The ride down
"I fear for my country, when I reflect that God is just."
-Jefferson
After getting to the train station, the first thing I do is drop the pencil I was going to be using to jot down these notes. Inauspicious.
In the terminal a guy in a flag patterned shirt looks at me, confused, dirty. I realize that the clothing that I've chosen for maximum comfyness has left me in head to toe black. I hope that he's going to walk over, and make some sort of snide comment, so that I can lay down some sort of rote overblown response about mourning the death of freedom, or some such. He remains silent.
Across waiting area from me, a pair of hippies eat fruit and stare way too intently at the old couple they're conversing with. The woman has a yoga mat strapped to her hiking backpack. I wonder if there's some sort of new XTREME YOGA, where you hike up a mountain before doing the poses.
We board the train, and in the holder of the seat I'm given is an Oprah magazine. For those of you wondering which one (and I know there are a lot of you) it's the one with "The Best Ways to Get Unstuck." I notice that out the top there's a bookmark, marking the article about the JFK Jr. plane crash. The mark is a torn piece of bathroom hand towel, with three rows of matching rectangles stacked upon one another drawn on it. The bottom column, which I denote as furthest from the ragged edge, has the number '32' written next to it. The other two rows are both marked '40.'
I glance across the aisle, and there's a Buddhist monk across from me. I consider offering him the Oprah mag, and some beef jerky.
Reaching into my duffel (well, Tyler's duffel that I've borrowed) I pull out a colossal pair of headphones which I've inherited from my father. They make my ears sweat, and I probably look like an asshole wearing them, but they have great sound, and I can no longer hear the man behind me giving his whining daughter everything she asks for. Hm. Whiny child only ten minutes outside the station. This doesn't bode well.
I pull up The Fountain soundtrack, as it's what I listened to while leaving for SB last time, and glance over to find that the monk has assumed the lotus position, and is doing something with beads. I smile.
In Tacoma the avenue outside the Washington State museum has it's lampposts engulfed in what appear to be opaque blue/green sculptures of ice cubes, each about two feet across.
Outside of Tacoma there's a roadside fruit stand with a sign that reads 'Chalet.' I'm pretty sure that's not a chalet.
Further south there's a golf course built around what appear to be fallout style ruins - brick walls that are clearly some sort of industrial remnants, and half destroyed silos, concrete frames of some sort of ceiling. Rarely have I taken so much interest in a golf course.
In Napavine, someone is flying a confederate flag. I've never liked backyards. They're nearly universally a place where people put the things they don't want other people to see, but can't bring themselves to get rid of. It's as though all that's wretched in a person is made manifest in their backyard. Or maybe I'm just neurotic.
We go by a 'Sunset Storage' and the building is capped by a twelve foot tall statue of a kangaroo, with another poking out of it's pouch.
I seem to have been assigned the narcoleptic cabin, as by 1:30 everyone in it is asleep except for me.
There also appears to be some sort of problem with the speaker system in it, as I can hear crackles of static, and someone whispering into a mic.
When we hit Portland, I'm informed that there's a Waterfront Blues Festival going on for a couple of days. Wouldn't have figured Portland for a big blues town.
Another passenger walks past me wearing a shirt that says "Homeless Garden Project." I consider asking him what sort of sunlight is best for growing the homeless.
I am confused by a 'Pacific Hoe Paper,' building which we pass. For some reason that company name just doesn't jive.
I glance over at the Buddhist, and I see that he has a piece of clothing balled up near him. It's yellow, and has some sort of black fish scale pattern to it. I secretly hope that he has some sort of Aquaman jammies.
South of Portland are gigantic skeletons of covered wagons, likely marking something that I can't make out through the trees.
We go by a wood carver's named 'Pearson's' who makes things out of full tree trunks. The rearing horse must be close to twenty feet tall. I wonder who would buy that, and where they'd put it.
All the way down there have been people in the rivers we've gone by. They all wave. People at picnics wave. In Gervais, OR, on Ogle Street, a bum we pass by gives us the finger, pumping his arm back and forth, to indicate that it's not just the train, but everyone on it that gets the finger.
In Salem there's a 'Tokyo International University of America.'
By sunset I'm looking at Crater Lake, and listening to Elvis. I feel like I should be sipping something alcoholic.
Periodically I've had to take off my headphones, because my ears start to hurt, and I last about 20 to 30 minutes before putting them on again, because the little girl behind me still hasn't stopped whining to her father, and he hasn't stopped giving in to every little whim.
By 9pm, I'm unable to sleep because of them, and my headache, which I'm going to lay at their feet. I take a sleeping pill, and go to the lounge to enact the two part solution to every problem. I buy two aspirin, and some whiskey. The whiskey comes in one of those small bottles, and I feel vaguely skeevy.
I press the glass against my forehead in the stereotypical pose of 'dear god, let this drink make all my problems go away,' and marvel that this child has been petulant for closing in on twelve hours now.
At Klamath they get off to get some fresh air (smoke), and I pray to the spirit of Indiana Jones, he who removes unwanted people from all moving vehicles, that they will not get back on. I begin to doubt my capacity to be a parent when they get back on. I decide not to have Harrison Ford canonized.
He promises to buy her fireworks if she's good. I don't explain to him that his child is a beast. They continue to rehash that arrangement for the next 15 minutes, and it's all I can do not to turn around and put the fear of god into the child. And by 'god' I mean 'the large cranky bearded man who can't quite focus on what's in front of him.' I'm sure that somewhere that's someone's concept of god.
I make eye contact with the monk across from me, and give him a long suffering look, as if he could explain what sort of karma I was working off. He gives me a look that says "No, it wouldn't be murder, just a very late abortion," and eats some Fritos.
When I wake up, we're sitting still, somewhere in the nowhere grey hell north of Sacramento.
I lose the next hours in finishing both the books I've brought, and wearing the headphones even when I'm not listening to music.
Twenty-four hours after boarding the train, the beast and her father leave.
By around eleven it's clear that Jesus is pissed at me, as we're about four hours behind schedule, and some yahoo decides that he needs to sit behind me, and bring his jabbering son with him. His son provides a running commentary about his video game. He has the decency not to have the sound turned up, though, but seems unwilling to take that last step.
I consider taking up the eating of infants.
I wander back to the lounge car again, and above the seats where the car attendant sits is a sign that says 'RSVP Crew.' I think someone is confused about the difference between 'RSVP' and 'reserved.'
There's a dude in the lounge car wearing a yarmulke, and reading a book written both in Hebrew and English. I wonder if it's a torah, and then I remembered something about those being rather restricted in construction, and not exactly handed out to read. Eh, if you couldn't tell from my reaction to the Buddhist, I'm not much of a religious scholar.
As we leave San Jose, a strange sense of serenity comes upon me with the sunset on the yellow hills of California. Maybe it's the oak trees, which I realize I haven't seen since moving north.
South of Paso Robles someone has spray painted an underpass with green paint, reading 'Home of the Trolls.'
By 9:16 I've finished both of the books I've brought on the trip with me, and listened to all the new music. My train needs to arrive.
As I look up, I see something poking down in the space between the luggage rack above me, and the wall. I reach up, and pull down a Ms. Hix's luggage tag. She's from Lansing. I contemplate calling the number she's put down to reassure her that her luggage tag has been located, but instead toss it in the trash.
I arrive, and begin to contemplate taking up flying. The train can have some wonderful experiences, but also comes with a decent bit of pain.
-Jefferson
After getting to the train station, the first thing I do is drop the pencil I was going to be using to jot down these notes. Inauspicious.
In the terminal a guy in a flag patterned shirt looks at me, confused, dirty. I realize that the clothing that I've chosen for maximum comfyness has left me in head to toe black. I hope that he's going to walk over, and make some sort of snide comment, so that I can lay down some sort of rote overblown response about mourning the death of freedom, or some such. He remains silent.
Across waiting area from me, a pair of hippies eat fruit and stare way too intently at the old couple they're conversing with. The woman has a yoga mat strapped to her hiking backpack. I wonder if there's some sort of new XTREME YOGA, where you hike up a mountain before doing the poses.
We board the train, and in the holder of the seat I'm given is an Oprah magazine. For those of you wondering which one (and I know there are a lot of you) it's the one with "The Best Ways to Get Unstuck." I notice that out the top there's a bookmark, marking the article about the JFK Jr. plane crash. The mark is a torn piece of bathroom hand towel, with three rows of matching rectangles stacked upon one another drawn on it. The bottom column, which I denote as furthest from the ragged edge, has the number '32' written next to it. The other two rows are both marked '40.'
I glance across the aisle, and there's a Buddhist monk across from me. I consider offering him the Oprah mag, and some beef jerky.
Reaching into my duffel (well, Tyler's duffel that I've borrowed) I pull out a colossal pair of headphones which I've inherited from my father. They make my ears sweat, and I probably look like an asshole wearing them, but they have great sound, and I can no longer hear the man behind me giving his whining daughter everything she asks for. Hm. Whiny child only ten minutes outside the station. This doesn't bode well.
I pull up The Fountain soundtrack, as it's what I listened to while leaving for SB last time, and glance over to find that the monk has assumed the lotus position, and is doing something with beads. I smile.
In Tacoma the avenue outside the Washington State museum has it's lampposts engulfed in what appear to be opaque blue/green sculptures of ice cubes, each about two feet across.
Outside of Tacoma there's a roadside fruit stand with a sign that reads 'Chalet.' I'm pretty sure that's not a chalet.
Further south there's a golf course built around what appear to be fallout style ruins - brick walls that are clearly some sort of industrial remnants, and half destroyed silos, concrete frames of some sort of ceiling. Rarely have I taken so much interest in a golf course.
In Napavine, someone is flying a confederate flag. I've never liked backyards. They're nearly universally a place where people put the things they don't want other people to see, but can't bring themselves to get rid of. It's as though all that's wretched in a person is made manifest in their backyard. Or maybe I'm just neurotic.
We go by a 'Sunset Storage' and the building is capped by a twelve foot tall statue of a kangaroo, with another poking out of it's pouch.
I seem to have been assigned the narcoleptic cabin, as by 1:30 everyone in it is asleep except for me.
There also appears to be some sort of problem with the speaker system in it, as I can hear crackles of static, and someone whispering into a mic.
When we hit Portland, I'm informed that there's a Waterfront Blues Festival going on for a couple of days. Wouldn't have figured Portland for a big blues town.
Another passenger walks past me wearing a shirt that says "Homeless Garden Project." I consider asking him what sort of sunlight is best for growing the homeless.
I am confused by a 'Pacific Hoe Paper,' building which we pass. For some reason that company name just doesn't jive.
I glance over at the Buddhist, and I see that he has a piece of clothing balled up near him. It's yellow, and has some sort of black fish scale pattern to it. I secretly hope that he has some sort of Aquaman jammies.
South of Portland are gigantic skeletons of covered wagons, likely marking something that I can't make out through the trees.
We go by a wood carver's named 'Pearson's' who makes things out of full tree trunks. The rearing horse must be close to twenty feet tall. I wonder who would buy that, and where they'd put it.
All the way down there have been people in the rivers we've gone by. They all wave. People at picnics wave. In Gervais, OR, on Ogle Street, a bum we pass by gives us the finger, pumping his arm back and forth, to indicate that it's not just the train, but everyone on it that gets the finger.
In Salem there's a 'Tokyo International University of America.'
By sunset I'm looking at Crater Lake, and listening to Elvis. I feel like I should be sipping something alcoholic.
Periodically I've had to take off my headphones, because my ears start to hurt, and I last about 20 to 30 minutes before putting them on again, because the little girl behind me still hasn't stopped whining to her father, and he hasn't stopped giving in to every little whim.
By 9pm, I'm unable to sleep because of them, and my headache, which I'm going to lay at their feet. I take a sleeping pill, and go to the lounge to enact the two part solution to every problem. I buy two aspirin, and some whiskey. The whiskey comes in one of those small bottles, and I feel vaguely skeevy.
I press the glass against my forehead in the stereotypical pose of 'dear god, let this drink make all my problems go away,' and marvel that this child has been petulant for closing in on twelve hours now.
At Klamath they get off to get some fresh air (smoke), and I pray to the spirit of Indiana Jones, he who removes unwanted people from all moving vehicles, that they will not get back on. I begin to doubt my capacity to be a parent when they get back on. I decide not to have Harrison Ford canonized.
He promises to buy her fireworks if she's good. I don't explain to him that his child is a beast. They continue to rehash that arrangement for the next 15 minutes, and it's all I can do not to turn around and put the fear of god into the child. And by 'god' I mean 'the large cranky bearded man who can't quite focus on what's in front of him.' I'm sure that somewhere that's someone's concept of god.
I make eye contact with the monk across from me, and give him a long suffering look, as if he could explain what sort of karma I was working off. He gives me a look that says "No, it wouldn't be murder, just a very late abortion," and eats some Fritos.
When I wake up, we're sitting still, somewhere in the nowhere grey hell north of Sacramento.
I lose the next hours in finishing both the books I've brought, and wearing the headphones even when I'm not listening to music.
Twenty-four hours after boarding the train, the beast and her father leave.
By around eleven it's clear that Jesus is pissed at me, as we're about four hours behind schedule, and some yahoo decides that he needs to sit behind me, and bring his jabbering son with him. His son provides a running commentary about his video game. He has the decency not to have the sound turned up, though, but seems unwilling to take that last step.
I consider taking up the eating of infants.
I wander back to the lounge car again, and above the seats where the car attendant sits is a sign that says 'RSVP Crew.' I think someone is confused about the difference between 'RSVP' and 'reserved.'
There's a dude in the lounge car wearing a yarmulke, and reading a book written both in Hebrew and English. I wonder if it's a torah, and then I remembered something about those being rather restricted in construction, and not exactly handed out to read. Eh, if you couldn't tell from my reaction to the Buddhist, I'm not much of a religious scholar.
As we leave San Jose, a strange sense of serenity comes upon me with the sunset on the yellow hills of California. Maybe it's the oak trees, which I realize I haven't seen since moving north.
South of Paso Robles someone has spray painted an underpass with green paint, reading 'Home of the Trolls.'
By 9:16 I've finished both of the books I've brought on the trip with me, and listened to all the new music. My train needs to arrive.
As I look up, I see something poking down in the space between the luggage rack above me, and the wall. I reach up, and pull down a Ms. Hix's luggage tag. She's from Lansing. I contemplate calling the number she's put down to reassure her that her luggage tag has been located, but instead toss it in the trash.
I arrive, and begin to contemplate taking up flying. The train can have some wonderful experiences, but also comes with a decent bit of pain.