Iron Road
On a brutally hot Montreal summer morning in 1975, my Dad, siblings, and I rode our bicycles by bridges and backways into downtown Montreal, and left them at the railway station. They, along with us (and Mom), were to board the train that night and head west. A trip diary written by a 13-year-old reliably reports the important things; my diary chronicles the fact that, after checking our bikes onto the train, “Dad treated us to an orange drink or milkshake.” It also declares the weather for the next three days “air-conditioned.” Overnighting in coach seats is a great adventure when travelling the short distance to Nova Scotia. Four nights of it would have been onerous. Roomettes or berths for everyone were too expensive, so my parents booked two coach seats, two roomettes, and two berths, and we all took turns using them. That, at least, had been the theory. “Took turns” quickly settled into sharing. My sisters and I easily fit two to a railway bed (trip diary quo