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The world has changed a lot since the last time I published a travelogue.

The previous trip I wrote far too many words about was 10+ days long and involved airplanes and foreign languages.

In comparison, this was just a one-night trip by bus and light rail and train, less than half a day’s journey. The kind of jaunt I made regularly to see a band and/or visit a friend/boy, in the before times.

I find travel more challenging now, personally and interpersonally. The world has become manifestly more hostile to those who don’t conform, which of necessity includes me, one of very few passengers wearing a mask as others coughed and sneezed freely into mass transit shared air at up to 1497 ppm CO2.

I felt my vulnerability strongly this week, carrying most of my essential belongings in a backpack and suitcase, alone and unsure where I was going. Looking, maybe, like the most obvious gazelle on the plain.

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A lion and a cougar got on the O-Train at the same downtown stop as me. The lion made a big gallant show of moving out of the way so I could embark: a sly performance of respect for a delicate creature traveling alone, so encumbered.

I nodded back politely and moved inside the car warily. I stood ready stance over my suitcase and observed the lion and the cougar suddenly pretend not to know each other.

Close to the next stop (not mine), the lion clocked my awareness and also spotted a magnificent muscled zebra, heavily adorned in gold. (That last part’s not a metaphor.)

The lion now made a big gallant show of getting out of the zebra’s way so she could disembark. The cougar didn’t budge from his seat. The zebra got off and strode powerfully away, the lion went to sit down, near but not with the cougar, and both turned to their phones. I continued to stand guard.

My stop, obviously, was the train station, which I noticed on approach looked dark and nearly empty. As the cougar and the lion disembarked together but still pretending to be separate, I had a vision of all my belongings being torn away, of becoming paralyzed trying to decide whether to chase my backpack or my suitcase, a too-slow analysis of which items were the most desperate to fight for, which predator I had better odds against.

So I stayed on the train one more stop. I had time. As the train and I pulled away, I saw the lion and cougar abandon the pretence of being strangers, halfway up the dark stairs a gazelle was not also on. An unsuccessful hunt.

They were gone by the time I made my way back to the train station, and that was by far the worst thing that happened on these particular travels.

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Highlights from the train down included cheerful, helpful, trilingual staff (I hope they’re paid well); a toddler just learning to walk who found me fascinating; and large warehouse graffiti: Grow Good Together.

Through my mask, the new train smelled like childhood motel.

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I was picked up at the station by my old mentor, the indefatigable and kind Graham Stewart. He and his equally spirited wife Deb had agreed to host me overnight in the warm and welcoming home they share with their expressive dog Molly and, at times, up to 21 family members.

Graham was recently back from a trip to Northern Ireland with his son, with the goal of investigating Stewart family history based on internet research and old local records that weren’t always primarily motivated by accuracy. The behavioural aspects of that interest me, especially the detective work of most plausible explanations based on known facts and our understanding of human nature.

We theorized, for example, about why an ancestor’s age was inaccurately low on a wedding certificate after impregnating the daughter of a well-off local businessman, and further what could be gleaned from the son-in-law’s subsequent success as a merchant.

We talked about a mother’s grief for a child who died young from disease and was unremembered decades later by anyone else. We talked about an ancestor’s wartime diary that was more about pie than war. One day, one sentence announcing the death of her husband. A testament to the human need to keep records and keep going, and to the impossibility, sometimes, of words.

We talked about the nature of family, the practice of acceptance, the challenge of growth. I cried twice, which is my standard response to unexpected kindness.

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The return trip the next day was fine except for train delay and managing to injure myself with my suitcase (resulting in a 3-inch blue and purple bruise on my calf).

All told this trip took about 34 hours, and what I’m taking away is a feeling of support and encouragement and acceptance, genuine appreciation for who I am. A confirmation of the importance of telling stories and collecting data and documenting existence. A lesson about the need to make efforts to connect, even though there’s risk. A reminder about patience and empathy and love, and a lifelong belief, maybe, in the possibility of redemption.