Kingston is, apparently, the old capital, and we found some rather unsuccessful efforts at nationalist mythmaking as we walked along the north bank of the St Lawrence river, just where it opens out to (or from) Lake Ontario. It’s hard being a less excitable and important country than your neighbour, just ask Pakistan.
We took the train from Montreal to Kingston, a comfortable journey of 3-4 hours through autumnal woods and open fields and the great lakes (after, of course, passing through the usual city suburbs and industrial areas etc). Our Airbnb is basically the walled off porch of someone’s house, quite comfortable but also very snug. It is on a quiet residential street leading to the well-named Skeleton Park (a former burial ground). After a bit of lunch and a coffee we strolled along the lake or, rather, the very wide mouth of the St Lawrence river (I think it’s a mouth?? where it begins rather than where it ends) where it meets Lake Ontario. lakefront was pretty, though with some ugly hotels and blockish buildings placed injudiciously so as to ruin the historic parts of the lakefront. We walked a reasonable way, admiring the perfect formations of Canada geese, the occasional flotilla of mallards, and ferries going over to the islands in the lake. There was a point at which one could go down to the water and dip a hand in. It was cold but not nearly as it felt it should have been, but it’s a bit lake so presumably several degrees behind the air.
Looping back we went through a park at the outskirts of the university with some very striking red shrubs that I later found are aptly named burning bush. If I lived in this country I would certainly plant one. Quite stunning.
It was dark by the time we returned to Kingston’s main (and seemingly only) drag. We popped into a well reputed local bakery, Pan Chancho, to get some cakes (these turned out to be spectacularly good) and then to dinner in a Thai restaurant that I had on my map for some reason. My misgivings grew as we walked in – it was a bit of a dive, similar to countless Thai restaurants all over the world, but no picture of the king, no altar near the door, and the Thai-style tat on the wall didn’t seem right. The menu was uninspiring and the clientele exclusively middle-aged or older white couples. The food, well, it was certainly not Thai. I asked for a bit of fish sauce to balance it out and got a blank look from the waiter. ‘We only have soya sauce’, he said, my eyes blazed in vindication – the kitchen was clearly Chinese. This established, I quite enjoyed my meal as though the flavours were all wrong, the execution was excellent – superb wok hei on the noodles and perfectly cooked seafood. But I grumbled a good long while, mostly out of embarrassment for having suggested it.
Then back and to bed after the aforementioned excellent cakes.