I am just going to say it outright “I love small towns”. Why? Well, for the simple reason people are friendly and polite. Having just returned from visiting middle child and the teenage boy who attend university in Lennoxville, Quebec, I found people said “good morning and how are you”. If you are about to cross the street where there is no crosswalk or stoplight, cars and trucks stop immediately. When I left my motel yesterday, I asked the owner if he could call me a cab. After asking where I was going, he went on to say, he was just about to run some errands in town, so he would drive me to the bus station.
I live in Hamilton, Ontario an absolutely beautiful city, “the City of Waterfalls“, but on friendliness and politeness we still need some work. My husband walks to and from work, up and down the Jolley Cut. He is always full of smiles and good mornings but he finds most people have their heads to the ground, or their ear buds in, ignoring the world around them. When he does say good morning, people are surprised. Now not all of them are surprised, there are the regulars who are friendly. In regards to crossing the street, I wouldn’t try it, unless you are at a crosswalk or stoplight, because chances are slim cars and trucks will stop for you.
When I returned from Quebec yesterday, one of my stops was in Toronto, Ontario where I had to catch a connecting bus to Hamilton. I probably picked the wrong day to return home, because there was a hockey game and a baseball game last night, thus Union Station was a complete and utter madhouse plus the streets around the station are under construction. Trying to find the correct signage or someone to assist me in the correct direction was near impossible. At first I thought I was going the right way, as two friendly
drunks people decided they would help me by carrying my luggage down a flight of stairs, only I wasn’t suppose to go that way. I managed to take back my suitcase from them, and then realized I had to walk up another flight of stairs. With all the people around, you would think, that maybe someone would offer to help the pretty lady up the stairs but no, so there I was with a ridiculous heavy knapsack on my back, purse around my neck, cane in my right hand and suitcase in my left. One stair at a time, with the help of my foot, I kicked my suitcase up the stairs, far too many stairs. I finally made it outside, where the streets are wooden planks instead of concrete, thus pulling my suitcase was even harder. As I tried to lift the suitcase off the curb, two not so friendly people started laughing and making fun of me. Enough said, I don’t like Toronto.
I made my connecting bus, arrived safely in Hamilton, where my best friend, who had driven in from Ancaster, took me up the mountain and home. This was exceptionally grand of her, especially since it was after 11 o’clock at night and she had to work the next day (hubby was on night-shift, else he would have been there). Upon entering my house I was greeting by a yapping beagle who sounded more like a yelping seal than a dog and a bouquet of lovely flowers from my husband. The day had ended well.