Niagara Falls

There were two ways to get there apparently, the Niagara Falls day tour, or, as recommended by the girl behind the desk, Jenny’s tour. “If I was you, definitely would do Jenny’s tour, it’s a lot better, but of course, it’s up to you”. Of course it was up to me, I just better not go against what you said otherwise you would give me that ‘don’t you trust me look’. It turned out to be irrelevant anyway; Jenny and her cronies were full for that last day. Time for alternatives.

I remembered walking through union street the day before seeing a train station called ‘Niagara Falls’, surely, even with my knack for the misfortunate, there could only be one place called Niagara Falls, and, with closer inspection, according to the map, it was a small distance from the bits of water itself.

As I stood inline, pondering how a train could be three times as expensive as a coach, and yet take longer to get there, I was hit with my first unfortunate moment for the day. Out of the four hundred or so passengers waiting to go onto the escalator to board the train, I just happened to be standing behind ‘Don’t know how to use an escalator’ woman. Grasping the rail with the left hand, she completely missed the right rail with her right, causing her feet to come away from beneath her. In the chaos that ensued, the guard slammed the big red stop button, setting off a number of sirens and causing the movement to halt. After fifteen minutes of trying to restart the now stopped escalator, defeat was admitted and we walked up the stairs manually.

The lessons learnt from my twenty mile round walk of Toronto two days previous obviously did not stick in my ever sweatening head, of course, two inches on the map involved the equivalent of a walking marathon. But after a thirty minute walk, I could hear the sound of running water. Fortunately for me the tap hadn’t been left on in the toilet block next to the souvenir shop, it was the Falls.

Niagara Falls has obtained the reputation of a mini Las Vegas style tourist destination, most notable now for the honeymoon’s as well as the water, a tradition its held since Napoleon’s brother took his newly wed there many moons ago. In fact, it’s more commonly known as Viagra Falls now. Of course it isn’t.

The Maid of mist provided the first activity, the sequel to a forty five minute queue in excess of hundred degree heat. “Oh, there’s a lady in a wheelchair, let her through” a woman said to her husband. Let her through? She is the one who is sitting down, but I kept that thought to myself as we were shunted along.

We made our way onto the ferry, donning the latest in fashions, a bright blue XXXXXL raincoat. As we made our way towards the thing spouting water, it started to rain. It was quite incredible. On minute it was clear blue sky, the next I as being drenched. And they say British weather is unpredictable. Just as the ferry sailed back to our original destination, I took time to consider the impact of tourism on the local economy, the way an industry had been incredibly developed just over a piece of running water. I mean, what if that running water stopped, just like it did in 1848? Then I came to the measured conclusion. They would be seriously fucked.
















As I made my way off the ferry, I took a short cut across the lawn, the heat had given me an appetite. Just as I was about to make the pavement, I was attacked by a giant sprinkler, which, seemed to follow me as I quickened my pace. The irony soon hit me as I continued to walk on , completed soaked, I’d managed to stay dry in one of the biggest man made showers, but been had by the sprinkler. As I crossed the road I heard a voice behind me “Look, mum, you really DO get wet on the Maid of Mist, Can we go on it”. I did'nt have the heart to say anything different. I would let the mother pick up the pieces later on.

After two hours of soarng heat and walking amongst a multitude of rather large, candy eating tourists, I suddenly realised I had lost the will to live. The Falls were speculator, it’s just they weren’t looking any different whatever angle I viewed them from. With defeat surely admitted, I made my way back along the way I had come from, only uphill this time.

“The five thirty has been cancelled”, came the reply from the bearded ticket office man. “The next one is at seven twenty”, he added. It was three o’clock, I had walked back from the Vegas style Falls to the station, the only thing that appeared to be open was the station door. Deciding between four hours of ceiling watching or a twenty dollar coach ride home, was easy. I ripped up my lovely train ticket and purchased a four o’clock coach ride home, making sure I got a good place in the seated queue.

“Oh, your from England, now tell me, does the Queen live at Old Scotland Yard” came the voice from a grey haired man sitting next to me. “No, that’s the police force, she lives in Buckingham Palace sometimes” I replied. “And what about a place called Liverpool, do you know it? The Beatles come from there you know”. This was going to be interesting. This man was getting a coach back to his home town of Detroit, I started to enjoy the conversation. “So London, is that the place where the trains go underground and the planes fly above?” he probed. With a brief, yet bizarre exchange of conversations, it was time to board the coach back to Toronto for the last time.