A few days ago on my way into Niagara-on-the-Lake I stopped for lunch in St. Catharine’s Ontario, a city of about 135K people on the south west shore of Lake Ontario. Like a lot of cities its size, it’s a former manufacturing city whose glory days are well behind it and is now depressed and trying to reinvent itself. There was ample street parking in the central business district so I found a spot and intended to walk around a bit and see if anything tempted me for lunch.

As I was walking away from the bike a man about my age complimented me on it, saying he really liked the styling. He was leaning against his car, smiling and approachable. He was with a younger woman who wasn’t saying much. I soon learned why as the man – whose name was Graham – began to hold court, ostensibly talking to me but spurred on by his audience of now multiple listeners. He told me about the city and its history, its politics and its economics, but in a way I only half understood. He made references to local politicians I couldn’t be expected to know, American presidents I should have known more about, and classical figures like Jason and the Argonauts I vaguely recalled but was struggling to put into context. It all felt like a Dennis Miller monologue that is obviously clever but only intelligible to a fraction of people who understand all the obscure references. Or like opening Twitter for the first time in a week and having no idea who Baby Gronk is, or why we’re supposed to hate a chain restaurant.

But I took away what I could. For instance, he talked about last names and ancestral heritage and asked me where my last name came from (Poland). He told me some day I’d go there and be in the place where they were from and feel its essence and recognize it in me and better understand who I was. This sounded useful to me, but not practical as this trip was by motorcycle. So I did the next best thing.

On the way south from Niagara-on-the-Lake I had to pass through Buffalo. My dad – whose passing precipitated this whole trip – grew up near there in a blue collar town I barely remember called Dunkirk. I decided to go visit the town, see the house where he grew up, and explore a bit to try to get the essence of the place, and to see what I could learn about my dad from it.

What I saw and learned maybe does help me understand my father a little more. sure. But I’m writing about it – and trying to remember it – not because of what I saw in Dunkirk, but because I gave credence to an idea I might not have been open to in daily life. Who has time for the ghosts of their ancestors between meetings, or when it’s garbage night? On the motorcycle, I give myself permission to go down narrow lanes and gravel roads, trusting the GPS will figure out how to get me back. I think it’s that permission, that freedom from agenda, is the best part about them. Sometimes change comes not from finding, but just from looking.