Train notes: on the tracks between Portland and Seattle
The following are excerpts from my journal, mostly written in the dining car of my train both to and from Seattle. I wonder what kind of thoughts other passengers were having. What kinds of things are others noticing and wondering about? For me, travel is a supreme people watching treat. While for many people travel is a time for adventure and action, I prefer to sit quietly, eavesdrop and observe.On the way to Seattle:
I am sitting still on Amtrack train number 506 in the dining car, looking at a very shiny hunk of mac and cheese which was described as having been "lovingly" made by an actual chef. We have been delayed on the line for over twenty minutes, most of which I have spent waiting in line to order this "food". Truthfully? It's not really that bad. Now we're moving again.
I've ordered a very expensive bottle of beer. Thank god it's a good one. I'm sitting at the counter in the dining car and it's weird how much it seems like the counter of a Denny's with a moving landscape as a dinner show. I'd like to stay right here for the whole trip because I can look out the windows. I didn't get a window seat which is terrible because I failed to bring a book, music, or trashy magazines. If I sit in my seat I will only be able to write. Since the most interesting thing to see from my seat is my head-shaven boot-wearing seat-mate who would probably not enjoy my speculation concerning his world out look, I'd rather stay right here.
This is so much better than buses or planes. No high altitude or regurgitated air, a dining car, and the ability to shuffle around without having to buckle up at any point. You get to view the scenery, see all the creaky half fallen down shanties that strange people live in. This is old world travel, not at its finest, but surviving.
If there's anything commendable about trains, besides their complete coolness, it's the fact that the United States is already covered in tracks. Not in good condition, perhaps, but they already exist, underused. I don't want them to disappear. I want them to prosper. There is something so romantic about them, even in a dilapidated state. In some ways that may be the very thing that makes them romantic: the faded glamour. Touching and delicate. It pleases me enormously to know that in this landscape, the train whistles are mine. I'm on the tracks with the whistles this time instead of hearing them off in the distance in the quiet of night.
At the train station in Portland there was a large posse of women sporting black pill box type hats worn NOT a la Jackie, but back on the head to cover their pulled back hair. I wonder what religion they belong to? The surprising thing to me was that the children and teens accompanying them were dressed contemporarily. The women were wearing long skirts and sensible shoes while one teen girl with them was wearing jeans and sequined ballet flats.
I really wish I could sit down with them and ask them about their life. Do people ever convert into their communities? Because, if not, surely there must be some genetic issues by now. What do they do when there are no longer any suitable matches to be made? Do they try to hook up with similar groups far away? Is there any compromising? What if there are no options? What if all first cousin unions have been exhausted? Do any of them pair up siblings in desperation? (The thought of that makes me really ill. Why do I have to have these uncomfortable thoughts all the time?)
Every time I see the emergency brake handles on this train, fairly screaming out to me in their challenging red shade, I get the incredible urge to pull them.
The caps that the train people wear are quite wonderful. Especially on the thin girl who takes her official hat more seriously than the others.
The train was an hour late. This is the kind of sloppiness you need a fascist to fix. Where is Mussolini when you need him most? If we have to have a dictator running the country, why can't he make some useful improvements: Why can't he actually be a useful despot? At least then we could say he had our sons killed so we could catch our trains on time, not just to make him richer.
I really wish I could sit down with them and ask them about their life. Do people ever convert into their communities? Because, if not, surely there must be some genetic issues by now. What do they do when there are no longer any suitable matches to be made? Do they try to hook up with similar groups far away? Is there any compromising? What if there are no options? What if all first cousin unions have been exhausted? Do any of them pair up siblings in desperation? (The thought of that makes me really ill. Why do I have to have these uncomfortable thoughts all the time?)
Every time I see the emergency brake handles on this train, fairly screaming out to me in their challenging red shade, I get the incredible urge to pull them.
The caps that the train people wear are quite wonderful. Especially on the thin girl who takes her official hat more seriously than the others.
The train was an hour late. This is the kind of sloppiness you need a fascist to fix. Where is Mussolini when you need him most? If we have to have a dictator running the country, why can't he make some useful improvements: Why can't he actually be a useful despot? At least then we could say he had our sons killed so we could catch our trains on time, not just to make him richer.
On the way back to Portland:As I was walking to the King Street Station I was witness to a rarely seen spectacle: a man crossing the street holding onto his pants which had fallen all the way down to his thighs. He was wearing dirty underwear. I hope to god I never get so poor that I can't do my laundry. (I've been so poor that I had to do it in my bathroom sink by hand with bar soap.) I hope I never get so poor that I can't afford to buy new ones occasionally.
I sometimes wonder if it's common for people to have the kind of disturbing thoughts I do, or to have them as frequently? I've had more of them than usual in the last few days. When I walked up the dirty dark deserted stairs to the street level at King Street Station, I suddenly realized that this is the kind of stairway where women get raped.
The banks along side of the train tracks is kind of worrying me because it's the kind of place where bodies get dumped. Some part of my Psyche is certain that if I look long enough I will glimpse an arm barely covered by the thick ground cover of leaves and fallen branches. Or perhaps a foot.
I sometimes wonder if it's common for people to have the kind of disturbing thoughts I do, or to have them as frequently? I've had more of them than usual in the last few days. When I walked up the dirty dark deserted stairs to the street level at King Street Station, I suddenly realized that this is the kind of stairway where women get raped.
The banks along side of the train tracks is kind of worrying me because it's the kind of place where bodies get dumped. Some part of my Psyche is certain that if I look long enough I will glimpse an arm barely covered by the thick ground cover of leaves and fallen branches. Or perhaps a foot.
Garbage bags dumped on the side of the road, or next to dumpsters on city streets always worry me too. Maybe it's just a manifestation of an imbalanced brain, but I have (for as long as I can remember) been afraid that I will discover a dead body somewhere. It isn't even so much a fear as it is a certainty. Do you have any idea what the chances of that happening to me are? I don't mean finding someone I know either, I mean finding a random dead body or body parts. My brain will not let go of this. It infiltrates my nightmares. It makes me see things skewed, and darker.My hotel was the kind of place where bad liasons take place. Too expensive for prostitution uses, it's exactly the kind of lonely anonymous place where people get together for less than romantic get-aways. For seedy seductions. The halls are narrow and dim. Looking down them is like being lost in a nightmare of identical doors, one after the other, opening into sad uncomfortable rooms. When one of the hall sconces began flickering this morning it transformed the hotel into the kind I am always running from in my dreams. The kind of hotel where crimes are always being committed.
I feel sorry for everyone who must watch me eat a candy bar in this dining car. I can't just eat it in straight bites. I have a carefully observed method of deconstructing my Snickers bars.
1. First eat all the chocolate off.
2. Then eat the nougat layer.
3. All that is left at this point is a disgusting looking slab of peanuts. I eat that last.
I would break into a cold sweat if you forced me to eat a candy bar in any other way. But that's totally normal, right?
I feel sorry for everyone who must watch me eat a candy bar in this dining car. I can't just eat it in straight bites. I have a carefully observed method of deconstructing my Snickers bars.
1. First eat all the chocolate off.
2. Then eat the nougat layer.
3. All that is left at this point is a disgusting looking slab of peanuts. I eat that last.
I would break into a cold sweat if you forced me to eat a candy bar in any other way. But that's totally normal, right?