Leaving New York on Amtrak’s Maple Leaf train, I jockeyed for a decent seat in Business Class. One might think that Business Class entitles one to a reserved seat, but on Amtrak one would be wrong. People came, people left, and I was able to scoot over to a decent window seat and watch as we got closer to my homeland – Canada! An exceedingly well-groomed man in a finely tailored suit wearing whatever the male equivalent is of Jimmy Choo shoes, looking for all the world like CNN’s Ali Velshi, sat nearby in a good seat, but not as good as mine.

As we crossed over the Niagra River, people headed to the side of the train where they could see a tiny bit of Niagra Falls. I was content where I was. As a child I had seen it many times. I have probably a hundred relatives within 50 miles of the Falls and while visiting them we often went to the Falls.

I assumed that on reaching the Canadian side an officer of Canadian customs would walk down the aisle, smiling, asking questions and requesting documents before moving to the next row. Instead we were told to exit the train with all our luggage in hand and go into a little building on our left. Struggling, I got out and in a somewhat chaotic manner we all made our way into the building and awaited our turn for the long wait to see a customs agent. Mine was pleasant, asked minimal questions, handed me back my passport, and told me to go back out that building and down to another door of the same building, there to await permission to go right back on the train we had just exited.

A small elderly woman was in a similar situation and we chugged down the path trying to figure out which door to enter. I could barely keep up with her. We found the door we were supposed to enter, and went in to find at least a hundred teenagers who were obviously part of some school program waiting for our train, but now they were ahead of us. We barely made it into the large room, the entry door closing firmly against my butt. The elderly woman was amiable and spoke freely of her late husband, and the husbands who had gone before, and introduced herself. Rachel spoke of her academic work at Cornell, and the scientific textbook she had written. She added, “that was my second book, my first was on the history of vibrators.”

This captured my interest, in part because I had been reading a book about sex for seniors (Naked at our Age, and for my young readers I apologize for the images that may now be indelibly imprinted in your impressionable brains) that virtually glorified the use of vibrators by seniors. Before I was able to explore this intriguing topic with her, Rachel found an opening to get out of the building and spirited back to our Business Class car. She was gone. When I slowly ambled up into the car, somehow Jimmy Choo man had eclipsed us both and was sitting in my seat. No matter, we were approaching Hamilton and soon to arrive in Toronto.

I remembered that on my family’s many trips from Toronto to the family farm in the Niagra area, we would pass a little donut shop that had been opened by my favorite hockey player – Toronto Maple Leafs number 7. I wore his jersey. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Tim Horton. I looked but could not find it. He had long ago sold his rights for a pittance, and although it is now owned by Wendy’s, Tim Horton’s remains Canada’s favorite coffee shop.

The train arrived in Toronto, and despite the utter lack of decent signage I found my way to the main foyer, and then across the street to the Royal York Hotel. This hotel has a special place in my heart I since it was where my wife and I headed as a newly married couple on her first trip to Canada with me. As Carol and I were driving toward Toronto in 1975, anxious to experience the rare luxury (for us then) of a hotel like the stately Royal York, we heard on the radio of a murder that had taken place in a downtown Toronto hotel – the Royal York. The entire hotel had been cordoned off, with no one permitted in or out. We went to another historic hotel, the King Edward, where through thin walls we heard the couple in the next room vigorously experimenting with various positions in their squeaky bed throughout the night. The Royal York it was not.

Fifty years later almost to the day, I walked in and presented myself to the front desk of the Royal York. Carol was to join me the next day, having flown to Toronto earlier to see her relatives. Front Desk Man lit up and said “Mr Fransen, it appears that you have been given a complimentary upgrade to a suite!” The room was indeed a lovely suite. On entering however I discovered that it overlooked an area that was the venue for the Caribbean Music Festival that went until midnight each day. No matter, I always stay up until 1am and like Caribbean music.

I went to the hotel restaurant and ordered something.

Soon after, a lovely woman, Tumi, took a seat at the table next to mine. We visited briefly.

On the other side of me was a large table of women who I learned were from the Bay Area having a gals’ weekend in Toronto. Tumi was shy, but after awhile shared with me that she lives in Toronto, works in IT, and was thinking of moving to California. I leaned over to Tumi and with a wink said, “you are going to hate me for what I am about to do.” I then turned to the ladies on the other side and said “my new friend Tumi here works in IT in Toronto, but is thinking of moving to California, and wonders if it would be OK if she joined you.” They erupted in a chorus of “yes absolutely, come join us!” She joined them and they all had a great time.

The next day was unstructured, except that I wanted to see where I was born. I knew only that it was on or near Yonge Street, and served a poulation that included women who were unencumbered by husbands.

I knew this because my mom had told me that when I was born, my dad – a porter on the railroad – was on the train to Montreal. She arrived by taxi. On being asked if she was married, she told the nurses she had a husband, but having arrived by taxi with no man in sight they did not believe her and she was assigned a bed in the wing reserved for unwed mothers. Shortly after I was delivered, the head nurse of that wing sternly told my mom if she wanted to go to the bathroom she had to go there by herself. My mom dutifully did so with nary a complaint. A day or two later, her doctor came and said, “Mary you seem to be doing well. You can start sitting up in bed and dangling your legs over the side.” “Oh doctor, I have been up and around and going to the bathroom,” she told him. “Why,” exclaimed the doctor to the head nurse, “have you been treating this woman this way? And why is she in this ward?” Horrified, the head nurse said “she came by taxi, without a man, so we thought she was one of those women.” My mom was moved to the other wing, and treated like royalty until my dad got back and brought us home.

So off I went to find the place of my birth. The best way to get around in Toronto is the subway. Transit systems today have their own unique smartcards or dumbcards or the like. However I had learned in DC that if you levitate your iPhone over the digital reader, magic happens, there is a beep, you get a green light, and are allowed through the turnstile. I had no idea if the fare was going to be charged to me or the Underhills, but it worked in Toronto too.

As a young boy my mother, being either adventurous or just loving shopping too much to stay at home, often took me on the subway downtown to Eaton’s and Simpson’s. She cautioned me not to get too close to the edge because if I fell and touched the middle rail I would be electrocuted. I was more concerned about being run over by the train. Many nightmares ensued.

With the help of Mr Google, and a phone call, I deduced that I had likely been born at Grace Hospital, run by the Salvation Army and open to the maritally encumbered and unencumbered. The original hospital was torn down in the 1950’s but had been rebuilt in 1957 a block away.

My mission accomplished, I wandered the streets of the city of my birth. Very near where I was born I discovered where sex once lived enthusiastically and apparently where it died.

As I wandered I noted this street sign for “Avenue Rd.”

Presumably not far from Boulevard Street.

My family left Toronto when I was 11, went to Winnipeg for a year, and then Regina Saskatchewan in the prairies for two years. That is where I learned what 40 degrees below zero feels like. Hint: it doesn’t feel cold, it just hurts. When the temperature rises to 20 degrees below, you are so relieved you doff your parka and play in the snow. I could not have been happier when we moved to central California in 1967 and traded 40 below in the winter for 100 degrees in the summer. My parents, having married off their children in the 1970’s, moved back to the Toronto area. Every time I would go back to visit them I would ask, “tell me again, why did we leave Toronto??” I loved it as a child and love it now.

After a reunion with my wife, who had flown to Toronto from Portland, and some of her family,

off we went to the Sultan’s Tent for dinner, passing a fountain unique in that the liquid was emitted from a different orifice than normal for a canine.

Ever the dog lover, Carol made friends with one of them.

The Sultan’s Tent is a Moroccan restaurant. To my absolute shock and horror, they also had belly dancers. After a time the dancers invited the diners to join them for the completely educational and cultural experience, with no sensuality whatsoever, of learning how to belly dance. Despite protestations, some were moved to do so in order to avoid an international incident.

This photo may falsely suggest my wife and I actually took a belly dancing lesson from this lovely woman. We didn’t. That is not me. It was a ruse and I utterly deny it. Didn’t happen. I don’t know why you brought it up.

Now on to the more important issue of cereal boxes. Perhaps my friend Rachel can write a book about this. When I was young cereal boxes were made properly, with English on one side, and some promo for toys young boys might want on the back. Cereal was chosen not for the contents but for whatever they were selling on the back. My parents gave me free reign to buy the cereal when we went to the store because it allowed them to shop in peace while I ogled all the toys and other offers on the backs of cereal boxes. At least until they realized I wan’t actually eating the cereal, just cutting out the offers on the back. Then in the 1960s, Quebec threatened to secede from Canada unless they made the back of cereal boxes the same as the front except in French (or as the French would say, make the front the same as the back, just in English). Whether this is why my family left Canada for California in 1967 or not, it was enough for me.

Yet a memory has always remained of those glorious cereal box offers: to win a trip on the CN Canadian train, with a dome car and happy people. Fulfilling a childhood dream of mine, Carol and I boarded the ViaRail Canadian the next day for the four day journey to Vancouver BC.

We saw forests, lakes, rivers, towns, boats and seaplanes, the Canadian Shield, the prairies, and the Rockies.

Along the way, we enjoyed live music (and how she did not fall while enduring track changes at 100mph I do not know).

We met some fascinating people. Colin (right), an Englishman, and Stuart, a New York Jew who proudly pulled out his Spanish passport and refused to pronounce the letter “s” (which is pronounced “th” in Spain), were a fascinating pair who obtained their Spanish citizenship when Spain was among the first countries to allow gay marriage. During the sing-along sessions, Stu would dominate with his basso profundo voice – he had sung in the opera for a time.

Dori and Rachel were among the many who took great care of us.

We finally arrived in Vancouver BC, and had a couple of wonderful days there, including our first experience with Wagyu Beef Hot Stone.

But after 3 weeks on the train around the US and Canada, I said, “I just want to get home.” So we cancelled the last leg of our trip on Amtrak, bought tickets on Alaska Air, and flew home from Vancouver to Vancouver.

Obviously, this post has exceeded the 2 minute advertised limit and for this I apologize. Simply fill out the form on the back of this cereal box and send it along with a self-addressed stamped email to the undersigned for a complete refund. Unless you are French.