August 24–September 2, 2019.  I stayed with Cathie and Don in Chicago for a week. They had invited me to visit after we met during their stay at the AirBnb Shawn managed. It was my first time there, and I was very excited. They lived in Polonia Triangle, Chicago’s traditionally Polish neighborhood, where my father’s siblings and mom lived in early 1950. I was in heaven, taking the bus downtown every day to see museums and enjoy the downtown vibe. I got special tickets to see Hamilton: The Exhibition, a historical recreation of Alexander Hamilton’s life vis-à-vis the American Revolution and the creation of the United States of America. I loved the beautiful setting of the museum in Northerly Island Park. The exhibit featured an audio tour narrated by the musical’s author, Lin-Manuel Miranda, along with Phillipa Soo and Christopher Jackson, who played Eliza Schuyler and George Washington in the original Broadway production. It was stunning.

I hit as many museums as I could, including the Field Museum, Museum of Science and Technology, and the Art Institute. I saw the Manet late show at the institute. I walked around Millennium Park in the Chicago Loop area, enjoying the architecture, public art, and gardens. I walked the riverwalk, gawking at the combination of modern and dated architecture. On my last full day, Cathie, Don, and friends invited me to join them at the Bristol Renaissance Faire. The plays and comedy sketches were a hoot and I loved the beautiful setting in a shady grove in the woods.

September 2. Before leaving the Windy City, I wanted to find the house where my dad had lived with mother and siblings for almost a decade starting in 1949. My aunt Marysia knew the street but not the number, and I searched for the house in vain. Their house had backed onto train tracks, and I wondered if they ever got used to the clatter.

Disappointed, I left and headed to Greenfield Village at the Henry Ford Museum, arriving at five—just as it was closing. I ran inside quickly and caught a glimpse of the old cars, including the Model T on the assembly line, as a curator started shutting things down. From there, I headed to Detroit, passing through East Detroit, which felt a bit run-down. I considered going to Grosse Pointe to see where Clifford had grown up but changed my mind.

I parked and headed to the downtown, walking around for an hour. I walked into a café for a pastry and was impressed by the lovely decor and facade. The owner told me it was ruined when they first start building four years ago. There was garbage strewn everywhere and fires burning in barrels day and night. I loved the vibe of the revived downtown, and walked around till dark, then crossed into Canada and found a turnout near a waste treatment plant in Stratford, Ontario. Car camping at its smelliest.

September 3. I woke and headed into downtown Stratford, a lovely city I’d visited in the past. The Stratford Festival is a repertory theatre organization that operates from April to October every year. I hadn’t planned on seeing any plays but went to the box office anyway as someone had recommended $30 rush tickets. I decided to buy a ticket to the musical Billy Elliot, then took a nice walk around the lake. I’d been excited to find a free parking spot, which is almost unheard of, near the church. Nearby, I discovered a great chocolate and coffee place where folks were having a session of Celtic music.

That evening I headed to the stage on the lake. The musical was very powerful and stayed with me as I curled up in my car on the small turnout next to the sewage treatment plant.

September 4. Now I was hooked. I decided to see another play, a Noel Coward romantic comedy that had been highly recommended, for that afternoon. The acting was excellent. I had the fever and wanted to see Henry V but for some reason decided two plays were enough.

I headed back for more chocolate before leaving for Elora where I hoped to revisit the mill turned hotel where I stayed years ago for $30. I had a beautiful room where I saw the millstream from my window. I’d made friends with hotel staff who’d let me stay for the employee rate. This time I had no such break, and learned a room was $650 for the night. Ouch.

I checked out the price of camping at the Elora quarry—45 per night, pretty steep. Not sure what to do, I headed to the old town, and hearing music, followed it into a cafe, where an open mic was in full swing. I sat down and soon began chatting with Mary and Andy, a warm couple. It turned out their friend Jim ran the event. I sang Tennessee Stud, a song I’d learned at Camp Unalayee as a kid, and Jim accompanied me on the guitar. Mary asked where I was staying and I said I wasn’t sure, possibly in the quarry. On the spot, she invited me back to their home, a giant farm in the countryside. I was elated.

September 5. I woke up in my own room at Mary and Andy’s house. In the morning after breakfast, we went for a walk around their land and sat by the pond where their son would host camp outs. That sounded like my kind of activity. Mary invited me to a performance she and Jim would be giving at a senior home. I enjoyed hearing them place. Jim pulled me aside afterward and invited me to an all-night hippy gathering with drumming and dancing. I’d had enough of all night no sleep, and decided to stay with my new friends. They were proud of their home office for the trucking business, and were now selling off the trucks one at a time. Sounded like a lot of work.

September 6–8. I had a lovely few days with them and met their son, who recommended visiting Evergreen Brickworks when I was in Toronto. On September 8, my birthday, Mary thoughtfully left me a happy birthday note, flowers, and two double eggs which I took to be a good omen. I thought I had lost my NP thyroid pills, and was out the door to retrace my steps, when I them in my mushroom powder bag.

I headed to nearby Fergus, where I had a nice latte, wrote in my blog, and later walked with a couchsurfer I’d met who lives with his mom. He shared about his struggle with depression, and I shared about my mom’s years long odyssey with the same.

September 9. I bid Mary and Andy goodbye and headed for Toronto, visiting historic towns en route. I decided to check out Evergreen Brick Works, which had been recommended by Mary’s son. The space had a cool LED-lit building, community programs, community gardens, and a repurposed clay quarry that had been refilled. It was a vibrant spot where they sold plants and offered trails through the city. I followed a bike trail to a peaceful cemetery. Later that evening, I met up with a Couchsurfing host near Chinatown—he was a rickshaw driver and part-time stand-up comic. He’d been flirting with me before we met, and though he was only 35, I felt self-conscious and a little embarrassed. His jokes were mostly about masturbation and relationships, and the audience was small—I was the only woman there. He shared a home in a Polish neighborhood with several people and ended up vomiting through the night. I used the downstairs bathroom and flipped the mattress to avoid poking springs.

September 10. He was gone in the morning, so I left my things and walked to the parking lot. I asked about a slow tire leak at a nearby shop but decided to wait on it. Then I headed to Ottawa, excited to stay with a kind host I’d connected with. After arriving, I walked around in the early evening rain, parked near what seemed to be the gay district—lots of rainbow flags, likely remnants of a recent pride parade. I walked along the river, through Parliament Hill, and across to the Rideau Canal. Eventually, I made my way to Nathan’s house, in a quiet part of town.

September 11–13. I was hoping to attend the Ottawa Folk Festival but hadn’t planned ahead. Nathan and I walked together each evening, while I spent the days exploring Gatineau Park, the town of Chelsea, Rockcliffe Park, and various market areas downtown. I also got new tires. One day, I drove out to Clayton to visit Tommy Redpath, who’d had a stroke the year before and was having some trouble walking. His son had died a few years ago—so tragic. He now lives with his partner on a sustainable farm. The old house was falling apart, and he’d once planned to build a new place across the road, but the stroke disrupted those plans. It was really good to see him. Nathan, who used to work for the State Department and now handles procurement for the Navy, had once lived in Brussels but found it too political.

September 14. I stayed with a Couchsurfing host in Gatineau whose house was chaotic and messy. Their daughter dominated the home—she was a bit of a tyrant—but the woman hosting me was kind. The next day, I went to a museum and got a free pass to return since I didn’t have much time that day. I walked along the red line public art path, then headed back to Gatineau Park. I visited MacKenzie King’s residence and museum and followed trails to waterfalls and a pond. At the Chelsea farmers market, I bought cheap, delicious maple syrup from a very fair and friendly vendor. I had to run to an ATM and came back just as he was selling out—he gave me the gallon price anyway. I also bought maple butter and apples. I visited a converted mill, chatted with the owner, and learned he’d modeled the project on the mill in Elora. It was a beautiful place. The Black Sheep Pub was nearby—a spot Tommy had introduced me to years ago, along with Marilyn and someone else I can’t recall. We’d heard live music there.

September 15. I spent another day in Gatineau, visiting the Museum of Civilization and exploring more of the red line trail and its historical points. The museum exhibits were engaging, and I spent most of the day there before driving to Montreal. On the way, I stopped at a hunting lodge Marriott along the river and arrived at my host’s home around 9 PM. I only met the dad, a writer; the room I stayed in was so small I nearly fell off the bed. Parking was complicated—you couldn’t park on one side of the street—but the host was interesting. He told me his wife made more money than he did.

September 16–17. I drove down to Old Montréal, navigating torn-up roads. I visited Château Ramezay, one of the province’s oldest private history museums, once owned by the Ramezay family and later sold to the fur-trading Compagnie des Indes. I met a lively street performer who had grown up in the city—he spun fire, played guitar, and got people to dance together. He was full of energy and charm. Parking was tough. The second day, I left my car across from a supermarket in the gay district, with rainbow streamers lining the street.

September 18. I drove through central Montréal, then made my way to Burlington, Vermont, where I walked around for a bit before continuing to Bristol to spend time with Anne and Rich.

September 19–25. I spent six days making my way home, stopping along the way to visit Evelyn and Sean Carpenter. We watched a drive-in movie about an astronaut—an oddly poetic way to end that leg of the journey.