. Thank God modern science has a way of helping the body get rid of copper. But what about the other laundry list of simple ailments.

The stomach aches, the colds, the skin problems. Man oh man, in the last few weeks I’ve had just about everything. I cured them with my salves, my powders, my ointments, and my gels. But could I have cured them with my mind?

I need to remain strong. I could visit Owen, but I could also get very, very sick in the process. It’s all about making the right decisions. Choosing the right path: Is that what free will is all about? Or are our fates somehow beyond our ability to make decisions.

Are we but pawns in the hands of the creator? Are we fulfilling his destiny in some subconscious way? Do we even exist? Exactly how much control do I have over the next few hours, the next few days?

I say I want to do this. Then I say I want to do that. So far as I can see, the only thing I have control over is the movement of my fingers over this keypad. I also have some limited control over the words that flow out of my mouth.

But don’t you see: The words don’t mean a thing! I say I will do something, but I don’t. I say I won’t do something and I do it.

It’s action that is of consequence, and I seem to have little control over my actions. There is some other higher force that is driving things.

---

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

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