Day 48

JULY 26 Niagara Falls, Ontario to Pittsford, NY

We scarfed a couple of pop tarts in the hotel room before leaving the hotel, planning on finding breakfast somewhere. We ate at Dad's Diner, a small restaurant outside of the tourist section of Niagara falls, then zipped over to the Buddhist Temple. It still wasn't open for the morning, but we wandered the grounds, admiring the statues and artwork littering the compound. Signs around the courtyard read "This isn't Jurassic Park, but the path to enlightenment can be rewarding. Please, respect our holy place."

After visiting the temple, we went in search of the bridge across the Niagara River that would take us back into America. We followed the directions given on the Adventure Cycling map, but when the map finally called for a turn onto the bridge, there was nothing but a massive construction zone. Dad and I rode around frantically for a few minutes, searching for a sign leading to the bridge. The most irksome part of all, is that just above our heads, we could see the bridge, packed with cars waiting to get through customs; we just couldn't get there! Finally, we spotted a sign pointing to the highway saying "Bridge to America, 3 Miles." Irritably, dad and I began to ride the 3 miles; about half a mile in, we spotted an unloaded bicyclist riding towards us. Dad flagged him down and he pulled over, "Do you know, are we going the right way to get to the bridge to America?" dad asked.
"Only if you're a car." the man said, "Here, I'll show you how bikes get there." He rode back with us to the construction zone, and showed us a road that cut up through the middle of it, "It looks like a construction road, but you ride through it and you'll come to the Canadian customs. They'll let you cut through there, and you'll be in the line to get into America." We thanked him and followed his instruction into the customs line. Then we waited in line for 45 minutes in the rain, much to the amusement of the cars around us.

When we reached the crossing, the boarder guard walked over to us, "Passports." he said completely deadpan. We handed them over. "Where are you coming from." Still no emotion.
"We crossed into Canada in Marine City... and we started in Anacortes Washington." dad said nervously.
"You rode your bicycles all the way here from Washington?" he asked, still emotionless.
"Yes."
"Is that all you have?" he pointed at our bags, and his voice wavered slightly; he almost sounded as though he wanted to be impressed.
"Yes."
"Okay, you guys are fine. Go ahead." his voice reverted to its original monotone.

Once in New York, we took a wrong turn, and by the time we realized our mistake, we had already coasted down the Niagara Escarpment. Back on route, after a brutal climb back up the escarpment,we began to put down the miles, taking full advantage of the small tail wind we had. We hoped to make it to Pittsford, 100 miles from Niagara, to spend the night with Yoni's parents, Mike and Pnina (Yoni, who we met in Minnesota.) We pushed all the way into Rochester, New York, then rode our last 15 miles of the day on the Erie Canal Trail (the irony did not escape us.)

At the end of the day, we rode around a corner in he bike path to see a wiry man with thick gray hair, standing patiently by the side of the road. Seeing our loaded bikes roll around the corner, he smiled and walked over, "Hi, I'm Mike, Yoni's dad. And you are..." He addressed me because I was in the lead.
"I'm Seth." I said, shaking his hand.
"And you must be Chip!" Mike said, turning to my dad. "If you want to just ride up here, you can put your bags in my car and I'll show you over to our house." I hesitated out of instinct before parting with my handlebar bag. "You want to put that one in too?"
I started to mumble a no, "It's like our purse." dad explained.
"I'm not going to run off with it." Mike said, and I realized how silly I was for being worried. I handed over my bag. "Yoni's been riding with some boys in Montana who have a van sagging for them. He says it's liberating not to ride with bags." (Pnina later said Yoni also felt a little guilty giving up all his weight.)

At their house, we met Pnina, Yoni's mom, who was born in Israel. She cooked an amazing dinner of fish, brown rice, corn, red cabbage boiled in apple juice (which was amazing), and a vegetable soup that we ate with a horseradish & beet paste. "Pnina, this is incredible!" dad said, partway through the meal.
"It is edible." she said modestly.
"No, it's incredible!" dad corrected. Pnina just smiled.

"What part of Israel did you grow up in?" I asked her later in the meal.
"Jerusalem." she responded.
"I don't mean to be rude and ask how old you are..." I started awkwardly, "But were you born before '48?"
"It's okay. I was the first in my family born after 1948, in Israel as a nation."
"What was that like... I mean, there were some pretty tumultuous times?"
"It was different than now. Jerusalem was still separated into west and east, so you knew where you were allowed. Now, it is like Swiss cheese. If you go to Israel for the first time, you must be with someone who knows there way around or with a tour."

For his part, Mike works at a mental health center on a college campus, and is a Rabbi. "During Vietnam, I almost joined the navy to avoid the draft, but I was talked out of it by woman wise beyond her years. I went into the enlistment office and told her I wanted to be an officer on a ship stationed in San Diego. She suggested I consider alternate service. So I ended up working in a mental health clinic in Elko, Nevada."

As we went to bed (after a tasty dessert of berries and cream-custard), Pnina asked what we wanted for breakfast, "In Israel, we eat salads for breakfast, but Mike won't do that. Would you like an omelet?"
"Sure." I replied, "That sounds great!" The couch in their TV room has been the softest, most comfortable place I've slept all trip. I was asleep within minutes.