Being a True Account of a Return to My Home during the 2022 Winter Holidays

Based on the response to my last piece on a trip to my hometown, a lot of readers were interested in my account of the bus, train and taxi journey, so I have decided to follow it up with material from the other end of things. I spent two very long weeks in my hometown, never venturing downtown – nothing to see except more urban decay, former stores and spots which I used to enjoy now shuttered and abandoned, and the old and continually new problem of homelessness – or even venturing to most of the homes and relatives I had promised myself to patronize. It was not a very festive moment, and I could even feel the lack of zeal in our home. For the first time, my mother decided not to put up the tree or any decorations around the house. We only kept lights on in front to keep up appearances, but it was clear that my stay was just like any other free time in my life when I did not have a holiday to celebrate or work to do. My days were filled with jogging, reading, trips to the mall (surprisingly, a bright spot in all of this and something that might deserve its own piece), too much television surfing, not enough writing, and plans for my return home (I knew things were bad when I decided to pack two days early for the trip back).

So, to continue:

Around 9 am: I woke up to find that my mother and stepfather were already awake and at prayers (I should reveal this here for the future generations who wonder what I mean – my mother and stepfather pray every day in that kitchen, and they are very vocal and passionate about this, especially when they move on to hymns and begin singing as if to impress the missing choir and priest; they then begin to play the same set of songs on the computer, mostly hymn-like work that I did not recognize, although I knew that it must have come from some West Indian network, with a part of me still regretting the day they found out how easily they could access music online). I decide to do some brief exercises, check my bags, make my bed...and then stay in my room until my bladder forced me to make an exit. My computer is still out, so I decide to check on the weather – a brief warm spell – and the possibility of any cancellation or time changes. This concerns me with the news from the week before that my hometown and province has decided to bring back and ever-so-popular curfew (between 10 pm and 5 am, no one is allowed out...with certain exceptions). I am free to head home and break the law.

Around 11 am: my stepfather was quite pleased that I decided to book my train ticket for the evening. That means I could leave in the afternoon and take a bus that would avoid most of the rush hour. He gives me two cans; one is Irish Moss (rather delicious on its own) and the other, Nutrament (a meal replacement). I had a glass of the two mixed together earlier that week and confessed that I liked it, so I was glad that he introduced to his new habit. What worried me was where I was going to store them. I had a gym bag, a small rolling suitcase, and a backpack, all lightly packed...at first. I somehow manage to move things around and leave certain clothes behind as I consider my trip on the bus. And then my mother surprises me when she says that she wants to come with us. Usually, she would say her goodbyes and say that she had to clean up the house or go out. But I am happy to have her there was we make it downtown and we have our final hugs.

12:30 to 2 pm: I arrive at the bus station. Fortunately, this time the bus station is open, and I can see that the next bus will be at 1 pm. I buy my ticket from a machine and am the first one in line and wait eagerly to get out of there. And I wait. And wait. And continue to wait. In the particular platform that should take us home is a bus that is “Out of Service” and there are no drivers around to explain what is happening. Soon, another bus appears that can take me to a train station that will then take me to my main transfer point. But I decide not to take it for one simple reason: the driver. Remember, I have three bags with me. Usually, the driver will open up a storage space under the bus for passengers to place their bags. This time, however, I am told by the driver that I should carry all three bags onboard. I decide not to curse him out or spit in his face and simple walk away. One of the other staff informs me that I may have to wait a long time for the next bus, but I do not care. I am fed up with such people using what little power they have to be jerks. Eventually, another driver appears, wondering why I am still waiting for a bus. As she makes inquiries, I can see that she has no idea what is going on and commiserates with those of us who have been waiting. She tells me that too many drivers have come down ill with Covid-19 and there are not enough drivers to go around. I do eventually board a bus without my bags when a driver appears, opens up the storage space for us, and returns to his seat without saying a word (he did not look happy about having to get up to perform such a service). As we leave the city, I decide to finally look at the downtown core, observing all those abandoned stores and blighted spots I mentioned earlier. And I feel nothing as we take the regular exit down to the highway.

Around 3 pm: I am back at the train station, and once again walk in the wrong direction. I find a set of elevators that I think will lead to my connection. Instead, I end up on the wrong platform. On the level where I found myself at first, I head to the food court and order a plastic bowl of Pad Thai in a space where no seating is available. Some people are seated above in the section reserved for other buses and trains, but I decide to find the one spot where I will be completely accepted: the business lounge!

3:30 to 4:45 pm: the company that runs the train line between provinces has a business lounge that I love, and I learn to love it again when I enter with my bags, exhaustion and sweat. The most polite staff member looks over my ticket and vaccine passport and lets me in. I find an elevated table, and begin to eat what may be the most overcooked Pad Thai I have ever had. Then, I realize, there are other options for my consumption. There are free drinks, meaning coffee, tea, juices, and sodas. I look for cups and realize that they are all at the front with the staff, who gladly hand over plastic-wrapped plastic spoons, knives and forks, along with a coffee cup. I overindulge in the espressos and cappuccinos pumped out of the machine, and then overindulge in the juice and club soda, but only to stuff them along with the cans I have already received from my family. While reading a New Yorker, I observe on monitors news from both French and English communities and the rise of numbers of Covid-19 cases and overcrowding in hospitals. But for me, the one thing that obsesses me is the curfew. A real sense of fear begins to grow in mind about it. A reporter, in French, interviews people on the street about the new law, and the majority of them have just accepted it. I head to the bathroom to clean up and calm down about it (my ticket states my return time at an earlier one than the time now posted on the board in the main concourse). And then the call for passengers is announced. There are a few others in the lounge, so no great rush takes place to get onboard. And I am told to just cut ahead of the rest of the ones waiting to travel in the Economy class cars (I decided to take a Business ticket back here after heading home by Economy, and have no regrets). Again, very friendly staff on the platform guides me onboard and my car (No. 1) is very quiet and clean. No one is seated next to me and I decide that it is going to remain that way for the rest of my ride. Finally, I relax and wait for the train to pull out. My car only has about three other people as passengers, with one staff member on it. Perfect.

5:00 to 10:45 pm: this was the strangest part of the trip. I mean that there were no great incidents during this part of the ride. The one train attendant on our car – I am already tired of calling them staff – offered me a seat with an extra-large table when he noted that I was reading and attempting to write in my journal (a very bad idea on a jittery rail journey). As I have already noted, the car I was in was barely occupied, and it became even more spacious after we made the necessary stops (still a feature of both trips). And there were no emergency stops for inspections or disinfecting, or whatever else the earlier breaks were for. All I had to do was let the ride take me home. And then my stupid brain began to interfere with my peace of mind: the curfew! What was going to happen when we got to the city? My original ticket stated that I would arrive in the city ten minutes before it began; new information posted online noted that the train would arrive at least twenty minutes after it started. And I wait to see what it would look like. And it was nothing special. A few cars were out, but so were a few souls who were determined to let the government know that they would not be controlled. I swear at one point I saw a man in a well-lit park dancing to his own private beat. My hearts lifts as we enter the station and I find myself heading up an escalator (two people let me go ahead of them when they see my three bags). From there, I went to the taxi stand – still busy – find a cab and head home. The driver gets an extra-large tip from me for being out after curfew, for the new year, and for my general relief at being back where I belong.

And that was the trip back. I left my unpacking until the next day and made sure to call home as soon as I was back (my mom would not have forgiven me if I had waited, no matter how late my arrival was). My thoughts were on the new year, new work contracts, and how I can often find entertainment in the most mundane moments.

Next time: Spring Break?