9 August 2026
A big decision made and an adventure over the border
My decision was made. I was going to stay in Canada.
It was a bold step, considering I didn’t know a soul here, not since my buddy Bob had returned to England a few days before.
It was two weeks before Christmas 1965 and Bob’s unexpected departure had left me, a 22-year-old immigrant, completely alone in Toronto. Alone in Canada, in fact.
My growing panic, however, soon gave way to a growing excitement. In the three months I’d been living here, what I’d seen had impressed me, the people I’d met had been friendly and, best of all, Canadian girls were awfully pretty.
So why not stay for a while and trust that fate would be kind to me? Yes, it was a gamble but, on the plus-side, I was single and free as a bird; I’d repaid the Canadian Government for my $200 ticket over; I’d achieved landed-immigrant status; and most pressing of all, my wanderlust wasn’t about to let me turn tail.
So Canada it would be; but probably not Toronto. I’d visited every newspaper in the city, hoping someone would give me a shot at reporting. I’d wanted to be a journalist for as long as I could remember, but my hometown papers hadn’t been interested.
No experience? Sorry kid, no job!
And now, the same negative reception here in Toronto.
One evening in early December, I sat in a local bar mulling over my limited options. What to do? Where to go for help? I vented my frustration to a fellow drinker, an older chap. He nodded in sympathy, and then he shared a piece of advice that would change my life.
“Listen,” he said, “go West. That’s where the jobs are. That’s where the opportunities are. Go West!”
Just a few words from a stranger but, in that moment, they re-ignited the fire inside me that brought me to Canada in the first place. Yes, that’s exactly what I would do: Go West.
It was all I could do not to pack a bag and hit the road immediately. But I resisted the urge because I had one more adventure to experience before I left for The West. I wanted to celebrate my first New World Christmas in New York City. Could there be a more exciting place for a young Englishman to spend the holiday season! And besides, I knew a young woman who lived there. Her name was Terri and we’d met earlier that year when I was hitch-hiking around Ireland. I had her address and it would be fun to surprise her and rekindle the brief relationship we’d enjoyed.
I packed a small suitcase, made sure I had my Union Jack flag with me, got to the outskirts of Toronto and stuck out my thumb. Next stop Boston – to see where all the Revolutionary fuss began – and then on to New York.
Except, it wasn’t quite that simple. Trying to hitch a ride on American highways and freeways wasn’t easy. On one stretch, about 20 miles from Boston, I ran afoul of State Troopers. Two officers in a cruiser with red flashing lights pulled onto the shoulder alongside me, read me the Riot Act and ordered me off. Clutching my suitcase and flag, I walked to the next offramp with the squad car following slowly behind me, lights ablaze.
When they’d gone, I scampered back up the ramp and stuck out my thumb once more. And once more the troopers appeared and made me walk off.
I took the hint. I promised I’d stop if they’d give me a ride to the nearest Greyhound Depot. To my surprise, that’s exactly what they did!
Two hours later with the sun starting to set, the bus pulled into the Greyhound depot in downtown Boston and my next challenge reared its head. Where to lay my head?
I tapped our driver on the shoulder. “Excuse me, can you tell me where the YMCA is?” I asked.
Before he could answer, a young man waiting to get off immediately behind me spoke up.
“Are you from England?”
I nodded and he smiled. “Forget the YMCA,” he said. “You’re coming to stay with my folks. They’d love to have you!”
And that’s how I found myself the guest of a very kind family in a town called Concord, famous as the place where “the shot heard around the world” ignited the American Revolution.
They were so hospitable. I had a bed for as long as I cared to stay and they insisted I ate with them. And don’t even think of offering to pay!
The days passed pleasantly, with my new friend showing me around Concord and driving me into Boston to tour the historic sites.
After supper one evening, he and I walked to the cottage-home of Concord’s most famous daughter, Louisa May Alcott, famous for her 19th Century novel, Little Women. We sat on the steps, enjoying the crisp night air, sipping beer and sharing a joint. It was so quiet and peaceful that I found myself giving some serious thought to making Concord my new home.
Alas, our bucolic state didn’t last. As we strolled back to my friend’s house, the darkness exploded in a hellish red glare. We were being stopped by the local police, and they weren’t in a very good mood.
“You’re out after curfew!” one officer growled.
“We’re what?” I exclaimed. “A curfew? What curfew?”
Instead of answering, the two officers bundled my friend and me against the squad car, slammed our hands on the roof and kicked our legs apart. After a vigorous pat-down, we were released and ordered to go straight home. Which we did, quite shaken up by the whole experience.
Hmm, maybe Concord isn’t for me after all…
A few days later, I said goodbye to my new American friends and took another Greyhound into New York, marvelling at the crowds of holiday shoppers and all the festive lights.
Hello New York! Mrs. Duffy’s son makes it to the Big Apple in time for Christmas, 1965.
A few hours later, the subway deposited me in Brooklyn where Terri lived. I found her address and rang the bell. And there she was, a look of sheer amazement spreading across her face as she realized who had come calling.
After the hugging was over and I’d explained what I was doing there, Terri shared her own news, and it wasn’t what I’d been hoping to hear. Seems she’d just become engaged to a Swiss chap she’d been seeing since moving to the U.S. He was a chef and worked nights at a restaurant in Manhattan. So no, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me to stay at her place. At least, not for too long. Since night was falling, she said I could camp on the couch but I’d have to leave at daybreak.
Which I duly did, heading back on the subway to downtown.
By late afternoon, I found myself – tired and frazzled – in Greenwich Village, sitting in Washington Square Park, once more wondering where the nearest YMCA was. I turned to ask directions from the young man sprawled next to me on the bench.
“You’re from England, right?” he exclaimed.
I nodded and he grinned. “No need for the ’Y’,” he told me. “I have an apartment just a few blocks away. You can stay with me.”
Once again, I could hardly believe my luck. Americans! So generous!
Gathering my few belongings, I followed my new benefactor through the busy streets to a brownstone. In we went and up two flights of stairs to his “apartment.” Except it wasn’t: it was a small bedsit with very little furniture or other creature comforts. What it did have, however, was a rather large snake, coiled in the middle of the floor!
I jumped back in fright but my companion just laughed.
“Don’t mind him,” he said. “He won’t hurt you. He’s quite tame and I fed him this morning so he’ll sleep for days.”
Which was more than I could manage. Since there was no bed, we slept on the floor. Well, my buddy did, lying between me and the snake; I only snoozed in brief snatches – and always with one eye open!
After exploring the city and seeing in the New Year, it was time to head back to Toronto. I’d planned to take the subway as far as I could out into the suburbs and, once there, I’d find a highway north and start hitching. Unfortunately, getting out of Manhattan was going to be a problem.
The public transit workers went on strike on New Year’s Day, causing the streets to be clogged with cars. Ah well, an opportunity is an opportunity. I stuck out my thumb and slowly-but-surely, got rides across the city. Nearly everyone I met was friendly and sympathetic. All except one driver.
He demanded money before he’d give me a ride. I told him I didn’t have any. He reached out his car window and began to wrench my watch from my wrist.
“This’ll do!” he growled.
Horrified, I wrenched my watch free and fled, suddenly longing to get back to staid, polite Toronto.
And my journey West…
Next time: Trouble on an epic train journey.
English-born journalist Peter Duffy sailed for Canada in 1965, took a liking to what he saw and stayed. Something of an ink-stained nomad, Peter has worked on papers in England, Canada, New Zealand and even, briefly, Las Vegas! He retired from The Chronicle-Herald in 2009. He’s married to Barbara and has two grown step-children. Peter is Secretary of the Royal St. George’s Society of Halifax.
