Arriving in North America

On July 15, we were just off North Sydney. The backs of several great whales were breaking the surface of the water. Farther off, the ironworks were belching fire. I hurried to the telegraph office to find out if it was legal for me to disembark. Phew! The telegram informed me I had a three-week visitor’s permit. I telegraphed the good news to my pen pal, Ghylaine Paquin, and after giving half my fortune to the captain, caught the train to Montreal. The 20-hour trip, some of it in daylight, gave me a chance to see the vast landscapes, with the wedges of yellow dust being thrown up by the cars going full tilt down the sandy roads. I was disconcerted by what I saw—everything was so different, much more populated and less wild than I had imagined. The next day, the islands and rocks of Kamouraska appeared, then Quebec City and, finally, Montreal, with its mountain visible through the trusses of the Victoria Bridge.