Coming Home (Train pt 15)

Waiting in the Albuquerque train station for a train that was already late, I sat back and thought a little bit about my trip.  Though I had not been blessed with the epiphanies about life that I had hoped for, I knew by now that the trip was good for my soul.  Contemplating my last 28 days, I casually scanned around the lobby and was struck by the sheer numbers of people waiting with me.  I knew that this leg, back into LA, would not be a relaxing one.

Two hours late the train finally pulled into Albuquerque and there was a mad burst of energy as bodies old and young flew into motion in a desperate attempt to be the first to board.  I never could quite understand this phenomenon.  Though I know that it is solely experienced during train travel, I always wonder why people are in such a rush to sit back down, especially since this new seat will be their prison for the next umpteen hours.

To make matters worse, even with the delay, there was zero organization out of Amtrak out on the platform and people milled about in hopeful confusion, hoping they were at least close to the correct car.  One conductor did decide to check a few people onto the last car but, minutes later, he had a change of heart and left a large group still standing by the open door.  As he made his way to the next car he did nothing to quiet the confusion amongst the riders milling about on the platform when he casually told all of the LA passengers that they were supposed to be on the unattended car he came from.

Now standing in front of this door, in line but with no real idea of what was going on, I wondered what exactly he expected people to do.  Humorously, left with no specific directions, people decided to do exactly I expected tired, cranky travelers to do and boarded on their own.  Of course, by the time I hoisted myself up the narrow staircase of this car the only seats available were the ones left spare due to the stink, size or abject craziness of the person in the neighboring seat.  Knowing that there would be empty seats in another car, I did what any rationale individual would and bee-lined it forward.  Got to love Amtrak's idea of comfort.

Spying an empty row I stashed my gear and settled in, but deep down I knew that the vacancy of the seat next to me was just a tease.  I knew this not only because my luck seemed to be less than stellar right now, but also because I noticed the group of people milling about, who, like me, seemed a bit unsure of what to do.

Shortly after we started rolling westbound for California, a conductor came by and asked where everyone was seated.  Collectively he was told that no one had any idea.

You see, instead of just allowing everyone to find their own seat or at least having enough conductors to actually do the job (or, God forbid, have someone outside directing traffic), we all were pleased to bear witness to a conductor trying desperately to quell his rage over the disorganization he directly caused.  Finally drawing his attention to me, the scrawny Mexican man shook his head at my boldness to enter a train without a boarding pass (even though this was common in 80% of my travels) and told me to move to make room for the family of four that was now addressing me with a shared look of stifled disbelief.

Finally getting a grasp on everyone's seating (the irony being that he only had to move two of the 30 people who found their own way), the conductor briskly walked me up to the front of the car and directed me to a seat next to an older lady who looked completely comfortable enjoying her twilight years.  As soon as she saw me eyeing the seat next to her though, this woman of about 60 moved with a grace and speed usually reserved for bendy teenagers and switched to a seat next to her friend.  A touch offended, but glad to be in my own town, my joy was short lived as I looked up and saw a youthful looking blond lady in a long black skirt hesitantly lowering herself into the seat next to me.

One of those women for whom looks assuredly made life simple, Dell was a sweet down to earth Texan out on a girls' vacation with her fellow retirees, the fast moving Shari and the devilish Bev.  Traveling to LA for a coastal three day road trip, these ladies took a little while to warm up to me but, once they realized that I was gentleman (a good show if I do say so myself) and that I was not quite as homeless as I looked, they finally settled in to enjoy the trip.  

It was fun learning how these three women had met and why they had remained friends for years.  I guess yearly adventures really do help.  As I heard all of their back stories, Dell filled me in on her life as a saleswoman and her bonding with Shari over a shared grief of losing children.  As we were sitting there (blame it on the wine freely flowing between the three) Dell grabbed her friend's phone and decided to take a picture of the two of us.

"For a single friend who decided last minute she couldn't make it.  Gonna make her jealous."

Now I am not sure how a picture of a graying middle aged man can elicit jealousy, but I am glad to know that the friend they were wanting to set me up with was at least my age.  While I was trying to figure out how a yoga teaching 40 year old befriended three women of retirement age, Dell and I started talking religion.

Iinitially hesitant to delve too deeply with my questions to the self professed devout Christian seated next to me, I was happy to note that in spite of the fact that Dell believed that her religion was the right religion, she was wise enough to note that this meant "for her" rather than for everyone looking for salvation.  She did however have a difficult time reconciling to me how only people who belief in Jesus were allowed into heaven, but at least she was open minded enough to note that this was just her opinion.

After a horrible night's sleep in which we both intermittently woke to make sure we weren't up in each other's business, we decided to finally embrace the early morning hours and turned our attention to filling the remaining hours until LA with chatter.  Arriving at the LA's Union Station, I noted that I had an hour to spare before my connection; turning to the ladies I thanked them for the entertainment and wished them well on the rest of their journey.  

Back in the marble lobby I now knew well, I walked up to the information board to figure out the when and where for my train home.  Finding the Coast Starlight on the board I was confused to note that there was no information about time or track yet posted.  Looking behind me at the abundance of people milling about, I realized I was not the only one.

A half hour after scheduled departure, and taking consolation in the fact that none of my fellow train mates seemed to be going anywhere, information about our train was finally up and I hoofed it, along with most of the now restless crew, down to track 11.  As I summited the ramp, my car in sight, I was stopped by a conductor asking where my boarding pass was.  Hmm...  Why had no one relayed this to me or anyone else boarding this train?  Why would so many people be left to stand around in ignorance while waiting for a train that mandated a boarding pass that only a select few knew about.  Wouldn't it have made sense to have the ticket agent step out and pass along that information when they saw the abundance of people milling about?

And so began the journey BACK to the lobby towards the ticket office.  On my way I periodically stopped the people I recognized and told them to follow me if they did not have their boarding passes.  By the time I made it to the desk I had six people in tow and we all waited as the young black woman flipped through seating charts to find us seats.  I swear, watching her work I could feel life pass through me as easily as I could sense the apathy and disdain emanating from her.

Finally boarding the last train I would be riding for awhile, my elation to on my way home was quickly subdued when I saw that I was in possession of the worst seat on any train.  Located in the middle of each car, directly across from the stairs that EVERYONE uses, I always looked at the people in these seats with empathy and compassion as I walked past them.  These seats were the epicenters of each car, not only for their stairwells leading off and on the train and to the only bathrooms, but also because they were across from the trash cans.  Thankfully, a month of train travel had taught me a few tricks capable of drowning out extraneous noise (though most notably, it was my deaf ear that worked best).

Weary and disappointed, I realized that I still did not have a ticket all the way back to Albany and I set about rectifying that situation.  Dialing Amtrak I delved into inquiring why they thought it was ethical or moral to charge a repeat customer $113 to remain on a train he was already aboard.  It took me explaining my situation over and over again to three people in customers service before the third finally realized that, I did indeed need to be transferred outside of his department.  "You see, I need Customer RELATIONS, not Service.  Yes, I said that a few minutes ago.  No, I would not like to take a survey right now, nor do I think you want me to...."

The most frustrating part of it all is that, while it took me no more than two minutes to be connected to each of the first three people, I was put on hold for an hour and ten minutes when it was finally determined that I needed to talk to Customer Relations.  By this time I had reached my boiling point, but it was not solely my anger that caused me to hang up.

As each new passenger passenger entered the train and eyed the seat next to me, I could feel the anger inside of me growing.  That is, until I saw the tight floor length floral skirt and looked up at the cute young Mexican woman warily looking between her ticket and the empty seat next to me.  I was glad I shaved back in Albuquerque.

After getting over the shock of having to sit down next to a man casually reclining in fleece pants and a long sleeve T, she sat down and set about making herself comfortable.  Wanting to set her at ease I dove into my treasure trove of ice breakers to gain a better background into who this pale skinned Latin woman was and what made her tick.  Thankfully that gentleman charm I sometimes possess worked and within a few minutes I could see the stress and hesitancy evaporate from her face.  As we bonded over soccer and our belief that the higher education system is a joke if you don't know what you want to study, Janet and I killed the brief time we had before she detrained in Oxnard to spend time with her new boyfriend.

The distraction of good conversation gone, I used the next hour to readdress my tenuous situation with the two conductors periodically walking through my car.  I knew it was useless though as I was told, again, that there was nothing they could do about getting me to Albany without paying the extra charge.  Only one person, out of the nine Amtrak employees I talked to face to face and on the phone, took the time to acknowledge that my situation was indeed a shitty one and that there should be some way to make it right.  Thank God at least one person possessed enough common decency to go against the mandated Amtrak customer service response of, "sorry, nothing I can do".

Trusting his judgement I ran into the San Luis Obispo station for some help and spent five minutes trying to persuade an unwilling employee to listen and another five minutes waiting for him to get off of the phone so he could give me back my credit card, license and my $113 ticket.  I was barely out the door when the ALL ABOARD was given and the train started to move.  To add further insult to injury, I was now in possession of a blank destination card used to show where each passenger was slated to disembark, a token left over by my fit traveling companion now off galavanting in Oxnard.

As it turns out, Janet had never been officially checked in on the train.  It would have been the perfect ruse...  Write ALY on the back of the blank card now in my possession and convince the conductors that I had a ticket.  Sadly, after doing just that (though in possession of a valid ticket), both conductors looked at the ALY and said, "oh, good, you got it all taken care of" without even asking for or looking at my ticket.

Looking back I am left with a feeling that I should trust my gut as I had a premonition about using a spare card to save me money.  I guess I really to need to listen to the universe more.

As daylight faded to dusk, I could feel the darkness and I was reminded of the black ball of anger smoldering inside me.  I was tired of traveling by train.  I was tired of dealing with idiots.  Most of all I was tired of dealing with rules and policies that made the journey far less spectacular than it could have been.

I just wanted to be home.

Waking up in Southern Oregon the next morning, I looked out the window to admire the beautiful, cloudless blue sky sitting in wait for the bright morning sun to crest over the desert hills.  As I sat there staring out over the landscape slowly coming into focus, I thought about where I had been and all I had seen and was stuck by just how beautiful Oregon really was.  I knew that if I ever left the Pacific Northwest I would miss the green of the trees and the majesty of the mountains, but it was precisely this beauty that made me realize that this may be the only reason I still lived here.

Is that enough?

Life in the ABQ (Train pt 14)

As we were waiting in line to grab our seating assignments, arrogance gained from a month of train travel lead me in the wrong direction.  Standing in line behind a twenty something whose heavy midsection and remaining 12 teeth made me feel the years had been a bit too unkind to her, I was struck by the marvel of genetics when I noticed her cute as a bug 3 year old daughter.  Unfortunately for the mother, it seemed the older Edward James Olmos look-alike in front of her had noticed the girl (I say unfortunate because his fixation became apparent after his ninth time mentioning how "all kids are angels”).  As we stood there, moving along at a snail's pace, he took every opportunity to chat with this mother about her child and I eavesdropped just in case.

Overhearing where she was headed, and not realizing that this eastbound train did indeed stop off in Southern Colorado, I mistakenly told her that she was about to get on the wrong train.  Thankfully I was smart enough to inform her to trust the ticket lady over me.  Even with this fiasco, or perhaps due to it, I learned shortly after that the universe was not done with my helping this obviously weary traveler and her daughter.  You see, after grabbing an unnecessary (but still damned tasty) last "real" meal of a Subway club, I headed back down the long tunnel passing ramp after ramp and came upon the same exhausted woman now pulling two large suitcases unsteadily behind her.  Though her daughter tried to help, I believe the constant uttering of the phrase "are we there yet?" was doing little more than creating frustration.

Seeing a chance to make amends for my earlier snafu, I asked her if she would like some help and a look of relief washed over her face as she handed me the heaviest bag to pull.  Feeling a little better about giving bad advice, my ignorance about rail travel again smacked me upside the head when I confidently strode up our ramp on the wrong side of the corridor from our cars.  I guess the universe wanted us to get more exercise.

Finally onboard, I was dismayed to again notice that yet another lazy Amtrak employee had put everyone in the same car; thankfully this time I at least had a pair of seats all to myself.  Though a direct cause of the issue, I am beginning to think that this conspiracy to ruin the comfort level of travelers is not totally the fault of lazy ticket agents and conductors.  I have come to adopt the belief that it is instead the result of an asinine Amtrak policy geared towards always leaving empty cars for "future travelers".  It begs this question though, if you keep pissing off your current clients, will you ever actually have a future?

Being that we left LA at 6pm and were slated to arrive in Albuquerque at noon, I was excited that this 18 hour trip was going to feel like eight.  Of course, my excitement tapered when I realized that the only early arriving train on my whole trip lined up nicely with the one time my ride was not readily available to pick me up.

Stepping out into the Albuquerque warmth I quickly shed layers of clothes mistakenly left on after weeks of near zero Midwest cold and decided that it was a great day to hoof it.  Sadly, my sense of direction must have scampered off earlier along with my awareness of train routes and I was a half mile into my trek before I realized I may be headed in the wrong direction.  Thank God for google.

Finally aimed properly I skirted past the sketchy folks calling the bus and train terminal home and was overjoyed to see that the first three quarters of my trek would be all uphill.  Its a good thing my ankle isn't throbbing...  Oh, wait.

At the top of my Olympus the scenery regained a familiarity, and not just because I was back on a college campus.  Eye balling the brown buildings tucked in amongst brown trees and browner grass currently being fruitlessly watered, a shortcut learned during my last trip to New Mexico flashed through my mind and I bee-lined it across the campus.  A short while later I found myself on the front step of Amberlee's cute pueblo styled house.

Knowing it would be 45 minutes before Amberlee would be here, I pulled up a chair on her porch and set my gear down.  Plopping myself down, exhausted, on her front step, I stared off blankly into the neighborhood until I was startled back to reality by a curly haired woman who looked like she could hog tie me in about 30 seconds.  Turns out, the more I learned about Robin, the more I realized that I my rash judgement would prove to be prophetic if I offended her in any way.  Thankfully she was down to earth and had a sense of humor almost as open as mine.  I could see why she and Amberlee got along.

After coming to the conclusion that I was not just some drifter on her front porch, that I was indeed Amberlee's friend here to visit (albeit earlier than expected), Robin showed me through the front door and I was immediately met by Scotty, a terrier who's resemblance so closely mirrored Snowy from the Tin-Tin adventures that I yearned to take him on an adventure.  Bounding along with the unbridled enthusiasm only a puppy could bring, I also met Jack, a cuter than should be allowed blue healer.  Getting past the requisite licks and pats of attention, I asked Robin if she wouldn't mind me taking a shower, the train stink by this time feeling like it was permeating my very being.

Once clean we took the dogs out back to play and I set about inquiring into what brought this tall rancher girl to UNM law school.  A spirited conversation about beliefs and a love of law quickly turned its attention to the death penalty and we were so engrossed in conversation that I did not notice Amberlee's entrance until I heard a perfectly high pitched "Andreeeeew" and turned to see the beaming smile and outstretched arms of one of my best friends.

Dressed in scrubs that hung a little too perfectly I was left to wonder for a brief second how in the world doctors got anything done around women like this and was engulfed in a long overdue hug before becoming too lost in thought.  I had missed my friend, this ex-player I ran into outside of a local Corvallis bar eight years ago and instantly knew would be a part of the rest of my life.

Though we both wanted to chat and catch up, we decided that a nap was a reward we had both earned.  So, after a tasty lunch of sandwiches, we headed off to bed.  Now, I know some of you are thinking that I am smitten and we napped together but, alas, that is not true.  You see, not only does Amberlee have boyfriend of three years, but she and I already had our go at dating long ago.  Though it was very brief and, though it was probably mostly due to timing, we decided that it was our friendship that would endure and not romance.

Waking up a few glorious hours later we set about making dinner, a delicious and overly healthy meal of salad, whole wheat pasta and chicken along with various other organic delights, and washed it down with some red wine and bourbon.  As always we talked for hours about nothing and everything all at once and it dawned on me that this, being in Albuquerque for a whole weekend with nothing on the schedule except to hang out with my friend, was the perfect ending to my trip.

The next morning I was up around 9 to write and kill time until a noon date with Robin and a law school lecture.  Though I was dreading listening to a high priced lawyer tell a room full of prospects why they needed to go into energy law, his talk actually applied more to my life than I could have hoped for.  It seems that the universe was continually slapping me upside the head with the message "just take a job and figure out life from there" as I felt his words resonate a little too deeply in my soul for it to just be coincidence.

As we walked I learned more about Robin and was happy to note that she was, like me, completely candid about her life and her opinions.  It wasn't long before I learned that this intelligent, strong as an ox woman likes older men; her 50 year old husband who, at 18 years her senior, may just be my new idol.

Though she and her husband are very much in love, it seems her mother does not exactly share her opinion.  Now, I cannot tell if it is an age thing (mom wanting to protect daughter) or a jealousy thing (mom wanting to be daughter) but after a ten minute lesson into family history (including learning that her sister lives with her husband and two kids deep in the Alaskan wilderness in a 20'x10' hut) I am relieved to know that Robin will be alright.

Arriving back at the house around the same time Amberlee returned from her teaching gig, we sat down for another healthy meal.  I was beginning to sense a theme.  Tired after a 5am wake-up call following a late night talking to me, I could sense the conflict in Amberlee and reminded her that it was quite alright if she wanted to take another nap.

Later that night, after she was rested and I had caught up on some of my writing, we grabbed a couple of bikes from the stockpile in her front room and peddled our way to Marble, a brewery across town, to grab some beers and hang out with her friend Marsha.  Riding a bike with a seat just high enough to render sitting (and maybe babies) almost impossible, I learned later than night why biking was a necessity in this town if one planned to drink.

As we rode through picturesque neighborhoods full of houses Amberlee dreamed of one day owning (the apple, in this case, falling very close to her real estate empire of a father's tree), I joyously gave my nurse friend fits as I wove in and out of my lane with no hands or helmet.  I quickly learned that the old adage that most people take their jobs home with them was true as Amberlee shared numerous stories of trauma patients whose lives were shattered by accidents in the hopes that I would be scared into at least keeping my hands on the handlebars.

Pulling into the brewery, me thankfully for us both no worse for wear, we locked our bikes up and were amusingly greeted by a female pit bull squatting on her two front paws to relieve herself.  I could tell that it was going to be a strange night.

Upon entering the dimly lit wooden room I was amazed at how many people could fit into such a small space.  Standing in line waiting to place our order, we turned when we heard a shriek of joy behind us and I saw the most bubbly blond rushing over to tell us she had found a booth.

Sliding into the wooden seats we threw our gear down beside us and set about to a night of drinking.  Being that I was in Albuquerque, and embracing that this trip was about friends, I hit up another ex-player of mine by the name of Aaron who was in PA school just up the road at the University of St. Francis.  Settling in, my confidence soaring with a combination of alcohol and me looking like a stud with these two women, I slowly got to know this perky, full of life ball of energy that Amberlee loved and could instantly see why the two of them got along so well as Marsha's energy actually surpassed her friend's.

Lost in conversation I looked up and saw a familiar face.  Dressed in an oversized flannel, backwards Dodgers cap and diamond earrings, Grossy (Aaron's nickname, more applicable to the shortening of his last name than anything appearance or mannerism wise) still made me laugh.  How a shorter than average Jewish kid from Corvallis gets away with dressing like a thug is beyond me, but at least I knew he wouldn't get away with much at this table, especially not after he relayed to us that his ideal woman was, as he described, a "bad bitch".

It was precisely as these words were trailing off his lips that I knew things were about to get interesting and hilarious.  Watching two down to earth women try to decipher what those words even meant was fun, but not nearly as much fun as watching as the realization that he was up against his match intellectually spread across his face; the light in his eyes dimmed a little when he saw that he would be receiving no quarter from his adversaries.  After a few minutes of squirming and prodding, it was finally revealed that a "bad bitch" was a woman so confident in herself she does whatever she wants.

Did I mention that this was going to be an entertaining night?

After ordering a pizza from next door (yes, as in no actual food being served here but still cool enough to allow pizza delivery), we chatted more about women and relationships as we devoured the our slices of meat and veggie bliss.  A discussion of toppings was short-lived, the only length to it stemming from a debate into whether or not to put hot chilies on whole, half or none of the pizza.  Thankfully we were able to convince Amberlee to get them on the side, that way she and her boyfriend could have their fill while Marsha and I avoided the burn.

A few slices in, as we were scanning for women that would make Aaron grovel, I saw Stephen walk in through the front door, fresh off of a long shift at REI.  A taller than average Mexican with a definite hipster vibe, Amberlee's boyfriend is a nice guy, albeit one that is very hard to read as his social awkwardness lends to an aura of aloofness.  There is definitely something about Stephen I cannot peg.  Maybe it is the fact that I always feels like I am pulling teeth when talking to him, or maybe it is witnessing Amberlee go from incredibly confident woman into a smitten school girl around him, but I admit that sometimes I wonder why such an outgoing girl likes someone so quiet.  I suppose maybe it is just jealousy, or maybe it is just a true lack of understanding into what makes him tick (the product of limited meetings and our vastly different upbringings), but it really doesn't matter as it is readily apparent how happy he makes her.  That is all anyone can hope to find.

Shifting my focus back towards reliving my college days, Aaron and I set about finding him the woman of his dreams, much to the delight of our table mates.  I have to say I felt my age that night, as my unkempt grey beard and unruly hair did nothing to elicit interest from any of the crowd I was used to.  It is amazing though what tenacity can accomplish; after being shot down nonverbally by a table of XC runners, my art of forced conversation meant that we were soon chatting up the whole team.  Leaving Aaron with a blond English girl who shared his love of soccer, I was saddened to learn minutes later that she did not rank high enough on his bad meter to warrant further topics.

As the evening came to a close I asked Marsha if she wanted me to drive her home, but a belief that I was trying to take her home caused her to politely decline.  After a night of drinking beer (which, along with Facebook, she had given up for lent two weeks ago) I wish she had not misread that.  Escorting her to her car, I must have alerted the gods of irony when I told her to drive safe.

Loading the bikes into the bed of Stephen's grey Toyota we drove off, unaware that the night was about to take a very negative turn.  Turning left at the light we saw the DUI checkpoint and it dawned on us that Marsha must have taken the same left.  Our hopes that she made it through were quickly vanquished when we noticed her car parked and saw her standing on one leg by the side of the road in the middle of a field sobriety test.

Rolling through the checkpoint, Stephen recited the only acceptable answer at an Albuquerque DUI checkpoint, "no, sir, I have not been drinking".  (Now I will throw out a caveat here, as I am certain there are some people reading this aghast that I might be condoning the heinous act of drunken driving: Albuquerque has one of the nation's highest rates of drunken drivers, so the checkpoints have assuredly saved many lives.  The caveat comes from the knowledge that, due to the high volume of stopped drivers, I've been told that around 20% of the city's residents have a DUI on their record.  Now, while I am certain many people out there are thinking, "serves them right", think to your own friend group and ask yourself the question, is one in five accurate?)

After quickly passing through the checkpoint, we made our way to another bar so Stephen could make an appearance at someone’s party.  After 20 minutes of standing around, the goal seemingly to be seen, we left to grab some grease from a dive of a late night restaurant known as much for its food as it is for the reason it now closes its doors at 2.  I guess one too many assaults/homicides (the product of different walks of bar life craving the same late night grease) will cause any owner to reconsider their employee's safety.

Though damned tasty after a night of drinking, my wolfing down two huge bean and cheese burritos and a cheeseburger from a dive like this probably wasn't an ideal move (more on that later).  The next morning I awoke to the smells of breakfast wafting from the kitchen and and walked in on Stephen cooking while discussing Marsha's fate with Amberlee.  My friend, the eternal optimist, still hoped that since Marsha hadn't been booked by our 230 bedtime that maybe she made it home unscathed.  A call to the Detention Center the next morning quickly put that to rest and Amberlee and I decided that a day of hiking definitely needed to be replaced by rescuing her friend.

Located in the middle of endless dust and tumbleweeds the Detention Center was a half mile from a worn race track that probably split the inmate population in two with its incessant whining of engines and squealing of tires.  Turning the corner we came upon a brand new building that looked more at home downtown than as a home of criminals.  Personally I have a hard time understanding how wasting taxpayer's money to create an aesthetically pleasing prison makes any sense.  I guess I mistakenly thought that the goal was to create a place that no one would want to visit.

After filling out paperwork given to us by a black man sporting an Alabama ball cap who looked like his playing days were fading quickly, I wondered how much a laid back approach by employees to pretty much everything wreaked havoc on businesses.  Reading closely every word on a document transferring all responsibility for Marsha's court date over to the person brave enough to sign it, Amberlee at least wasn't in any hurry.  Learning that we had an hour or so to kill (infinite prison wisdom means releasing or transferring all eligible inmates at the same time instead of as rides arrive), we headed out to the car to relax.

Around 1230 a metal door hidden amongst all of the stone covering the facade of the building opened and we watched as bubbly, bouncing Marsha stepped out into the light with three other offenders probably caught in the same sting.  Shocked to see us, but eternally grateful to not have to be riding again in the prison wagon, somehow Marsha was still chipper.  How anyone could be remotely happy after a night of zero sleep on a concrete floor, I told Marsha that she needed to bottle whatever made her this way so she could pay off her fines.  A DUI isn't called the $10,000 mistake ironically.

Unfortunately taxpayer's frustration doesn't stop with a shimmering building, not in this town known for New Mexican cuisine and drunk driving arrests.  In addition to being arrested for blowing .10 (a half a beer over the limit to legally drive herself home), we found out that Marsha's car would have to stay in the lot until at least Monday as they were not open for pick up on weekends.  Not only were all of the impound lots closed, but the police station and courts were as well.

Though I know she wanted nothing more than to drive home and go to sleep, it was more her cell phone and house keys currently in her car that she was more concerned with grabbing.  Does anyone else find it odd that they can tow a car to an impound any day of the week but not allow anyone to take theirs out?  I wonder if that has anything to do with the $200/day fee?

After realizing that there was nothing else we could do, we headed off to Marsha's house to drop her off.  Just in time too as I had been noticing a rumbling in my gut over the last hour or so and knew that last night's late meal was catching up to me.  You ever notice that the closer you get to a bathroom the more desperately you sense that you have to relieve yourself?  Well, that weird phenomenon was one that I experienced a few to many times that day.  Another reason I guess I am not destined to live in the Southwest.

After lunch, and in between the trampoline practices currently being run between my gut and colon, Amberlee and I decided to take Scotty for a walk around the University golf course.  As we continued our constant discussion of life and dating it dawned on both of us just how much time we had spent together in the last three days while never running out of things to say.  It reminded me again why I kept her around.

After an afternoon spent lounging on the couch watching movies we both recalled to like more the first time, Stephen returned from work and I asked them to pick a spot for dinner so I could thank them both for putting up with me for a weekend.  After a meal of tasty individually sized pizza pies sporting chunks of mozzarella, we made our way back home and talked of continuing the night at another brewery across town.  Knowing that my intestinal fortitude would soon be bombarded by meat, cheese and tomato sauce, but also because I knew that I had spent more time with his girlfriend than he had in the last three days, I politely declined.  I figured a night to themselves would be a better gift than pizza while selfishly hoping that a low-key night would calm my stomach down.  

Now Albuquerque is not all brown trees, stifling heat and oppressive police; I learned, as we drove past endless rows of new and used vehicles shining in the sun, that it is also a mecca for car sales.  As we drove back from Target, my stock up of train supplies purchased, I could sense something was wrong and asked Amberlee how she was feeling about having me around.  Preemptively apologizing for anything I may have done to make her or Stephen feel uncomfortable, she reassured me that she I and nothing to apologize for.  After talking for awhile, I began to believe that her demeanor had changed, especially when around Stephen, solely for his sake.

I spent that afternoon cleaning and packing while my gracious hosts attended a birthday party for one of Stephen's nephews.  Though it wast the way I envisioned spending my last few hours, I could tell by now that Stephen was done having another man in his house.  Sensing this, I asked Amberlee take me to the train station a little earlier than necessary as I knew they both had an afternoon and night free from work and further entertaining a guest was the last thing on their mind.

Stepping out of the only car I had ever known her to own I grabbed my gear and thanked her for the weekend.  Making her way around the car, Amberlee said goodbye with a simple hug and a promise to call.

I was again very thankful that whatever power at work forced me to save this leg for last.

Weekend in Seattle (Train pt. 12)

Somehow you would think that adding eight hours to an already scheduled 46 hour train ride wouldn’t be that big of a deal; I mean, after awhile shouldn't the hours just kind of run together?  Speaking from experience though, I find that it is akin to adding $20k to an already existing $80k loan; though it doesn’t seem like that much at the time, that extra amount makes it feel like an already boring baseball game stretched into endless extra innings.

Hailing a cab just outside of the Kings’s street station I set about doing what I do with cabbies and asked the Ethiopian driver about his adventures in Seattle and how he was adapting to weather that I could only imagine differed greatly from what he was used to.  Sensing his joy about his new home, I didn't want to ruin his peachy view of a Seattle winter by reminding him that his first winter in the Pacific Northwest had been one of the driest on record.  I did joke with him that I would check back in a few years to see if his answer was still the same.  

As we made our way towards Hwy 99, him sharing stories about the niceness of the people he's met, I sat back in the pleather seat and felt some of the tension start to ebb from my body.  Finally I was on my way to Danny’s.  Finally I could take a shower and change out of my train clothes.  Finally I could …. get in an accident only minutes away from my destination.  F my life; I knew we should have taken the 39^th street exit. 

I guess the guy driving the beat up maroon Geo Prism in the lane to the left of us must have wanted into the parking lot on our right pretty badly.  I don't know if he wanted to turn around or if he realized at the last second that this was his destination, but it is odd to me that anyone would think that turning abruptly across a lane of traffic with no turn signal would be a good idea. 

As the cabbie slammed on his brakes, the squealing of locked tires resonating inside the cab as he tried to maneuver around the ignoramus cutting him off, the guy behind us driving the black Lexus must have picked a bad time to look down at his phone.  From the moment I heard a word so full of malice it needed no translation to the moment I felt my body jolt violently must have lasted no more than five seconds, but the shift in the time/space continuum that happens in times of good and bad made it feel more like five minutes.

As we pulled into the parking lot, the black Lexus in tow, I was amused to watch the barrel chested Serbian get out of the Prism and deliver his pizza like nothing happened.  As he pocketed his payment for the pie I mentioned to him that he might want to stick around for awhile.  Looking at me like I was an idiot he begrudgingly told me that he had done nothing wrong and was leaving.  When I reminded him that it was his nifty driving that put us all in this predicament his eyes narrowed and he decided he need to stand two inches from me to emphasize his point.  I guess he thought this might change my mind.  

Calmly I looked him in the eye and told him that cutting across two lanes of traffic and slowly rolling into a parking lot, all with no turn signal, was considered poor driving in any country.  As it dawned on him that I was standing by my story, he proceeded to tell me that the cabbie had been driving in a bus-only lane, and therefore was illegally on the road.  Smiling a little I told him that this was true, if it happened to be between the hours of 4-7pm.  Unfortunately for him, I pointed out that the accident happened at 7:15.

It is amazing to me how quickly a story can change.

Aware now that he had zero leg to stand on the Serb started to shift his story and tell us that he was not in the lane to the left of us, rather he was in our lane at least a block ahead of his turn.  Asking him why he started off by telling us we were in an illegal lane that he himself was now claiming to be driving in I watched as the wheels turned and his frustration grew.  

Sadly it took five calls to 911 and a small fib on my part about a imminent fight before we got anywhere; sadder still, a cop never showed and we were left to work all of the information out ourselves.  Thankfully the blond guy dressed in designer clothes driving the Lexus knew he was at fault and just wanted to get on with his evening.  The Serb, however, refused to show anything information oriented until I talked to the operator loudly about fault and a lack of sharing.   

It would have been so much simpler if a cop had just taken 15 minutes out of their busy Friday night.  Though I know there is always something for a cop to do on any night, and Fridays are usually the worst, something tells me that it was the prospect of added paperwork that caused the no show rather than any crime, especially since I saw two patrol cars drive past us in the flow of traffic as we waited. 

With pictures taken, numbers exchanged and finally an ID to verify the Serb’s name and address, we were off.  Heck, after 55 hours on a train, what's another 45 minutes...  Right?  

At least Danny likes to drink.

Thankfully fate had shined on me a bit this weekend and I had inadvertently chosen the perfect weekend to visit my long time drinking buddy.  As it turned out, Danny’s wife was going to be gone most of the weekend, her focus on a documentary film project she was entering in a contest Monday morning.   

Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing but love for ACH (without her, Danny would probably not still be here), my hesitancy to have her around has more to do with the belief that my feelings are reciprocated.  It seems that any time I come into town, Danny decides to go on a bit of a bender.  Now, it is unclear as to who exactly is the largest enabler, but something about a stumbling drunk husband tumbling into bed around 3am doesn't seem to sit right with her.  I suppose I can see her point.

Thankfully Danny and I are both reaching that peak in mid life where we have retained enough of the painful morning after lessons to not try to break any records when we go out anymore.  Hitting up El Norte, a hipster Mexican restaurant with food as good as the waitstaff’s body odor is bad, we grabbed a couple of drinks while waiting for the crowd to die down in the new BBQ joint across the street. 

Feeling the odor of unwashed bodies quelling my appetite, we finished up and made our way over to a joint hopping with 20 something hipsters so unique in their clothing they have became uniform.  As we contemplated the choices of delicious meats and sides staring up at us from behind their glass case, we tried to make sense of a system that forced one to order food at one counter, belly up to another for drinks, and then go find a table.  

A pound of brisket, pork shoulder, fried chicken, and mac and cheese later meant that none of it mattered, I could finally truly feel the tension of the last few days ebb from me (though that may have been all the whiskey).  Capping the night off at The Traveler we marveled about how much Ballard and Fremont (or Frelard as is it oddly nicknamed) had become a mecca for the hipster movement.  It seems this little burb of Seattle wants desperately to compete with the whole of Portland.

The next morning, as we strolled around South Lake Union to gauge the tireless growth of Seattle, I realized that Danny may have developed a different kind of drinking problem.  Stopping off at not one but three coffee shops that knew his order and his name, we joked about vices as we contemplated where all of the newly housed Seattleites would park.  First world problems I guess. 

Making our way to Danny's old office, we decided to stop in and catch a matinee showing of the Lego movie and were amused to note that we were the only two adults in the entire theatre without kids.  Sadly the movie did not make up for the slight embarrassment of catching a kids movie sans children and we left immediately after its conclusion to grab lunch and drown our sorrows into a couple of pints of Rainer at the Red Door back in Fremont. 

Still weary from the long trip, and nicely sedated from a stomach full of Turkey club and beer, I took a much needed nap and woke up just in time to be taken by two of ACH's producers in a shockless Dodge Neon to a private view and critique session for ACH’s film.  As the solidly built Ruth weaved her beat up Neon through traffic, narrowly avoiding the largest potholes, her counterpart, a legally blind recent college graduate named Luke filled me in on what the film was about. 

Sadly, no amount of prep work could have prepared me for the green eyed narrator staring at me from the tv screen.  As I watched I was drawn into his childhood story as the son of a prostitute and his subsequent education in the world of human trafficking.  

Asked for feedback my only critique was that, for as powerful as the story was, it lost a lot of its energy without graphics depicting the events the narrator openly shared.  As I relayed my thoughts, I noticed the bulbous cap covered head of the editor nod slightly in agreement while watching the heavyset black lady twiddle with her cane.  Not sure why she was fiddling so much, I learned later that graphics were her speciality and therefore my suggestions meant more work for her.    

Deciding that the movie was in need of only a few minor tweaks, ACH, Danny and I headed out to dinner at Sartoro's, a restaurant that boasted enough gluten free sea and land food options that it was a favorite of them both.  Though Danny is not allergic to gluten, he takes one for the team to make things easier for his wife.  Thankfully for me, they had plenty of other options as well. 

As we entered the darkly lit wooden building we noticed the line of people waiting to be seated and decided to grab the three empty seats at the bar.  Admiring the restaurant, I quickly noted that this venture must be a family affair as all seven women running the floor and bar looked like sisters.  

It was as I finishing my delicious dinner of sea salt encrusted chicken and vodka tonics that ACH left us to finalize her work.  Shortly after Danny and I hopped a bus headed south and got off at 101st and Greenwood so we could stop in at the Piper, a local bar partly owned and operated by a friend of his.  It turns out Ben worked the weekday shift though, so we were instead served by an Ichabod Kane thin bartender rocking a mustache so dirty the 70's wouldn't claim it.

As Danny and this guy talked film, ACH being a director and this guy and his wife both being MFA candidates, I turned and scanned the bar to see who was out on a Friday night.  Obviously we were not downtown...

Sparsely filled, the patrons of this local watering hole seemed more focused on catching a buzz than chatting one another up.  As I was checking out the two women that stuck out like sorority girls at a knitting convention, I was asked by the guy trying to operate the computerized jukebox if I knew how it worked.  After fiddling with it for a few minutes, we decided that it was broken and we got to talking about school, life and golf.  It was during this conversation that I learned the incredibly fit blond rocking the skin tight Cris Carter Vikings jersey was his wife and her even more attractive brunette friend was married to his buddy.  

There goes my night.

Though I initially wondered how this seemingly normal looking guy had scored with a woman who stood two inches taller than him in flats, I was reminded that personality does indeed go a long ways.  Down to earth and quite funny (and I don't just say that because he eagerly agreed to read my golf book), I realized that women love to laugh.  Chatting them all up as the night went on, and fended off the advances of the brunette who's attitude befitted the Boston nickname I bestowed upon her, I realized again that people are pretty easy to talk to (well, at least the one's who don't think your goal is underneath their wife's pants).  

Danny and I finished our night off back at the Traveler where my jokes about using the hoop earrings of the feisty Italian girl next to me to play basketball with did nothing but help solidify the chances of the rotund black kid she was here on a first date with.    

Waking up a bit hungover, I wrote for awhile then walked with Danny in the pouring Seattle rain to his office to grab a hard drive he had inadvertently left.  While in the office he told me the story behind the black guitar case housing the light tan Ovation guitar sitting in his his office.  Realizing that I knew someone who could possibly help, I texted my guitar obsessed buddy John to see he could help Danny could recoup some of the $1200 he spent on an unused wedding present.  

Sadly all of Danny's research was confirmed and he decided that sitting on it instead of taking the $800 loss would probably be the better option.  As we made our way back towards Fred Meyer's we looked in bewilderment as superheroes, school girls and other oddly costumed people ran into and out of our views.  Deciding to find out what was going on, I chatted up a couple in matching red robes and little else and found out they were partaking in a pub crawl around Frelard.  Though a rainy, cold Sunday seems to me a bad time for a costume party, judging from the laughter, I was obviously mistaken.  

As it turns out, going to Freddy's on a Sunday afternoon was actually the baaaad idea.  There were people everywhere, and this was one of the biggest Fred Meyers I had ever seen.  Wall to wall with everything that makes up "one stop shopping", it seemed like everyone decided to do their weekly shopping at the same time.  Thankfully I didn't NEED anything and so I killed time wandering around watching people.  It also helped that I knew we would be coming back later that afternoon as Danny spontaneously decided he would buy a new TV just in time for the Oscars.

It was later that evening, after running with his mother to Freddy's for the TV purchase that I began to suspect that I overstayed my welcome.  I don't know if it was because I was not helpful enough or if my sequestering myself to the basement to write a bit and give Danny some space was the cause, but by Oscar time I noticed that Danny was in a less than agreeable mood.  Realizing that there really wasn't a whole lot I could do at this point, I chatted with ACH and her friends and set about enjoying the first Oscars I had ever sat through.  

In the morning I noticed little about Danny's mood had changed so I stripped the bed and again did what I could to help before they left for work and I left for the train station.  I'm sure dropping the already perturbed Danny off in the rain didn't help, but I decided to leave that battle to ACH.  

Realizing that I had 15 minutes alone with her, I set about trying to convince her I wasn't that bad of a guy.  As we drove towards her work we bonded a bit over our love of Audis and I was relieved to note that most of ACH's angst towards me was the product of not knowing me in any context other than drinking.  I hope our short time together helps.    

How people bounce (Train pt. 11)

I spent the last few hours before Seattle thinking about the people that have bounced in and out of my life, as well as wondering about the ones I have yet to meet.  I am realizing that it is my hope that this journey across country and time will help me grow to be a better person, both in my relationship with myself as well as with others I meet.  More and more I am understanding that it is time to move beyond my comfort zone and into conversations and situations that will enable this push. 




It seems that as I age I am beginning to fully understand that any interaction can give insight into one's life and one’s purpose.  To fully embrace this means taking advantage of the opportunities in front of me instead of remaining trapped hidden inside my own head. 

Stepping off in Montana with all of the tweaked out nicotine cravers long overdue for a smoke break, I scanned the platform to see who else was stuck on this long journey.  Looking to my left I noticed a long legged brunette in yoga pants stretching and wondered why fate had been so cruel as to place her on the opposite end of the car as me; at least if she was near to me then I would have an excuse to chat.  It was at a free lunch (spurned by the guilt of a timetable negatively adjusted by six hours, though it may have just been due to an abundance of rice and beef stew) that I thought my luck had changed when the country girl in the Harley tee and bejeweled jeans sat down next to me.  I guess fate again had other ideas since, just as the conversation was warming up, she was moved to make room at the four person table for a woman and her two little kids.  I guess I was meant to play dad instead of flirt.

Seated next to a two year old too cute for her own good, I did what I could to help the stressed 30 year old mom seated across from me.  With my lack of parental experience, this was sure to be entertaining.  Since her four year old son only ate rolls and talked in movie quotes, I intermittently kept him on his toes with bad sound effects and quotes of my own while helping the little girl with her stew.  Sadly I failed as a parent, our lesson on blowing on your food quickly forgotten in the little girl's excitement to prove she could feed herself. 

Attempting to make amends, I tried calming her down and alleviating the burning sensation in her mouth with some apple juice as I scooped up another spoonful of stew.  Making sure she understood that it was up to her to cool it off, she blew like her life depended upon it and tentatively took another bite. 




Just as I was finding my rhythm with the whole dad thing, our meal ended and we were ushered back to our seats by an Amtrak dining car crew who seemed to forget that their patron's patience was probably as worn as their own.  At least they offered a parting gift in the form of a snack pack which I handed to my "wife" as we exited the dining car.  Though I knew I would want it later, my hunger was secondary to anything that would keep her children entertained. 

As my "family" left I realized that we were just outside of Everett, so only an hour north of Seattle.  With our final destination so close, the universe played a rather cruel trick in the form of our being forced into a holding track so that train after train of rush hour commuters and freight traffic leaving the very city we all desperately wanted to reach could pass us.




At this point I desperately needed out of this metal casket, my muscles coiling and burning from being pent up for so long, but it just wasn't meant to be.  In an attempt to quell the anger I felt boiling in my mind,  I turned my attention to the families playing in the park just outside my window and was blindsided by thoughts of my father and a childhood spent racing out in the very bay the sun was now setting over. 




Filled with a strange sense of guilt, I thought back to how much I loathed those moments as a kid and how much I now realized I would give anything to be out on that water one more time, the salt water spray in my face as we chased down another boat in our weekly races.  These thoughts made me realize how sad it is what is taken for granted during our youth.  Far too often our short sighted minds convince us that the average everyday experiences we share with those we love are not as important as the things we wish we were doing instead.

As thoughts of my dad and the endless trips started from this very bay flowed in and out of my consciousness, I overheard an elderly couple behind me debating the location of the Straits of Juan De Fuca (or, as my brother so aptly named them, the Straits of I Wanna Puca).  Seeing an alternative to the feelings of sorrow and loss I felt, I turned around and asked where they were from and if I could help in any way.  




After clarifying for them the layout of the Sound, the Straits and the San Juan Islands, our conversation shifted from water to train travel.  In an instant I was transported back to 1947 as the old man recounted stories of his military days and the trip by train he was forced to take down the West Coast and across the south.  Minutes into his stories I wished that I had grabbed my recorder as I knew I would never fully remember the details of all he and his wife were willing to share.




I find it infinitely amazing to listen to the memories and stories of individuals who are old enough to have truly seen the world change.  The perspectives gained from these conversations make me realize more fully the commonalities and differences of shared experiences.  From his military days to his years as a schoolteacher it was not difficult to see that this man loved sharing his stories.  His wife, having lived a lifetime with him and having worked at a back country post office in an already sparsely populated state, had stories just as full of joy, sorrow, regret and elation as any he told. 

Listening in with interest I was surprised at first when interrupted by a woman seated across from us who seemed hell bent on interjecting her two cents whenever she saw fit.  What's worse is I could see the anxiety this woman caused to the couple I was talking to and wondered what in the world was happening.  Slowly the puzzle pieces fell into place as I learned that this woman was their daughter-in-law.  Talk about a damper on an 80th birthday weekend.




Wondering how this relationship arrived at this point, I learned that it was even more convoluted when this lover of unsolicited opinions left for the bathroom.  As it turns out, the reason she was traveling sans husband was that his love of food (and hatred of his wife) meant that he was no longer on this earth.  I kid you not, in this brief respite from the ceaseless interjections I learned that this couple believed that their own son had eaten himself to death rather than tell his wife to keep her mouth shut.  

I felt bad for them all in their own way.  Bad for the daughter-in-law lacking children of her own, as she couldn’t quite wrap her head around the fact she may be the reason behind her loneliness.  Bad for this couple that allowed their frustration to build to the point where a stress related heart attack was more than just a fear.  




I couldn’t even bring myself to ask how they felt spending so much time with someone I am sure they blame, on some level, for the death of their son.  I only hope that my interruption of the daughter-in-law's interruption and subsequent quick etiquette lesson hits home.

Tension notwithstanding, the great thing about good conversations is that they make you forget time and frustrations and before I realized it we were rolling past landmarks I knew well from my childhood.  The trip was finally almost over.  




Fate is strange.  After all of the turmoil and delays, we ended up arriving in Seattle just as Danny was finishing his work week and I began to wonder if maybe all of this was necessary for my journey. 

As we slowly made our way towards the station I walked to the back of the train for a look at the road behind us.  Making my way back towards my seat I seized on the opportunity I ignorantly left to fate and stopped to talk with the girl in the yoga pants.  As we discussed her abundance of snacks and train travel preparedness it hit home that life is not something one should wait for.  




Tall, fit and obviously intelligent, this woman lives in a town I dream of calling home.  What's more, she spends her days working in a whiskey distillery.  Oh well.  I am certain it wouldn’t have worked out anyways as the hippy look I believe she is attracted to is of a variety slightly less homeless looking than the one my train sweats and grey scruff currently portrays. 

As I stepped off of the train into the rare Seattle winter sunset, my joy was measurable and I joked with the girl living my dream life that her blond friend had a responsibility to ensure her time in Seattle made up for the countless hours wasted on the train.  Assured that this was their plan, and knowing that women like them rarely experienced anything less in a big city, I walked off alone in search of a cab as I contemplated the last few days.  




What I have taken away, and what I am slowly attempting to embrace, is that life is more about actively seeking and embracing opportunities than it is about sitting back and expecting them to present themselves to me.  Sadly, life is seldom like a Hollywood movie.  As much as we want things to fall into place, more often than not we have to at least start the pieces moving.