This Memorial Day we found ourselves again on the road for a pleasant holiday over the long weekend.
On the first day, we left in the morning and drove south on I-5, where we got off in Salem heading up into the Cascades into the valley of the Santiam River.
We stopped for lunch in the unrepentant old mill town of Stayton, specifically to dine at one of the extant A&W drive-in franchises located there. Like almost everything else in Stayton, it looked unchanged from at least three decades ago. True to our liking, the waitress put an old-style tray right on Red's driver-side rolled-down window, and brought us the root beer in frosty bugs without ice, as is proper.
After lunch we followed the river up into the mountains, into the thick wet forest, past several more forgotten mill towns and multiple picnic grounds around the roaring river. Then we went up through the gorge called Little Sweden, winding along narrow curves until we came in sight of the dams of the Detroit Lakes. From there one ascends upwards to the spine of the Cascades, which was denuded by a recent forest fire, giving it the pleasant appearance of a high pass in the Rockies above the timber line.
On the other side of the pass, we came down into the flat volcanic plane, with trees beside the road much thinner and more sparse, such that one could see well into the forest. We passed through the chic hamlet of Sisters, with its Sotheby's real estate signs for out-of-state buyers of ranch properties, and rolled into Bend, where we navigated the crazy thicket of exits and streets into downtown to find our motel.
Red's surge through a yellow light brought a local motorcycle cop on our tail, right as we turned into the parking lot of the Three Sisters Inn, named after the nearby triplet of volcanoes that dominate the skyline of Bend. Red sweet-talked her way out of the ticket, getting off with a warning, while I went inside and checked us in.
"Someone's having a bad day," said the woman at the front desk, looking out at the cop standing beside Red's car. Evidently she hadn't seen me get out of the car and come inside.
The room at the Three Sisters Inn was decent and clean for an inexpensive one along the main highway through town, In the evening we dined at the Pine Tavern downtown by the river. From what she read online, the place is somewhat of a local landmark, with a tree growing right through the dining room.
The steaks at the Pine Tavern were good, but the service was a bit erratic. Our waiter was very enthusiastic and interactive to point of reminding us starkly that despite the hoopla about the money and investments supposedly coming into Bend, it is still old school Central Oregon rustic. It is not yet the next Aspen.
We finished up with desert at a local soda fountain on main street staffed by high school girls who badly botched both the chocolate malt I ordered (no malt, way too much ice cream), and Red's ice cream soda (extremely week and watery).
But everyone's got to learn. The first day of a road trip is always like that, somehow.
Friday, May 30, 2014
The Long, Long Sunset Across America
The afternoon flight to Detroit on the Delta regional jet (actually Skywest, of course) was late leaving Memphis. While on the runway, we were rerouted around a large storm sytem in Indiana and had to go back to the gate take on more fuel. First class was surly with discontent as a few folks took the opportunity to deplane. I figured I would probably miss my connection entirely, and just went with the flow.
Fortunately we made up some time in the air, so that when we started descending over ther treefilled suburban neighborhoods Dearborn, we were only an hour behind schedule. Moreover my connecting flight, which had come up from Nashville, was also delayed because of the storm system.
Nevertheless I'd have to hotfoot the connection with time to spare. I squeezed out of the plane quickly, then had run with my backpack on.
The new McNamara Terminal in Detroit is beautiful. I skipped the shuttle train, so barely had time to pause to watch the fountain in the middle of terminal. The water made leaping parabolas against the setting sun across the tarmac.
Having a first class seat on the big jet made it easy to slip onto the plane at the last minute. I really felt as if I'd "leveled up."
When we took off it was almost sunset--about a half hour of daylight left. I watched the darkling landscape of Michigan go by underneath, until we reached the lake, the western part of which was laden by a layer of fog over it. The ice has been late in melting this year.
About that time I noticed that the orange disk of the sun was perched just above the horizon towards the northwest. It was so low that one could look right at it without causing eye strain. I remarked that it would set in a matter of minutes.
As we flew over Milwaukee, I looked down at the shore line at the marina north of the city.
As we flew over southern Wisconsin, the last wisp of the sun, just at the edge of the horizon, gave a dark topographic shadows over the hills. One could see north to the magnificent shiny surface of Lake Winnebago, and the early evening glow of the cities around it. Then later the hills became more jagged, around the river that gives the state its name, as well as the name of the last era of glaciation here..
About that time I sank into watcing movie on the little screen on the back of the seat in front of me. About half an hour later, I looked out the window again, when we were over southern Minnesota. I could see right down into the streets of Mankato.
When the plane slightly turned, I noticed to my surprise that the sun was still perched on the horizon, in exactly the place as the last time I had seen it, nearly an hour before.
Seeing the sun in the same place had a very disorienting effect on me for an instant. At first I thought that the sun had actually set, and that we had caught up to it, causing it to rise again in the west. Then I realized that was absurd. We had been flying straight at the sun as it set, and nearly the speed of the rotation of the earth. It was pleasing to realize this was the case.
The sun continued to linger just on the horizon as we flew over the pothole lakes of the vast Coteau in eastern South Dakota, around which the lobes of the last glacier split.
Finally near the Wyoming border the sun outpaced us, and the land became totally dark, punctured by the lights of Sheridan, and I-25. But even then, as we passed over Montana and Idaho, the orange band of twilight stayed on the horizon. As we came down the Columbia gorge, there was still tangerine brightness along the western horizon, delightfully framing the dark towers of the Washington volcanoes, Adams and Rainer, in the the endless bounty of daylight as we came down into Portland.
Nevertheless I'd have to hotfoot the connection with time to spare. I squeezed out of the plane quickly, then had run with my backpack on.
The new McNamara Terminal in Detroit is beautiful. I skipped the shuttle train, so barely had time to pause to watch the fountain in the middle of terminal. The water made leaping parabolas against the setting sun across the tarmac.
Having a first class seat on the big jet made it easy to slip onto the plane at the last minute. I really felt as if I'd "leveled up."
When we took off it was almost sunset--about a half hour of daylight left. I watched the darkling landscape of Michigan go by underneath, until we reached the lake, the western part of which was laden by a layer of fog over it. The ice has been late in melting this year.
About that time I noticed that the orange disk of the sun was perched just above the horizon towards the northwest. It was so low that one could look right at it without causing eye strain. I remarked that it would set in a matter of minutes.
As we flew over Milwaukee, I looked down at the shore line at the marina north of the city.
As we flew over southern Wisconsin, the last wisp of the sun, just at the edge of the horizon, gave a dark topographic shadows over the hills. One could see north to the magnificent shiny surface of Lake Winnebago, and the early evening glow of the cities around it. Then later the hills became more jagged, around the river that gives the state its name, as well as the name of the last era of glaciation here..
About that time I sank into watcing movie on the little screen on the back of the seat in front of me. About half an hour later, I looked out the window again, when we were over southern Minnesota. I could see right down into the streets of Mankato.
When the plane slightly turned, I noticed to my surprise that the sun was still perched on the horizon, in exactly the place as the last time I had seen it, nearly an hour before.
Seeing the sun in the same place had a very disorienting effect on me for an instant. At first I thought that the sun had actually set, and that we had caught up to it, causing it to rise again in the west. Then I realized that was absurd. We had been flying straight at the sun as it set, and nearly the speed of the rotation of the earth. It was pleasing to realize this was the case.
The sun continued to linger just on the horizon as we flew over the pothole lakes of the vast Coteau in eastern South Dakota, around which the lobes of the last glacier split.
Finally near the Wyoming border the sun outpaced us, and the land became totally dark, punctured by the lights of Sheridan, and I-25. But even then, as we passed over Montana and Idaho, the orange band of twilight stayed on the horizon. As we came down the Columbia gorge, there was still tangerine brightness along the western horizon, delightfully framing the dark towers of the Washington volcanoes, Adams and Rainer, in the the endless bounty of daylight as we came down into Portland.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Dancing Monkeys in Omaha
In Omaha that evening we barely had time to freshen up before we headed out for the evening to see a Broadway musical touring show. Greg's wife had bought tickets for all of us. She had asked Greg if I was OK seeing a Broadway musical. I laughed when he asked me that.
The show was playing at the Orpheum Theater in downtown Omaha. We got there twenty-five minutes before showtime. We dropped Greg's wife off in front to get the will call. Just getting into the parking garage consumed nearly all that time. Fortunately Greg found a space with time to spare, and we had use of the sky bridge to access the theater.
The theater was teeming and crowded with a good section of the good folk of Omaha. My seats took me up the crowded staircase to the balcony, an aisle seat so I could stretch my legs. I marveled at the renovated interior of the old grand theater, and thought of what kind of people went to see Vaudeville here, a long time ago.
The show we were seeing was Wicked, which is a retelling of the Wizard of Oz. I was familiar with the premise, and knew that many people had liked it.
The story and the characters were really not to my liking. I felt I was being preached at in some vague postmodern way. Probably that's why Disney figured they could rip off the premise and make a more appealing take on the concept.
But as a production, the show at the Orpehum was very professional and well staged. There were many Cirque de Soleil-styled elements, which were pleasing to watch from up in the balcony.
Probably the best part of the show, from my point of view, was the dancing of the winged monkey characters, who performed on wires and on a scaffold on stage. But really, how can one possibly go wrong with dancing monkeys?
The theater was teeming and crowded with a good section of the good folk of Omaha. My seats took me up the crowded staircase to the balcony, an aisle seat so I could stretch my legs. I marveled at the renovated interior of the old grand theater, and thought of what kind of people went to see Vaudeville here, a long time ago.
The show we were seeing was Wicked, which is a retelling of the Wizard of Oz. I was familiar with the premise, and knew that many people had liked it.
The story and the characters were really not to my liking. I felt I was being preached at in some vague postmodern way. Probably that's why Disney figured they could rip off the premise and make a more appealing take on the concept.
But as a production, the show at the Orpehum was very professional and well staged. There were many Cirque de Soleil-styled elements, which were pleasing to watch from up in the balcony.
Probably the best part of the show, from my point of view, was the dancing of the winged monkey characters, who performed on wires and on a scaffold on stage. But really, how can one possibly go wrong with dancing monkeys?
Across Missouri by Volkswagen
In the middle of my trip to Tennessee to see my friend Greg, we actually took a lightning road trip from Memphis up to Omaha and back.
Greg's wife lives up there---they have a long-distance marriage, in effect. I actually went to their wedding two years ago, in the backyard of the house in Omaha which was our destination. Part of the reason for our trip, besides the usual visit that Greg makes to see his wife, was to return his wife's new Volkswagen light sport truck, which had been getting some adjustments at the dealership in Memphis.
We left early in the morning and spent the whole day driving across Arkansas and Missouri, In the early hours of the morning, as we were passing through the Ozarks, we actually had an awesome discussion of spiritual and theological issues. Greg's father had recently passed away---he had just buried him in Florida before my visit---and he was, somewhat uncharacteristically for him, in a mood to discuss such things and hear my opinions.
It was a privilege to be able to answer his questions about what I believed, and why. I got to assert what I believed, and explained why, to someone who was both skeptical and curious at the same time. It's not something I get to do very often.
Greg's wife lives up there---they have a long-distance marriage, in effect. I actually went to their wedding two years ago, in the backyard of the house in Omaha which was our destination. Part of the reason for our trip, besides the usual visit that Greg makes to see his wife, was to return his wife's new Volkswagen light sport truck, which had been getting some adjustments at the dealership in Memphis.
We left early in the morning and spent the whole day driving across Arkansas and Missouri, In the early hours of the morning, as we were passing through the Ozarks, we actually had an awesome discussion of spiritual and theological issues. Greg's father had recently passed away---he had just buried him in Florida before my visit---and he was, somewhat uncharacteristically for him, in a mood to discuss such things and hear my opinions.
It was a privilege to be able to answer his questions about what I believed, and why. I got to assert what I believed, and explained why, to someone who was both skeptical and curious at the same time. It's not something I get to do very often.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Barbecue for Princes, and the Old Delta Style
It was great to see Greg and his boys again. The first full night that I was in town, Greg picked them up from his ex-wife, and at my suggestion, we all went out to partake of barbecue, as we had done during a previous with much success, at the Interstate. This time Greg suggested the venerable Rendezous.
The Rendezous, or more properly Charlie Vergos' Rendezous, in the thick of downtown, with an entranc on what amounts to an alley that runs 2nd Street.
Not surprisingly there is a modern Holiday Inn right next to the restaurant.
The alley in front of the was buzzing with people as we approached the door. Inside the stairs went down to the basement. The line went up the stairs as we waited the brief time for the host to seat us. Greg wanted to sit in the busy side of the restaurant, so they found us a seat in the back room, amidst thriving parties at the other tables.
Despite the location in the middle of downtown, the interior of the dining room was very rustic, like a southern roadhouse. There were many old signs and photographs. On the far wall was large whiteboard map of the Delta Air Lines system, thickly covered with graffiti accumulated over many years. Greg and I agreed that the map was quite old because the depicted Delta route covered mostly the southeast part the country.
As we were served our ribs, Greg asked our waiter, a trim black guy with a white shirt who is no doubt one of the folk mentioned in this staff list on the Rendezvous website, if he had been part of the staff the night of the hotel heir's wedding party. He replied proudly that he had, and that it had been great fun to see it all happen.
He mentioned that the wedding party had dined in the upstairs room, accessible by interior stairs. The basement rooms and the tables around us had been occupied by, among other folks, the choicest pick of cops and firemen that Memphis had to offer, and their guests.
The ribs were ordered were awesome. I didn't even stuff myself, as I might have. We all left feeling like kings.
The Rendezous, or more properly Charlie Vergos' Rendezous, in the thick of downtown, with an entranc on what amounts to an alley that runs 2nd Street.
Greg said that the heiress to the Holiday Inn hotel empire (founded in 1953 By Kemmons Wilson with four hotels on the four highway approaches to Memphis), had recently gotten married and had, as part of the festivities, hosted the English royal princes for a dinner at the Rendezvous.In 1948, Charlie Vergos cleaned out a basement below his diner, discovered a coal chute, and started a legend.The coal chute gave him a vent for his considerable talent over a grill, and allowed him to expand from ham-and-cheese sandwiches to ribs.
 |
| The original Holiday Inn in Memphis (from this site). Greg and I both enjoy discussing the history of the American hospitality industry. He makes his living in part by selling furniture to various "flags" within the industry |
Not surprisingly there is a modern Holiday Inn right next to the restaurant.
The alley in front of the was buzzing with people as we approached the door. Inside the stairs went down to the basement. The line went up the stairs as we waited the brief time for the host to seat us. Greg wanted to sit in the busy side of the restaurant, so they found us a seat in the back room, amidst thriving parties at the other tables.
Despite the location in the middle of downtown, the interior of the dining room was very rustic, like a southern roadhouse. There were many old signs and photographs. On the far wall was large whiteboard map of the Delta Air Lines system, thickly covered with graffiti accumulated over many years. Greg and I agreed that the map was quite old because the depicted Delta route covered mostly the southeast part the country.
He mentioned that the wedding party had dined in the upstairs room, accessible by interior stairs. The basement rooms and the tables around us had been occupied by, among other folks, the choicest pick of cops and firemen that Memphis had to offer, and their guests.
The ribs were ordered were awesome. I didn't even stuff myself, as I might have. We all left feeling like kings.
 |
| An old Delta Air Lines route map I found online The map in the Rendezvous is pretty much identical in color and composition, although only displayed only the U.S. routes. |
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Postmodern Life on the Mississippi
I knew I was back in the South the minute I stepped out of the aircraft into the gate ramp. The smell of the carpet, the dampness, was familiar, but I hadn't smelled it in a long time.
Up at the top of the ramp, I could tell immediately that the terminal was essentially in the same condition as it had been 25 years ago, when I first was in it. The tiles and the seats were unrepentantly from another era---the post-brutalist Seventies. It brought back pleasant memories of changing planes here a long time ago.
That's when Memphis was the hub of a major passenger airline. Now it's mostly an airline backwater, even though the airport itself is among the busiest of the world. The vast majority of the planes are not carrying people but packages and other cargo for the great local shipping colossus---Fedex.
Fedex has become a verb, has it not? I mention this because my private word game lately has been to think of as many English language verbs as possible, ones that are expressed as an infinite consisting of "to" with one word following, perhaps with a hyphen.
I wrote a little script that puts them into a database as I find them. The script tells me whether the entry already exists in my database.
Greg gave me a lot of good verbs when I was with him. In return I told him about my findings on Tumblr regarding the new postmodern reality of the "oppression olympics."
"You're a shitlord," I told him, in the midst of explaining about the paradigm. I explained why, and then added, "but don't worry, there's pretty much nothing you can do about." He got a big kick out of that.
Up at the top of the ramp, I could tell immediately that the terminal was essentially in the same condition as it had been 25 years ago, when I first was in it. The tiles and the seats were unrepentantly from another era---the post-brutalist Seventies. It brought back pleasant memories of changing planes here a long time ago.
That's when Memphis was the hub of a major passenger airline. Now it's mostly an airline backwater, even though the airport itself is among the busiest of the world. The vast majority of the planes are not carrying people but packages and other cargo for the great local shipping colossus---Fedex.
Fedex has become a verb, has it not? I mention this because my private word game lately has been to think of as many English language verbs as possible, ones that are expressed as an infinite consisting of "to" with one word following, perhaps with a hyphen.
I wrote a little script that puts them into a database as I find them. The script tells me whether the entry already exists in my database.
Greg gave me a lot of good verbs when I was with him. In return I told him about my findings on Tumblr regarding the new postmodern reality of the "oppression olympics."
"You're a shitlord," I told him, in the midst of explaining about the paradigm. I explained why, and then added, "but don't worry, there's pretty much nothing you can do about." He got a big kick out of that.
Beautiful Memphis
I just back from spending a week visiting my friend Greg. I was a guest at his house in Memphis.
I've known him since high school, but we really only became good friends five years ago, when I first visited him, on my way across the country in my car. The casual drop-by, which he greatly encouraged, was initiated by our contact through Facebook. So whatever you can say about that website, it does have some concomitant benefits.
Memphis is an awesome city, with a fascinating niche inside the flow of American history. It was good to be back and see it again.
I've known him since high school, but we really only became good friends five years ago, when I first visited him, on my way across the country in my car. The casual drop-by, which he greatly encouraged, was initiated by our contact through Facebook. So whatever you can say about that website, it does have some concomitant benefits.
Memphis is an awesome city, with a fascinating niche inside the flow of American history. It was good to be back and see it again.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
A Discussion of Drama at 35,000 Feet Above Oregon
Above Hells Canyon, which I've never seen until now. Quite a view. Very rugged.
My friend Nick who works at Powell's Bookstore in Portland is a playwright. He's published numerous works for the stage over the years, and some of them anthologized in a collection available from his bookstore.
Red and I got to the opportunity to see one of the his plays a couple weeks ago just after I got back from California. The Twilight Theater Company, a new group in North Portland, staged a production of his drama Driving Under the Influence. I booked tickets for opening night when I saw Nick post about it on Facebook.
The production was in what used to be part of the Twilight Room, a dive bar on NE Lombard near Pacific University. It's not a quarter of the city that we get to very often, so I booked tickets for the opening night online and we took the opportunity to test out a Thai restaurant nearby that Red found.
Inside the little theater we sat on stools behind Nick and his wife Katherine, as well as Adam and Marie, who arrived with them. They'd all left their kids with a sitter back at Nick and Katherine's place. It was good to see all four of them again.
The play is about a group of twenty-something friend in college, three young men and three young women, and it follows them from their college years up until marriage (and divorce), up to the point when they are about to start having kids. It has some very funny moments and was very entertaining to watch again.
I had actually seen this play before, with Nick, about seven years ago at our old Alma Mater in Salem, where he was doing a visiting artistic residency. That's the kind of thing you get to do, if you are artistically talented and you work very hard, as Nick has done over the years. His success has been well-earned.
After the show I told him that I found the production at Twilight to be superior to the previous one, probably because the cast this time was a little older. Their acting reflected life experience in a way that the performances of the college students could not yet articulate.
"I remember being in college like that, and trying to act, and having no idea what I was supposed to do," said Nick, after that show. We all live and grow. Salem seems a long time ago to me now, in a way it didn't even a year or so ago.
Red remarked that Nick laughed at some of his own lines, as they were delivered by the actors that night. I teased him about that on Facebook the next day. He said he didn't remember if he did. A good sign, I suppose, when the author gets into his own material and doesn't even notice.
My friend Nick who works at Powell's Bookstore in Portland is a playwright. He's published numerous works for the stage over the years, and some of them anthologized in a collection available from his bookstore.
Red and I got to the opportunity to see one of the his plays a couple weeks ago just after I got back from California. The Twilight Theater Company, a new group in North Portland, staged a production of his drama Driving Under the Influence. I booked tickets for opening night when I saw Nick post about it on Facebook.
The production was in what used to be part of the Twilight Room, a dive bar on NE Lombard near Pacific University. It's not a quarter of the city that we get to very often, so I booked tickets for the opening night online and we took the opportunity to test out a Thai restaurant nearby that Red found.
Inside the little theater we sat on stools behind Nick and his wife Katherine, as well as Adam and Marie, who arrived with them. They'd all left their kids with a sitter back at Nick and Katherine's place. It was good to see all four of them again.
The play is about a group of twenty-something friend in college, three young men and three young women, and it follows them from their college years up until marriage (and divorce), up to the point when they are about to start having kids. It has some very funny moments and was very entertaining to watch again.
I had actually seen this play before, with Nick, about seven years ago at our old Alma Mater in Salem, where he was doing a visiting artistic residency. That's the kind of thing you get to do, if you are artistically talented and you work very hard, as Nick has done over the years. His success has been well-earned.
After the show I told him that I found the production at Twilight to be superior to the previous one, probably because the cast this time was a little older. Their acting reflected life experience in a way that the performances of the college students could not yet articulate.
"I remember being in college like that, and trying to act, and having no idea what I was supposed to do," said Nick, after that show. We all live and grow. Salem seems a long time ago to me now, in a way it didn't even a year or so ago.
Red remarked that Nick laughed at some of his own lines, as they were delivered by the actors that night. I teased him about that on Facebook the next day. He said he didn't remember if he did. A good sign, I suppose, when the author gets into his own material and doesn't even notice.
Portland Airport. Gate C16
Boarding for the Flight to Chicago
This morning, addressing a postcard to my nieces, I absentmindedly wrote the date as 5-13-01.
The waiting lounge here is crowded. The flight to Chicago is delayed an hour because of a fire in a control tower at an airport there, from what I can tell.
It caused a routine evacuation there. All is well, supposedly, but the flights in and out of O'Hare were canceled for two hours, causing a huge backlog across the country.
Our flight is to nearby Midway, which was affected as well. The woman here at the Southwest gate announced that they are finally letting in flights there again, and we will be taking off in about an hour---just fifty five minutes later.
A young Indian-American next to me in the waiting lounge explains all this over the phone to someone in Chicago. He was supposed to fly to O'Hare on United, but his flight was canceled, and now he is trying to get on the Southwest flight, as a stand-by passenger. He had to shell out the difference. United is refunding only half price, since the delay was not their fault.
The flight will be full, if and when it gets off the ground. With my boarding pass in hand---and a low boarding number, I feel quite snug and secure for the time being. But I haven't even left Portland yet.
This morning was a full corporate workday, crammed into a couple hours. There was a problem on the server. Users couldn't access the system. It took an impromptu Skype conference that melded right into a pre-arranged conference call, augmented by many emails. I felt like I was back in New York, in the thick of corporate workplace just like the old days.
Turns out that the database arbiter was down, and had to be rebooted. That's not my job anymore, to do that. Some things change for good.
This morning, addressing a postcard to my nieces, I absentmindedly wrote the date as 5-13-01.
The waiting lounge here is crowded. The flight to Chicago is delayed an hour because of a fire in a control tower at an airport there, from what I can tell.
It caused a routine evacuation there. All is well, supposedly, but the flights in and out of O'Hare were canceled for two hours, causing a huge backlog across the country.
Our flight is to nearby Midway, which was affected as well. The woman here at the Southwest gate announced that they are finally letting in flights there again, and we will be taking off in about an hour---just fifty five minutes later.
A young Indian-American next to me in the waiting lounge explains all this over the phone to someone in Chicago. He was supposed to fly to O'Hare on United, but his flight was canceled, and now he is trying to get on the Southwest flight, as a stand-by passenger. He had to shell out the difference. United is refunding only half price, since the delay was not their fault.
The flight will be full, if and when it gets off the ground. With my boarding pass in hand---and a low boarding number, I feel quite snug and secure for the time being. But I haven't even left Portland yet.
This morning was a full corporate workday, crammed into a couple hours. There was a problem on the server. Users couldn't access the system. It took an impromptu Skype conference that melded right into a pre-arranged conference call, augmented by many emails. I felt like I was back in New York, in the thick of corporate workplace just like the old days.
Turns out that the database arbiter was down, and had to be rebooted. That's not my job anymore, to do that. Some things change for good.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
A Snapshot of Stumptown, in the Year of Our Lord 2014
Red and I had a good weekend staying at the Mark Spencer. The king suite was comfortable and clean. The front desk service was courteous and helpful. In terms of superficial ambiance it was clear that they are trying to compete with the hipper hotels around, but that it was probably a little more conventional than some of its rivals. The guest demography probably skews a little older.
Nevertheless the Mark Spencer is a decent modern hotel, with a fun historical pedigree, and the location is about as good as you can get right now.
We stayed mostly in the West End, checking out the blocks around. Red had lived down near here, back when she moved to Portland, so we both had fun comparing how things had changed. Everything seemed in flux.
On Saturday we ventured down Stark towards lower downtown. On the way, I remarked that Stark is a good street if you want to give yourself a walking tour of some of the grand old architecture of Portland, culminating in a classic vista at the corner of Third Streets, of old Cameron Books and the Portland Outdoor Store, as rustic as it gets in downtown.
Nearby on Third at Huber's Cafe, the classic bistro that this Willamette Week article informed us is the oldest restaurant in Portland. That's a freebie answer to the quiz in the article.
Of course we had their combo plate, which comes with both ham and their signature roast turkey. We got to watch the making of their famous Spanish coffee when the couple at the table next to us ordered it.
On the way back we walked along Second as a warm spring rain began to fall. We passed the mockworthy tourists lined up to buy the disgusting offerings of Voodoo Doughnut. Then, without an umbrella, taking refuge in the bus shelters, we picked our way up Burnside from the gate of Chinatown, past the parade of the blessed damned with shopping carts and garbage bags.
While waiting under the awning of a shuttered food cart trailer, we admired the ruins of the old Grove Hotel across Burnside. The homeless camp had recently been evicted from the lot next to it.
A block up Burnside we passed Broadway, where one could see the sign for Mary's Club, the famous seedy landmark. "That's where _____ _____ used to work," I said, mentioning the name of another answer to the Willamette Week quiz.
When we got back up to our neighborhood in the West End we detoured to check out Union Way, the new urban shopping center (a makeshift covered alley connecting Stark and Burnside) that the New York Times called "so Portland it hurts." It was built in the ruins of two famous dive bars, by the same guy who had remodeled the old Fish Grotto.
Actually they had some very nice furniture in the boutiques. Red and I played "Price is Right" with the tags dangling form the leather sofas. Outrageous!
Of course we dropped by Powell's. My friend Nick is often working there, but we didn't see him that day. I bought some language books. Sort of my obsession lately.
In the morning we got our own box of donuts, not at Voodoo but at Blue Star. That's where the real locals go, as well as some of the classier tourists, and even rabble like us, masquerading as normal.
Nevertheless the Mark Spencer is a decent modern hotel, with a fun historical pedigree, and the location is about as good as you can get right now.
We stayed mostly in the West End, checking out the blocks around. Red had lived down near here, back when she moved to Portland, so we both had fun comparing how things had changed. Everything seemed in flux.
On Saturday we ventured down Stark towards lower downtown. On the way, I remarked that Stark is a good street if you want to give yourself a walking tour of some of the grand old architecture of Portland, culminating in a classic vista at the corner of Third Streets, of old Cameron Books and the Portland Outdoor Store, as rustic as it gets in downtown.
Nearby on Third at Huber's Cafe, the classic bistro that this Willamette Week article informed us is the oldest restaurant in Portland. That's a freebie answer to the quiz in the article.
Of course we had their combo plate, which comes with both ham and their signature roast turkey. We got to watch the making of their famous Spanish coffee when the couple at the table next to us ordered it.
On the way back we walked along Second as a warm spring rain began to fall. We passed the mockworthy tourists lined up to buy the disgusting offerings of Voodoo Doughnut. Then, without an umbrella, taking refuge in the bus shelters, we picked our way up Burnside from the gate of Chinatown, past the parade of the blessed damned with shopping carts and garbage bags.
While waiting under the awning of a shuttered food cart trailer, we admired the ruins of the old Grove Hotel across Burnside. The homeless camp had recently been evicted from the lot next to it.
A block up Burnside we passed Broadway, where one could see the sign for Mary's Club, the famous seedy landmark. "That's where _____ _____ used to work," I said, mentioning the name of another answer to the Willamette Week quiz.
When we got back up to our neighborhood in the West End we detoured to check out Union Way, the new urban shopping center (a makeshift covered alley connecting Stark and Burnside) that the New York Times called "so Portland it hurts." It was built in the ruins of two famous dive bars, by the same guy who had remodeled the old Fish Grotto.
Actually they had some very nice furniture in the boutiques. Red and I played "Price is Right" with the tags dangling form the leather sofas. Outrageous!
Of course we dropped by Powell's. My friend Nick is often working there, but we didn't see him that day. I bought some language books. Sort of my obsession lately.
In the morning we got our own box of donuts, not at Voodoo but at Blue Star. That's where the real locals go, as well as some of the classier tourists, and even rabble like us, masquerading as normal.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Louis Armstrong's PDX
When the train arrived at Union Station in Portland, and finally stopped at the long covered platform, a great many passengers disembarked. The platform was crowded by the time I got down with my backpack.
Most of those getting off were headed across the tracks into the station. I followed them through the doors, into the high-vaulted main waiting room, where dozens of people, waiting for their own departures, were sitting on the long wooden benches.
The old station was interesting enough to wander around in for a few moments before I left out the entrance by the baggage room, out onto the curb by the entrance. There were a couple cabs waiting there, but I walked past them and over towards Broadway and headed south on foot to Burnside, through the Pearl District.
About twenty minutes later I walked into the front door of the Mark Spencer Hotel, a longtime institution in the West End of downtown Portland.
Their website tells me that it was originally called the Nortonia Hotel:
It obtained its current name of Mark Spencer in 1966. By the 1980's, however, when I first saw it, the neighborhood had become one of the least desirable places in downtown.
That's part of the reason that Portland's gay community took root there, and Adam once explained to me. The epicenter was the Fish Grotto restaurant, a seedy dive bar with no windows at the corner of 11th and Stark, as well as the Joyce Hotel, a classic old flophouse that occupies most of the building above the restaurant.
Both are directly diagonal from the Mark Spencer, although the Fish Grotto remains in name only. In recent years it has been transformed to the Sand Dollar, a modern hip seafood restaurant with windows to the street. The owner kept the old Fish Grotto sign as an homage to Portland history.
On the other hand, the Joyce Hotel is as seedy as ever, but lately the infamous institution has become out-of-place in the revived neighborhood, which is, after all, just a few blocks from Powell's Books and the Pearl. Just across Stark is the local Ace Hotel. Not surprisingly it was all booked up for the weekend.
Most of those getting off were headed across the tracks into the station. I followed them through the doors, into the high-vaulted main waiting room, where dozens of people, waiting for their own departures, were sitting on the long wooden benches.
The old station was interesting enough to wander around in for a few moments before I left out the entrance by the baggage room, out onto the curb by the entrance. There were a couple cabs waiting there, but I walked past them and over towards Broadway and headed south on foot to Burnside, through the Pearl District.
About twenty minutes later I walked into the front door of the Mark Spencer Hotel, a longtime institution in the West End of downtown Portland.
Their website tells me that it was originally called the Nortonia Hotel:
In 1907, The Nortonia Hotel opened its doors in the heart of Portland's Theatre District and quickly became known as the "home-away-from-home" for many of the artists who performed in the theatrical productions of the time. The hotel registry was a who's who of the entertainment world including Louis Armstrong, Mel Torme, Spike Jones, Sammy Davis Jr., Lionel Hampton, Billy Barty, Kay Starr...
It obtained its current name of Mark Spencer in 1966. By the 1980's, however, when I first saw it, the neighborhood had become one of the least desirable places in downtown.
That's part of the reason that Portland's gay community took root there, and Adam once explained to me. The epicenter was the Fish Grotto restaurant, a seedy dive bar with no windows at the corner of 11th and Stark, as well as the Joyce Hotel, a classic old flophouse that occupies most of the building above the restaurant.
Both are directly diagonal from the Mark Spencer, although the Fish Grotto remains in name only. In recent years it has been transformed to the Sand Dollar, a modern hip seafood restaurant with windows to the street. The owner kept the old Fish Grotto sign as an homage to Portland history.
On the other hand, the Joyce Hotel is as seedy as ever, but lately the infamous institution has become out-of-place in the revived neighborhood, which is, after all, just a few blocks from Powell's Books and the Pearl. Just across Stark is the local Ace Hotel. Not surprisingly it was all booked up for the weekend.
The Rugged Way to Get to Portland
In the morning, when it was light out, it was clear we were in the remote mountains along the California-Oregon border. Evidently we'd passed Dunsmuir, but we had not yet arrived in Klamath Falls, the next stop on the schedule.
On American trains like the Coast Starlight, when you are in the remote areas of the country, you often see very few signs of civilation. You don't even see the railroad tracks, looking out the window---just the naked panorama out the window. In this case, in the remote western mountain all one could see were trees on rolling mountain tops and much light snow.
Breakfast (which was included in my ticket) found me sitting in the restaurant car across a table from a white woman, about forty, and her young daughter. In the dining car, they put you next to each other like that, and keep as many tables free as possible. For yours truly, first thing in morning without coffee, it was a challenge to be social in such a setting.
In fact most people on the train were very friendly, much more than I could muster myself to be. Next time I'll be pretty prepared for the intensity, I resolved. Once you climb out of your berth, you have to be up close with lots of people.
Klamath Falls came and went out the window while we ate breakfast. Someone asked about the body of water we were passing. "Which lake is that?"
"That's Upper Klamath Lake," I offered.
"It's drained by the Klamath River, which goes all the way through the Cascades----the only river south of the Columbia to do that."
When I went back to my roomette, the bed was gone, the attendant having slid the sections apart to create a pair of seats facing each other along the window The morning's newspaper was placed on one of the seats---the local Klamath Falls day. The headline, almost stereotypically, was about the persistence of the local meth problem. My friend Adam in Portland would have gotten a kick of seeing that.
After that the train cut up into the mountains again, into remote areas of trees and snow. An hour later we reached Chemult.
In the meantime I went into the sleeper lounge car, which was supposedly the only part of the train that offered wifi. I was able to connect for a half-hour, and send some emails while looking out the bubble top car, but for most of the day, the web browser requests timed out, even when we came down into the Valley near Eugene, and even in places where I was able to connect with my smartphone. I made a mental note that if I were going to ride Amtrak around the country, I'd arrange to be able to be to tether, and not to rely on their own connection
But overall the ride was a pretty decent experience, if you can accept it for what it is. Among other things, this includes getting used to all the constant rickety motion and being jerked around. The Amtrak staff, especially the sleeping car porter, was cheerful and always helpful. They took their jobs seriously. The dining car staff was very interactive. At times it felt like a rolling comedy act.
Indisputably it was a magnificent way to slide into the southern edge of the Portland metro area, first popping out on the river at Oregon City (the old destination of the Oregon Trail, later a mill town), where you get a great view of the Falls of the Willamette.
Then the train weaves up through Milwaukie into southeast Portland, passing through the neighborhoods of Sellwood, Brooklyn, and the east side industrial area now dubbed Produce Row. From there one gets a splendid view of the bridges and the downtown skyline, frame against the hills.
Finally, after four in the afternoon, not much behind schedule, we crossed the river on the Steel Bridge. My friend Marie once erected a sculpture right next to the base of the bridge there, many years ago. It's good to have history in Portland.
On American trains like the Coast Starlight, when you are in the remote areas of the country, you often see very few signs of civilation. You don't even see the railroad tracks, looking out the window---just the naked panorama out the window. In this case, in the remote western mountain all one could see were trees on rolling mountain tops and much light snow.
Breakfast (which was included in my ticket) found me sitting in the restaurant car across a table from a white woman, about forty, and her young daughter. In the dining car, they put you next to each other like that, and keep as many tables free as possible. For yours truly, first thing in morning without coffee, it was a challenge to be social in such a setting.
In fact most people on the train were very friendly, much more than I could muster myself to be. Next time I'll be pretty prepared for the intensity, I resolved. Once you climb out of your berth, you have to be up close with lots of people.
Klamath Falls came and went out the window while we ate breakfast. Someone asked about the body of water we were passing. "Which lake is that?"
"That's Upper Klamath Lake," I offered.
"It's drained by the Klamath River, which goes all the way through the Cascades----the only river south of the Columbia to do that."
When I went back to my roomette, the bed was gone, the attendant having slid the sections apart to create a pair of seats facing each other along the window The morning's newspaper was placed on one of the seats---the local Klamath Falls day. The headline, almost stereotypically, was about the persistence of the local meth problem. My friend Adam in Portland would have gotten a kick of seeing that.
After that the train cut up into the mountains again, into remote areas of trees and snow. An hour later we reached Chemult.
In the meantime I went into the sleeper lounge car, which was supposedly the only part of the train that offered wifi. I was able to connect for a half-hour, and send some emails while looking out the bubble top car, but for most of the day, the web browser requests timed out, even when we came down into the Valley near Eugene, and even in places where I was able to connect with my smartphone. I made a mental note that if I were going to ride Amtrak around the country, I'd arrange to be able to be to tether, and not to rely on their own connection
But overall the ride was a pretty decent experience, if you can accept it for what it is. Among other things, this includes getting used to all the constant rickety motion and being jerked around. The Amtrak staff, especially the sleeping car porter, was cheerful and always helpful. They took their jobs seriously. The dining car staff was very interactive. At times it felt like a rolling comedy act.
Indisputably it was a magnificent way to slide into the southern edge of the Portland metro area, first popping out on the river at Oregon City (the old destination of the Oregon Trail, later a mill town), where you get a great view of the Falls of the Willamette.
Then the train weaves up through Milwaukie into southeast Portland, passing through the neighborhoods of Sellwood, Brooklyn, and the east side industrial area now dubbed Produce Row. From there one gets a splendid view of the bridges and the downtown skyline, frame against the hills.
Finally, after four in the afternoon, not much behind schedule, we crossed the river on the Steel Bridge. My friend Marie once erected a sculpture right next to the base of the bridge there, many years ago. It's good to have history in Portland.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
A Roomette With a View on the Coast Starlight
Fortunately the rest of the train trip on Amtrak was lest eventful. In due course we arrived in Martinez, the little surburban town in Contra Costa County, where I disembarked. It was after dark, with an hour layover before my next train, which would arrive from the direction of nearby Oakland and take me all the way to Portland.
The night was warm so I chose to pass the time standing out in the platform, looking out over the lights on the ships in the nearby Carquinez Strait, by which the waters the Sacramento River Delta reach the open waters of the San Francisco Bay. Along it are many industrial and port facilities. Just on the other side of the mountains to the west, shielded from our view, was the great metropolis.
One could feel the warm wind coming up from the Bay. The air is unlike any other in the world. It feels it like a golden bath---the delta breeze, they call it in Sacramento. I'd felt it years ago.
Several commuter trains came by the train, and then at last the giant Coast Starlight arrived about an hour late, around ten o'clock. It followed the old Southern Pacific route around the mountains. One could hear the horn ten minutes in advance as it came along the strait in the dark.
Following the instructions in the announcement over the loud speakers, and using the info on my ticket that I'd printed in Fresno, I ran with my backpack down towards the very front of the arriving train. By the time I got there, the train had come to a stop. I found my car by the number beside the door.
The attendant looked at my ticket and let me on board, telling me that my room was upstairs. I used the little step to climb into the door and then went upstairs.
The hallway upstairs was very narrow. The curtains were drawn on all the compartments (the roomettes, as they are called). I found the number for my own and peeked inside the curtains, where I saw a tiny space just big enough for a person-wide berth flush up against the window.
The berth, almost at the level of the window, was already made into a bed for the evening. There were bottles of water and welcome message card by the window. A second upper berth was pushed up and stowed out of the way, as I had purchased the entire compartment with my ticket.
I waited outside the door until the attendant showed up, at which time he gave me a short introduction, demonstrating how to use the button by the headboard of the berth to turn on and off the lights in my compartment, as well as how to press the call button in the morning when I went to breakfast, so he could make up the compartment for daytime use. He asked me what time I wanted to eat in the morning, and gave me a set of options for the restaurant car.
After he left I climbed into the little berth. I had brought my backpack up with me, and when the doors were closed, there was barely room enough to wedge my pack in the space between the berth and door. I hadn't anticipated that type of coziness, so it made it difficult to retrieve things from my backpack. When I tried to get to my toiletries, I wound up spilling the baking soda that I use to brush my teeth all over the little piece of carpet just inside my door.
Once I was settled for the evening, I turned off the lights in my compartment and opened the curtains to look out in the dark, with my head propped up to see out the window for a while. The train's motion was rather jerky at times. One especially felt this, lying down in the second story of the car like that. At first one had the sensation that the train beginning to tip over, although one got used to it after a while.
While I watched that way, the train came up to the bridge to cross the Carquinez Strait at the mouth of Suisun Bay. One could see the dark water below as we crossed. On the banks were looming light-studded towers of refineries and other other industrial facilities that allow he civilization of America and California keep going.
It felt like a beautiful way to say good-bye to California for now. We were on our way to Sacramento, Chico, and Redding during the wee small hours. Soon was tired enough to draw the curtains and fell asleep for most of the night, waking sporadically, wandering what the attendant would think of the baking soda on the floor. He's probably seen a lot worse, I thought. The train is old.
The night was warm so I chose to pass the time standing out in the platform, looking out over the lights on the ships in the nearby Carquinez Strait, by which the waters the Sacramento River Delta reach the open waters of the San Francisco Bay. Along it are many industrial and port facilities. Just on the other side of the mountains to the west, shielded from our view, was the great metropolis.
One could feel the warm wind coming up from the Bay. The air is unlike any other in the world. It feels it like a golden bath---the delta breeze, they call it in Sacramento. I'd felt it years ago.
Several commuter trains came by the train, and then at last the giant Coast Starlight arrived about an hour late, around ten o'clock. It followed the old Southern Pacific route around the mountains. One could hear the horn ten minutes in advance as it came along the strait in the dark.
Following the instructions in the announcement over the loud speakers, and using the info on my ticket that I'd printed in Fresno, I ran with my backpack down towards the very front of the arriving train. By the time I got there, the train had come to a stop. I found my car by the number beside the door.
The attendant looked at my ticket and let me on board, telling me that my room was upstairs. I used the little step to climb into the door and then went upstairs.
The berth, almost at the level of the window, was already made into a bed for the evening. There were bottles of water and welcome message card by the window. A second upper berth was pushed up and stowed out of the way, as I had purchased the entire compartment with my ticket.
I waited outside the door until the attendant showed up, at which time he gave me a short introduction, demonstrating how to use the button by the headboard of the berth to turn on and off the lights in my compartment, as well as how to press the call button in the morning when I went to breakfast, so he could make up the compartment for daytime use. He asked me what time I wanted to eat in the morning, and gave me a set of options for the restaurant car.
After he left I climbed into the little berth. I had brought my backpack up with me, and when the doors were closed, there was barely room enough to wedge my pack in the space between the berth and door. I hadn't anticipated that type of coziness, so it made it difficult to retrieve things from my backpack. When I tried to get to my toiletries, I wound up spilling the baking soda that I use to brush my teeth all over the little piece of carpet just inside my door.
Once I was settled for the evening, I turned off the lights in my compartment and opened the curtains to look out in the dark, with my head propped up to see out the window for a while. The train's motion was rather jerky at times. One especially felt this, lying down in the second story of the car like that. At first one had the sensation that the train beginning to tip over, although one got used to it after a while.
While I watched that way, the train came up to the bridge to cross the Carquinez Strait at the mouth of Suisun Bay. One could see the dark water below as we crossed. On the banks were looming light-studded towers of refineries and other other industrial facilities that allow he civilization of America and California keep going.
It felt like a beautiful way to say good-bye to California for now. We were on our way to Sacramento, Chico, and Redding during the wee small hours. Soon was tired enough to draw the curtains and fell asleep for most of the night, waking sporadically, wandering what the attendant would think of the baking soda on the floor. He's probably seen a lot worse, I thought. The train is old.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Turlock: Sex on a Government Train
The first segment of my Amtrak journey was on the San Joaquin, which according to its schedule came up couple times a day from Bakersfield (where it picked up bus passengers from L.A.) and went all the way to Oakland.
My ticket was on the evening train. After slaking my thirst at the bar that offered the Basque food, I went across the street into the station to wait. In Fresno Amtrak uses the old Santa Fe depot, apparently its interior not much altered from years ago, except for the addition of such modern items as a video monitor that shows the arriving trains, and an electronic ticket printing machine.
It took a seat on the long wooden bench and waited with my backpack
while the departure time came and went. The monitor above the seats kept
us updated of the approximate expected lateness of our train. It started off at forty minutes late, and kept getting longer until it reached over an hour.
The train in fact arrived about sixty-five minutes behind schedule The cars streamed through the window. I went outside as the massive moving river of metal was screeching to a halt, its two-story passenger cars sliding to a gentle halt. like a giant aluminum wall that had slid into place out of nowhere.
This was not the sleeper train yet---I would have to make a transfer---so I simply climbed into the nearest open door, then I squeezed up the narrow steps with my GoLite Jam to the find an open coach seat on the upper level.
Wikipedia tells me that on the San Joaquin these are the "California cars," which are "bi-level, high-capacity passenger cars owned by the California Department of Transportation (Caltrans)."
Upstairs it was already crowded. I didn't feel like sitting next to anyone yet. I had to go into the neighboring car via the second-story door to find an open pair of seats, in the second row from the front, next to the lavatory. This last fact made it not the most appealing location, but a quick look around the car revealed this was my only opportunity to sit by myself next to the window.
I stowed my large pack on the nearby rack, keeping my little day pack with my laptop with me in my seat. The row in front of me was the type in which two pairs of seats faced each other across a table. In the seat directly in front of me there was a lone bald white guy in his thirties wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a gold chain. He appeared absorbed in listening to music on his smartphone using large earbuds in his ear.
As we waited for the train to begin moving, a young woman---white, in her early twenties, wearing glasses, with a slightly portly figure and visible tattoos on her bare arms---stood up at the front of the car, next to the lavatory door. She announced to the car in a very loud raucous voice that she was looking to have some fun.
Even though she was white, when she spoke she used a California Hispanic accent, like a Mexican gangster, and waved her arms around like a rapper on stage.
I slunk down behind seat in front of me, leaning against the window so as to be mostly out of her vision. Soon the train lurched into motion, and with great groaning of metal, it began trundling down the tracks north of downtown. I watched the neighborhoods of north Fresno go by---the industrial areas and messy backyards of bungalow houses that gave way to apartment complexes. The tracks crossed north Blackstone about where I had caught the city bus a week before.
We crossed through Fresno following one of the canals through the old fig orchards. There was still about an hour of daylight to enjoy the scenery outside. Once we got out in the open countryside, the view across the open fields from the train tracks was sublime. It was refreshing not to be on the highway.
In the meantime the woman who had stood up in front of the car had apparently found a playmate for the ride. She had latched onto the guy sitting alone at the table in the row in front of me, the one wearing the hooded sweatshirt and the gold chain. She somewhat invited herself to sit in the seat across the table from him. Unfortunately this meant she was broadcasting her loud voice right at me.
Like her, the guy was white but also spoke in an affected Central Valley Mexican accent.
They exchanged pleasantries. She was going to Merced---about an hour and a half away in the Valley. He was going to Turlock, a little further down the line.
"You're from Modesto?" he asked her hopefully, as if trying to start a conversation.
"Yeah," she muttered, uninterested in his patter, but playing along.
"I went to high school there," he said. "Well, just outside of Merced, actually. But I know Merced really well."
"What high school did you go to?" he added, churning the wheels of the conversation.
She demured. "Uh, I didn't go to high school there."
He attempted further biographical probing, almost mechanically driving to the next obvious question. But she was very taciturn in her answers, going along with his interrogation with a spirit of impatient resignation. It was clear she had made up some it as she went along, but also that she didn't want to tell a string of unnecessary lies.
"I wasn't much in the system," she told him, at one point.
But he was delighted that he had discovered a vein of connection between them that he could exploit in order to keep talking to her. I was struck by how charming it was, that he was obvious this old-style pick-up effort was not at all necessary in this case.
"I'm going to sit next to you," she announced brusquely, during a lull in the conversation. After getting his assent, she immediately came around and pushed in beside him, on his side of the table.
It turns out they both had kids. They were in fact both on their way to see them---or at least he was. She implied vaguely that she was doing as much. Soon they were comparing photos on their smartphones.
At this point I decided I'd had enough of listening to her loud voice, and of being so close to their conversation, so I went into the nearby lounge car with the intention of buying a cup of coffee and watching the scenery from there.
But the jerking motion of the train made it hard to stand in the long line at the snack bar, and the seats there were not so appealing. So when the conductor announced that we were about to make a stop in Madera, I decided it was best to go back to my seat and occupy it, lest someone take the one by the window.
By then the couple were not talking as loud. In fact they were mostly silent. At one point the guy took his windbreaker and placed it over the space between them,. Then about ten minutes later the young lady stood up and stepped inside the lavatory and closed the door. A few minutes later the guy got out of his seat and, with only the slightest condescension to a glance around him, opened the lavatory door and went inside.
During the ten minutes they were in there, no one else came to try to use the lavatory. It should be noted that the loud noise of Amtrak trains in motion spared me, and everyone else in the car, from having to hear anything that might have been transpiring inside.
Finally the door opened and the guy emerged, sitting in his original seat. Then after a few minutes the young woman came out nonchalantly. She said a few words and then wandered off down the aisle to talk to other people on the train.
Not long after that we pulled into Merced. Just before the train stopped, the young woman came back and sweetly asked the guy if she could put her number into his cell phone. When she asked him this, for a moment her gangster pose was gone, and she sounded like an innocent girl making arrangments for an ice cream date.
After she left, a couple other young people came up to the front of the car and wanted to talk to the guy. A young man and a young woman begged him to come and hang out with them at their table in the other part of the car. He went off with them for the rest of the ride.
When the train arrived in Turlock, he came back to his seat to get his stuff. Before he left he pulled his hood up over his head and straightened his gold chain, using the train window as a mirror. From the window I saw him standing on the platform below, outside the little station, with several people he seemed to know. He would have a good story to tell them, about his train ride.
My ticket was on the evening train. After slaking my thirst at the bar that offered the Basque food, I went across the street into the station to wait. In Fresno Amtrak uses the old Santa Fe depot, apparently its interior not much altered from years ago, except for the addition of such modern items as a video monitor that shows the arriving trains, and an electronic ticket printing machine.
 |
| "The [Fresno] station was once the Santa Fe's Valley Division Headquarters, and was expanded or renovated nine times between 1908 and 1985." WP |
The train in fact arrived about sixty-five minutes behind schedule The cars streamed through the window. I went outside as the massive moving river of metal was screeching to a halt, its two-story passenger cars sliding to a gentle halt. like a giant aluminum wall that had slid into place out of nowhere.
This was not the sleeper train yet---I would have to make a transfer---so I simply climbed into the nearest open door, then I squeezed up the narrow steps with my GoLite Jam to the find an open coach seat on the upper level.
Wikipedia tells me that on the San Joaquin these are the "California cars," which are "bi-level, high-capacity passenger cars owned by the California Department of Transportation (Caltrans)."
Upstairs it was already crowded. I didn't feel like sitting next to anyone yet. I had to go into the neighboring car via the second-story door to find an open pair of seats, in the second row from the front, next to the lavatory. This last fact made it not the most appealing location, but a quick look around the car revealed this was my only opportunity to sit by myself next to the window.
I stowed my large pack on the nearby rack, keeping my little day pack with my laptop with me in my seat. The row in front of me was the type in which two pairs of seats faced each other across a table. In the seat directly in front of me there was a lone bald white guy in his thirties wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a gold chain. He appeared absorbed in listening to music on his smartphone using large earbuds in his ear.
 |
| "Service began on March 5, 1974 with one round-trip per day between Bakersfield and Oakland and a bus connection from Bakersfield to Los Angeles. Amtrak chose the Santa Fe route over the Southern Pacific, citing the higher speed (79 miles per hour vs. 70 miles per hour) of the Santa Fe and freight congestion on the Southern Pacific. The decision was not without controversy, with Sisk alleging that the Southern Pacific lobbied the Nixon Administration to influence the decision."(WP) |
As we waited for the train to begin moving, a young woman---white, in her early twenties, wearing glasses, with a slightly portly figure and visible tattoos on her bare arms---stood up at the front of the car, next to the lavatory door. She announced to the car in a very loud raucous voice that she was looking to have some fun.
Even though she was white, when she spoke she used a California Hispanic accent, like a Mexican gangster, and waved her arms around like a rapper on stage.
I slunk down behind seat in front of me, leaning against the window so as to be mostly out of her vision. Soon the train lurched into motion, and with great groaning of metal, it began trundling down the tracks north of downtown. I watched the neighborhoods of north Fresno go by---the industrial areas and messy backyards of bungalow houses that gave way to apartment complexes. The tracks crossed north Blackstone about where I had caught the city bus a week before.
We crossed through Fresno following one of the canals through the old fig orchards. There was still about an hour of daylight to enjoy the scenery outside. Once we got out in the open countryside, the view across the open fields from the train tracks was sublime. It was refreshing not to be on the highway.
In the meantime the woman who had stood up in front of the car had apparently found a playmate for the ride. She had latched onto the guy sitting alone at the table in the row in front of me, the one wearing the hooded sweatshirt and the gold chain. She somewhat invited herself to sit in the seat across the table from him. Unfortunately this meant she was broadcasting her loud voice right at me.
Like her, the guy was white but also spoke in an affected Central Valley Mexican accent.
They exchanged pleasantries. She was going to Merced---about an hour and a half away in the Valley. He was going to Turlock, a little further down the line.
"You're from Modesto?" he asked her hopefully, as if trying to start a conversation.
"Yeah," she muttered, uninterested in his patter, but playing along.
"I went to high school there," he said. "Well, just outside of Merced, actually. But I know Merced really well."
"What high school did you go to?" he added, churning the wheels of the conversation.
She demured. "Uh, I didn't go to high school there."
He attempted further biographical probing, almost mechanically driving to the next obvious question. But she was very taciturn in her answers, going along with his interrogation with a spirit of impatient resignation. It was clear she had made up some it as she went along, but also that she didn't want to tell a string of unnecessary lies.
"I wasn't much in the system," she told him, at one point.
But he was delighted that he had discovered a vein of connection between them that he could exploit in order to keep talking to her. I was struck by how charming it was, that he was obvious this old-style pick-up effort was not at all necessary in this case.
"I'm going to sit next to you," she announced brusquely, during a lull in the conversation. After getting his assent, she immediately came around and pushed in beside him, on his side of the table.
It turns out they both had kids. They were in fact both on their way to see them---or at least he was. She implied vaguely that she was doing as much. Soon they were comparing photos on their smartphones.
At this point I decided I'd had enough of listening to her loud voice, and of being so close to their conversation, so I went into the nearby lounge car with the intention of buying a cup of coffee and watching the scenery from there.
But the jerking motion of the train made it hard to stand in the long line at the snack bar, and the seats there were not so appealing. So when the conductor announced that we were about to make a stop in Madera, I decided it was best to go back to my seat and occupy it, lest someone take the one by the window.
By then the couple were not talking as loud. In fact they were mostly silent. At one point the guy took his windbreaker and placed it over the space between them,. Then about ten minutes later the young lady stood up and stepped inside the lavatory and closed the door. A few minutes later the guy got out of his seat and, with only the slightest condescension to a glance around him, opened the lavatory door and went inside.
During the ten minutes they were in there, no one else came to try to use the lavatory. It should be noted that the loud noise of Amtrak trains in motion spared me, and everyone else in the car, from having to hear anything that might have been transpiring inside.
Finally the door opened and the guy emerged, sitting in his original seat. Then after a few minutes the young woman came out nonchalantly. She said a few words and then wandered off down the aisle to talk to other people on the train.
Not long after that we pulled into Merced. Just before the train stopped, the young woman came back and sweetly asked the guy if she could put her number into his cell phone. When she asked him this, for a moment her gangster pose was gone, and she sounded like an innocent girl making arrangments for an ice cream date.
After she left, a couple other young people came up to the front of the car and wanted to talk to the guy. A young man and a young woman begged him to come and hang out with them at their table in the other part of the car. He went off with them for the rest of the ride.
When the train arrived in Turlock, he came back to his seat to get his stuff. Before he left he pulled his hood up over his head and straightened his gold chain, using the train window as a mirror. From the window I saw him standing on the platform below, outside the little station, with several people he seemed to know. He would have a good story to tell them, about his train ride.
Monday, May 5, 2014
The Amtrak Solution
It was hard to say good-bye to my friends in Fresno, after only a week.
For the return trip to Portland, I decided to forgo flying---I'd seen so many airports lately, and I'd done that particular flight on Alaska/Horizon from PDX to Fresno in their Bomardier Q400. I didn't particular savor doing the same thing going back this time.
Amtrak seemed like an attractive alternative. I hadn't taken Amtrak for years, and hadn't done an overnight trip for decades.
Their website was easy enough to use. It didn't present any ghastly barriers to researching and purchasing a ticket, the same way one would on the better airline web sites. It got a roomette on the Coast Starlight, and opted to have the ticket printed at the station in downtown Fresno.
The taxi dropped me off there about an hour the train was due to arrive from Bakersfield, in the early evening. I killed some time in a dive bar across the street that served Basque appetizers. I ordered the combination of a shot of whisky and a pint of beer, I can't remember which kind. I learned long ago that this is the way you wait for a train.
For the return trip to Portland, I decided to forgo flying---I'd seen so many airports lately, and I'd done that particular flight on Alaska/Horizon from PDX to Fresno in their Bomardier Q400. I didn't particular savor doing the same thing going back this time.
Amtrak seemed like an attractive alternative. I hadn't taken Amtrak for years, and hadn't done an overnight trip for decades.
Their website was easy enough to use. It didn't present any ghastly barriers to researching and purchasing a ticket, the same way one would on the better airline web sites. It got a roomette on the Coast Starlight, and opted to have the ticket printed at the station in downtown Fresno.
The taxi dropped me off there about an hour the train was due to arrive from Bakersfield, in the early evening. I killed some time in a dive bar across the street that served Basque appetizers. I ordered the combination of a shot of whisky and a pint of beer, I can't remember which kind. I learned long ago that this is the way you wait for a train.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
In Fresno You Survive
The next day I got the story from Rick, about what had happened with the guitar shop. I went over to their place for dinner. It was a just a couple blocks from my motel, in a decent part of north Fresno, in a unit in a complex. In that part of Fresno that means it's either a first floor duplex or attached bungalow, with covered parking. Like the little houses around the complex, each unit has tiny backyard, accessible by a patio door to a small concrete patio, with a fence of wood or cinder block.
The backyards are flush up against each other. It is a small perfect piece of paradise, right inside an old fig or orange grove. Yet one is very close to one's neighbors. I tell Rick it feels like camping, or even like Burning Man. There is plenty of vegetation, at least---this being Fresno. It truly feels like Eden sometimes.
Rick rails against being hemmed in with all the other folks around him. I can see that it gets to you after a while. He rails too against the fact that he is stuck in Fresno---all three of them are, in fact, at least for the time being. But they are stuck there together, which makes it bearable.
In the late afternoon, in a perfect temperature, we sit on the lawn chairs in the shaded backyard and look up at the sky above the Central Valley. Rick tells me about the police helicopters that come often at night, shining the lights down into the backyards. They broadcast a message, evidently to some assailant, to surrender peacefully.
During my own previous visit, I had encountered this several times while staying at the respectable Ramada Inn on Shaw near the Fresno State campus---a place popular for local conventions and events. One night I had heard the broadcasts right into my room. I had gone to the front desk to ask about this, and inquire about any danger,, but the young Hispanic desk clerk had said he hadn't even noticed it. I soon learned that the police helicopters use the nearby interchange at Shaw as part of their nightly flight corridor.
It feels somewhat like a prison society, of course, a pilot program for a post-apocalyptic refugee city under martial law. Fresno feels like a big petri dish experiment that way.
Rick claimed that he had detected that the announcement from the helicopter was almost certainly a recording.
"Maybe they just fly around and put it on speakers, and see who comes out," I suggested, somewhat jokingly. "It's a rational strategy, given the personnel reductions of the local police force."
"Eventually the helicopters could just be drones," I added.
"Maybe they already are!"
Rick makes a hobby out of watching the military fighter jets from the nearby base that use the city as a base for maneuvers. There is almost always one in the sky at any given moment, sometimes right overhead.
"Probably Fresno looks a lot like certain desert cities around the world," I said. "Ideal for training, when you think about it. The main avenues are a perfect grid pattern from the old agricultural roads."
As for the apparent demise of the guitar store, the story turns out to be that the boutique owner, from whom he had sublet his room for his store, had over the winter, taken it upon herself to provide an outreach to some of the homeless folk along the sidewalks of Olive Street.
This outreach took the form of allowing some of the homeless folk to sleep in the small bedroom in back of the house, down the narrow interior hall from the guitar shop. Soon these invitees became a presence in the boutique and around the house at nearly all time.
One day one of the homeless men came into the guitar store wearing a belt from which hung a broadsword of some kind in a scabbard. The man seemed somewhat drunk. He accosted Rick and at one point the homeless man actually started drawing out his sword from the scabbard. At that point Rick, having decided that enough was enough, threw the guy out of the house. For such a matter, it was pointless to call the police of course.
Nevertheless in due course the landlord heard about the homeless outreach program being run out of the boutique by the boutique owner, and he kicked her out. Unfortunately that included, for the time being at least, her sublessee Rick, and the first incarnation of the shop.
But Rick wound up on good terms with the owner, so it is possible the East India Guitar Company will reopen in the same location.
We both agreed it was not a bad location at all. His plan to get noticed by foot traffic and drive-bys from the Tower Theatre nightlight district had seemingly begun to work. Wherever it is that the shop reopens, I hope Rick gets the chance to have a real storefront next time. In the meantime he might get to sell his guitars out of the window and front wall of another music shop in the north side of the Tower District, one where he knows the owners.
The backyards are flush up against each other. It is a small perfect piece of paradise, right inside an old fig or orange grove. Yet one is very close to one's neighbors. I tell Rick it feels like camping, or even like Burning Man. There is plenty of vegetation, at least---this being Fresno. It truly feels like Eden sometimes.
Rick rails against being hemmed in with all the other folks around him. I can see that it gets to you after a while. He rails too against the fact that he is stuck in Fresno---all three of them are, in fact, at least for the time being. But they are stuck there together, which makes it bearable.
In the late afternoon, in a perfect temperature, we sit on the lawn chairs in the shaded backyard and look up at the sky above the Central Valley. Rick tells me about the police helicopters that come often at night, shining the lights down into the backyards. They broadcast a message, evidently to some assailant, to surrender peacefully.
During my own previous visit, I had encountered this several times while staying at the respectable Ramada Inn on Shaw near the Fresno State campus---a place popular for local conventions and events. One night I had heard the broadcasts right into my room. I had gone to the front desk to ask about this, and inquire about any danger,, but the young Hispanic desk clerk had said he hadn't even noticed it. I soon learned that the police helicopters use the nearby interchange at Shaw as part of their nightly flight corridor.
It feels somewhat like a prison society, of course, a pilot program for a post-apocalyptic refugee city under martial law. Fresno feels like a big petri dish experiment that way.
Rick claimed that he had detected that the announcement from the helicopter was almost certainly a recording.
"Maybe they just fly around and put it on speakers, and see who comes out," I suggested, somewhat jokingly. "It's a rational strategy, given the personnel reductions of the local police force."
"Eventually the helicopters could just be drones," I added.
"Maybe they already are!"
Rick makes a hobby out of watching the military fighter jets from the nearby base that use the city as a base for maneuvers. There is almost always one in the sky at any given moment, sometimes right overhead.
"Probably Fresno looks a lot like certain desert cities around the world," I said. "Ideal for training, when you think about it. The main avenues are a perfect grid pattern from the old agricultural roads."
As for the apparent demise of the guitar store, the story turns out to be that the boutique owner, from whom he had sublet his room for his store, had over the winter, taken it upon herself to provide an outreach to some of the homeless folk along the sidewalks of Olive Street.
This outreach took the form of allowing some of the homeless folk to sleep in the small bedroom in back of the house, down the narrow interior hall from the guitar shop. Soon these invitees became a presence in the boutique and around the house at nearly all time.
One day one of the homeless men came into the guitar store wearing a belt from which hung a broadsword of some kind in a scabbard. The man seemed somewhat drunk. He accosted Rick and at one point the homeless man actually started drawing out his sword from the scabbard. At that point Rick, having decided that enough was enough, threw the guy out of the house. For such a matter, it was pointless to call the police of course.
Nevertheless in due course the landlord heard about the homeless outreach program being run out of the boutique by the boutique owner, and he kicked her out. Unfortunately that included, for the time being at least, her sublessee Rick, and the first incarnation of the shop.
But Rick wound up on good terms with the owner, so it is possible the East India Guitar Company will reopen in the same location.
We both agreed it was not a bad location at all. His plan to get noticed by foot traffic and drive-bys from the Tower Theatre nightlight district had seemingly begun to work. Wherever it is that the shop reopens, I hope Rick gets the chance to have a real storefront next time. In the meantime he might get to sell his guitars out of the window and front wall of another music shop in the north side of the Tower District, one where he knows the owners.
Friday, May 2, 2014
My Fresno Was Gone
As the taxi came past the second-hand shop in the house at corner of Echo and Olive, I looked out the window and saw much activity in the shop, which was apparently open. There several people in the in the fenced yard, and some folks standing in the window of Rick's music shop.
It was a Friday afternoon---Good Friday, to be exact, and I gambled on having the cab drop me here in the Tower District, instead of taking me all the way to my motel. I had figured Rick would almost certainly have students here at this hour of the week, taking guitar lessons.
I paid the driver and huffed my backpack cheerily a half-block towards the shop. For a moment, the Tower District felt fresh and alive, and the sheen of day-to-day manifest nastiness could be ignored.
With a bounce in my step, I turned turned from the sidewalk, into the little walk, went walked past the lemonade stand, which hadn't moved, and up the steps under the surfboard hanging above the porch.
On the porch right away I noticed something amiss. In the window of Rick's store I saw not his familiar cozy little pawn-shop-esque guitar store shrine, but bare empty walls, and much junk and boxes on the floor. The folks in the room were not recognizable. They were apparently customers of the boutique, which had taken over the entire house again, and opened the door between Rick's old shop and the rest of the house.
The items that had been moved into the room were not organized, but mostly in boxes haphazardly.
I recognized the boutique owner. I asked her about the guitar shop that used to be there.
"They moved out," she said, while navigating through a small maze of her own items. Without my asking, she added she didn't know anything about where they had gone to.
Once back on the sidewalk, I noticed that the chalkboard signs out in the yard of the house said "Last Day!" While I stood there on the sidewalk, a large moving van, bearing the logo of a local donation thrift store, pulled up and parked in front of the house. The sign for the massage therapist was still the same location near the driveway.
Unable to make sense of it, I went across the street to the Peach Pit, an old hamburger dive, to grab cheeseburger and leave a phone message for Rick. He immediately texted back and said it was a long story. He'd catch me up on it when he saw me. As I ate my cheeseburger, I watched across the street, the guys in the thrift store moving van begin to take some items onto their truck.
When I finished, I put the little plastic basket back onto the top of the trash container by the door, I went back onto to the sidewalks of the Tower District, and walked all the way down Olive past the theater, and the Chicken Pie Shop, all the to way to Blackstone, where I caught a local bus.
Beautiful Fresno.
It was a Friday afternoon---Good Friday, to be exact, and I gambled on having the cab drop me here in the Tower District, instead of taking me all the way to my motel. I had figured Rick would almost certainly have students here at this hour of the week, taking guitar lessons.
I paid the driver and huffed my backpack cheerily a half-block towards the shop. For a moment, the Tower District felt fresh and alive, and the sheen of day-to-day manifest nastiness could be ignored.
With a bounce in my step, I turned turned from the sidewalk, into the little walk, went walked past the lemonade stand, which hadn't moved, and up the steps under the surfboard hanging above the porch.
On the porch right away I noticed something amiss. In the window of Rick's store I saw not his familiar cozy little pawn-shop-esque guitar store shrine, but bare empty walls, and much junk and boxes on the floor. The folks in the room were not recognizable. They were apparently customers of the boutique, which had taken over the entire house again, and opened the door between Rick's old shop and the rest of the house.
The items that had been moved into the room were not organized, but mostly in boxes haphazardly.
I recognized the boutique owner. I asked her about the guitar shop that used to be there.
"They moved out," she said, while navigating through a small maze of her own items. Without my asking, she added she didn't know anything about where they had gone to.
Once back on the sidewalk, I noticed that the chalkboard signs out in the yard of the house said "Last Day!" While I stood there on the sidewalk, a large moving van, bearing the logo of a local donation thrift store, pulled up and parked in front of the house. The sign for the massage therapist was still the same location near the driveway.
Unable to make sense of it, I went across the street to the Peach Pit, an old hamburger dive, to grab cheeseburger and leave a phone message for Rick. He immediately texted back and said it was a long story. He'd catch me up on it when he saw me. As I ate my cheeseburger, I watched across the street, the guys in the thrift store moving van begin to take some items onto their truck.
When I finished, I put the little plastic basket back onto the top of the trash container by the door, I went back onto to the sidewalks of the Tower District, and walked all the way down Olive past the theater, and the Chicken Pie Shop, all the to way to Blackstone, where I caught a local bus.
Beautiful Fresno.
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