That Southern Ontario Trip Got a Little Weird, but Nothing Topped the Airbnb That Doesn’t Call 911

If someone had told me my Airbnb would come with NRA-friendly decoration, guns and self-protection kind of messaging, I would not have bet this would turn out to be a great trip overall.

As a matter of fact, it was only one of the many odd things that happened on this summer road trip to Southern Ontario.

It all started in 2020, when I had just lost my job, was still waiting for an immigration update, and was trying to make the most of this anxious time off.

I got off the train from Toronto in London and was surprised by the unusually quiet streets. The next day, I enjoyed hopping between cafes and restaurants and walking the gorgeous residential streets, with cats strolling peacefully and front yards in full bloom as summer reached its peak. On the same walk, I passed lines of people at the food bank. Their eyes told me the pandemic had recently put them in this situation, and the shock was still fresh. Six years later, that’s still what I picture when I think of London.

From there, I rented a car, enjoyed the less-busy 401, and headed south, first to grab lunch in Chatham, then to spend a nature afternoon at Rondeau Provincial Park.

On my way there, I learned an essential North American driving lesson: on one of those long rural roads, a fire truck was coming from the opposite direction with sirens and lights on. As the truck passed me by, one of the firefighters at the window pointed his index finger at me. I could tell he was trying to tell me something, but that something was a puzzle for me to piece together. A few minutes later, another fire truck came by, and this time I noticed the cars in front of me pulled over immediately before the truck reached them. Ah! That was probably what the firefighter tried to tell me: pull over when they come through. It was an honest mistake, but I felt ashamed for a while for not knowing this important road lesson. It didn’t help that, as I reached the park, I ran over a chipmunk, the kamikaze kind that went straight for my front right tire. All these emotions eventually faded as I tried to shake them off with a hike + swim, my favourite summer combo.

The most unexpected part happened in Leamington: based on the reviews of this Airbnb guest room, I was in for a lovely time. It was the decoration of the room that threw me off: posters and pennants with gun and Second Amendment-style messaging, “In this home we don’t call 911” framed by two pistols. I knew I was getting close to the US border, but I wasn’t expecting this cowboy culture to reach Canadian homes, let alone a room rented to tourists. I wasn’t feeling scared, though.

The couple who welcomed me into their home was so kind; they made me feel like their grandchild visiting during summer break. They sat with me every morning at the kitchen table, stopping whatever they were doing to hear about me and my plans, offering a cup of coffee and treats so I had something in my belly before heading out for the day. The gentleman, a truck driver, shared the best road trips in the region and gave me insights into the reality of his profession, which he was soon to retire from. It was only when they mentioned they snowbird in Texas every year that I connected the dots with the decoration, and yet, I couldn’t reconcile how kind and caring the couple was with the society-constructed monster image we tend to tie to gun owners.

What followed was a nice streak of Southern Ontario at its best: hitting the sand strip at the tip of Point Pelee, where the currents of both shores meet, and the waves collide, dreaming about the lake-facing villas along the road to Amherstburg, and driving slowly between the farm fields, watching stormy clouds roll in from a distance, until I happened to be right in their path. This became my second life-on-the-road lesson, as I wasn’t sure what was best: wait under trees? Nope, what if they fall on the car and kill me? Park somewhere safe, like someone’s driveway? Nope, what if they prefer not to call 911? Drive slowly until it’s over, even if I can’t see anything? Yes, that will have to do. It was uncomfortable for a few minutes, but like most things in life, it eventually passed.

Things pass, like the ferry I booked to reach Pelee Island, which I’d been told earlier was cancelled due to the weather. I watched it depart from the dock all the while sitting on a lake-facing terrace next to a couple from Quebec who invited me to their table when they saw me alone. Life’s odd take on serendipity, I guess. They even paid for my meal.

The road trip continued along the St. Clair River, where I fantasized about the life people must live there: a house by the river, a pontoon with chairs and kayaks on the other side of the road, and quick access to a nice swim in your front yard.
I didn’t get to visit much of Sarnia; downtown was still recovering from the lockdowns, but the beaches were open, and one night I had what must be the most unconventional beach dinner: Indian takeout on a picnic table, feet in the sand, watching the sunset over Lake Huron.

My summer dose of hike + swim ended at Pinery Provincial Park, where I admired the turquoise waters and the strip behind the dunes, half sand, half roots. Still better than the overly crowded Grand Bend beaches I fled as soon as I got there.

On the train home to Toronto, I thought back on the trip and was glad the odd moments hadn’t spoiled my short summer escape. If anything, they were what made it so memorable. But above all, it was one of those summers I used to have growing up: afternoon swims, sand everywhere and skin warmed by the sun, pure 90s nostalgia. I rarely get a summer like that anymore, except maybe for that one time on the BC Sunshine Coast, but that’s a story for another time.