May 11, 2008
We are on the way back to San Francisco via the sleeper car of the Amtrak Coast Starlight train. To ride the sleeper, is to go first class which is a novel experience for the both of us. If you’re not first class, you sit the whole time; no beds for you, like the accommodations in the airplane. I’ve never gone first class in anything much less than the train. I didn’t even make it to first class while in the Boy Scouts; only got to second class. Second class is the story of my life, but let’s not go there. Riding in first class meant that we sat in the private waiting room before boarding the train, where they provide newspapers, soft drinks, cushioned chairs. I liked being there, away from the riffraff, the common people, the plebeians. The other privilege of going first class is the choice of white or red wine once you’re in your berth. That was a very nice gesture, even though we had brought our own bottle of wine in response to advice received at the tea house that we had visited in Seattle, but we had to be careful. Before departing, there was an announcement that there was a zero tolerance policy against drunkenness and bad language. I needed a drink upon hearing the warning. Oh my god, I thought to myself. They’re talking about me. I’m going to be kicked off the train for sure.
The compartment is cozy, and I use the word appropriately. It is not a regular room by any means, but in airplane terms, it is huge. There is more room in the average closet. But there is a door that you can close for privacy, and if you want more there are drapes that you can close with Velcro to ensure complete privacy. My imagination runs wild with what some people do behind these drapes.
Riding on the train I have ample time to reflect on our trip. Emi and I don’t travel much. We go to Hawaii and Japan, but not for touring, sightseeing. The last time, maybe the only time we actually played the tourist was at Washington DC. Sightseeing there is rewarding, because there is so much to see. It is not your typical sightseeing destination. To me, it is the ultimate adult Disneyland, and it is for real. Seattle and Portland are nice places to visit, but if it were not for our interests, biking and hiking, I don’t think that I would want to go there. I’ve come to realize that if I go somewhere, there has to be a particular reason for the visit other than just to see the place. I need to climb a mountain, bike a route, attend a class, study a subject, etc. Therefore, Seattle and Portland were nice because they were great places to bike, hike, and study NW Indian carvings. If not for that, I’d be doing just as well by staying home. And yet while we were sitting there watching the view move past our window, I stupidly mentioned to Emi (I must have mentioned here that our breakfast companion brought up the idea.) that it would be great to fly to Boston and drive up to Quebec like the guy said, and she had to remind me, “And what are you going to do there besides look at the sites?” Emi knows me so well, and puts up with my nonsense. She had me at checkmate, and I had nothing to say, but after we got home, I thought of the idea of riding bikes from Boston to Quebec. That would hold my interest if not break down my body. What can I say except that a fool only know how to think like a fool.
I’ve previously talked about Seattle, so let me say a few words about Portland. It is a nice place, if not a bit small; Emi and I could walk from one end of downtown to the other in not a long time, and we did. On the same day, we rented bikes and peddled from one part of town to another. I really like the biking trails. There were no cars, just an occasional rain to refresh you. And speaking of rain, it seems that the people up here do not alter their activities just because it’s going to rain or is raining. It’s not a big deal. We’re a bunch of wimps compared to them.
Emi and I liked walking through the farmer’s market. It seemed all of Portland was there. I particularly liked the plants that they were selling. I bought some bare root toad lilies. Such a deal, 3 for $10. I hope they grow (and they did, by the way) The seller had just gotten back from SF’s garden show and she thought that the people of SF were so nice and happy. She wondered how we could be so happy with the high prices of everything. I didn’t even know how to respond. I know nothing about prices except paying.
Sometimes I am so taken by some of the homes up here. The fancy ones are huge, beautiful, and always seem to be located with a body of water as their front view. I fantasize selling our home and buying one of these majestic homes as if they would make my life richer, and then I think again. If I pause for just one minute, it becomes obvious that my present home gives me all that I need, and that, having a bigger house, a bigger garden, more of anything is not going to change my life at all. Further, San Francisco is my home, not Seattle or Portland. But if you want to talk about Hawaii….well that’s another story. But for now….”Click your heels, Dorothy and repeat there’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”
We’ve stopped at Eugene Depot, elevation 428 feet, 123 miles from Portland and 610 miles from San Francisco. It is now 5:21 PM, and our dinner reservation is for 6:15. Our eating companion is an elderly man, even older than us, and that’s old. He makes for interesting dining, and he tells us the story of his life. I am amazed at one recounting: his solo bicycle journey from Banff to Los Angeles. That was just one of many stories. The most entertaining aspect was the impromptu guessing game. Roy had trouble remembering locations. He knew what was in his head, but couldn’t remember the name, so we had to guess. “Is it North or South of San Francisco. In the wine country? By the Russian River? Further East? Napa? Further North? Healdsburg? Santa Rosa? Santa Rosa it is.” I think I see my future, but my thing is names. So if I see you and don’t call you by name, give me a clue like it starts with R and rhymes with joy.
Added is the completed mask that I carved. It is a Northwest Indian Raven. I’m satisfied with the results. I have no immediate plans to start another project like that although I do want to carve a totem pole and defrwschest one day. The only question is when.
May 11, 2008
We are on the way back to San Francisco via the sleeper car of the Amtrak Coast Starlight train. To ride the sleeper, is to go first class which is a novel experience for the both of us. If you’re not first class, you sit the whole time; no beds for you, like the accommodations in the airplane. I’ve never gone first class in anything much less than the train. I didn’t even make it to first class while in the Boy Scouts; only got to second class. Second class is the story of my life, but let’s not go there. Riding in first class meant that we sat in the private waiting room before boarding the train, where they provide newspapers, soft drinks, cushioned chairs. I liked being there, away from the riffraff, the common people, the plebeians. The other privilege of going first class is the choice of white or red wine once you’re in your berth. That was a very nice gesture, even though we had brought our own bottle of wine in response to advice received at the tea house that we had visited in Seattle, but we had to be careful. Before departing, there was an announcement that there was a zero tolerance policy against drunkenness and bad language. I needed a drink upon hearing the warning. Oh my god, I thought to myself. They’re talking about me. I’m going to be kicked off the train for sure.
The compartment is cozy, and I use the word appropriately. It is not a regular room by any means, but in airplane terms, it is huge. There is more room in the average closet. But there is a door that you can close for privacy, and if you want more there are drapes that you can close with Velcro to ensure complete privacy. My imagination runs wild with what some people do behind these drapes.
Riding on the train I have ample time to reflect on our trip. Emi and I don’t travel much. We go to Hawaii and Japan, but not for touring, sightseeing. The last time, maybe the only time we actually played the tourist was at Washington DC. Sightseeing there is rewarding, because there is so much to see. It is not your typical sightseeing destination. To me, it is the ultimate adult Disneyland, and it is for real. Seattle and Portland are nice places to visit, but if it were not for our interests, biking and hiking, I don’t think that I would want to go there. I’ve come to realize that if I go somewhere, there has to be a particular reason for the visit other than just to see the place. I need to climb a mountain, bike a route, attend a class, study a subject, etc. Therefore, Seattle and Portland were nice because they were great places to bike, hike, and study NW Indian carvings. If not for that, I’d be doing just as well by staying home. And yet while we were sitting there watching the view move past our window, I stupidly mentioned to Emi (I must have mentioned here that our breakfast companion brought up the idea.) that it would be great to fly to Boston and drive up to Quebec like the guy said, and she had to remind me, “And what are you going to do there besides look at the sites?” Emi knows me so well, and puts up with my nonsense. She had me at checkmate, and I had nothing to say, but after we got home, I thought of the idea of riding bikes from Boston to Quebec. That would hold my interest if not break down my body. What can I say except that a fool only know how to think like a fool.
I’ve previously talked about Seattle, so let me say a few words about Portland. It is a nice place, if not a bit small; Emi and I could walk from one end of downtown to the other in not a long time, and we did. On the same day, we rented bikes and peddled from one part of town to another. I really like the biking trails. There were no cars, just an occasional rain to refresh you. And speaking of rain, it seems that the people up here do not alter their activities just because it’s going to rain or is raining. It’s not a big deal. We’re a bunch of wimps compared to them.
Emi and I liked walking through the farmer’s market. It seemed all of Portland was there. I particularly liked the plants that they were selling. I bought some bare root toad lilies. Such a deal, 3 for $10. I hope they grow (and they did, by the way) The seller had just gotten back from SF’s garden show and she thought that the people of SF were so nice and happy. She wondered how we could be so happy with the high prices of everything. I didn’t even know how to respond. I know nothing about prices except paying.
Sometimes I am so taken by some of the homes up here. The fancy ones are huge, beautiful, and always seem to be located with a body of water as their front view. I fantasize selling our home and buying one of these majestic homes as if they would make my life richer, and then I think again. If I pause for just one minute, it becomes obvious that my present home gives me all that I need, and that, having a bigger house, a bigger garden, more of anything is not going to change my life at all. Further, San Francisco is my home, not Seattle or Portland. But if you want to talk about Hawaii….well that’s another story. But for now….”Click your heels, Dorothy and repeat there’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”
We’ve stopped at Eugene Depot, elevation 428 feet, 123 miles from Portland and 610 miles from San Francisco. It is now 5:21 PM, and our dinner reservation is for 6:15. Our eating companion is an elderly man, even older than us, and that’s old. He makes for interesting dining, and he tells us the story of his life. I am amazed at one recounting: his solo bicycle journey from Banff to Los Angeles. That was just one of many stories. The most entertaining aspect was the impromptu guessing game. Roy had trouble remembering locations. He knew what was in his head, but couldn’t remember the name, so we had to guess. “Is it North or South of San Francisco. In the wine country? By the Russian River? Further East? Napa? Further North? Healdsburg? Santa Rosa? Santa Rosa it is.” I think I see my future, but my thing is names. So if I see you and don’t call you by name, give me a clue like it starts with R and rhymes with joy.
Added is the completed mask that I carved. It is a Northwest Indian Raven. I’m satisfied with the results. I have no immediate plans to start another project like that although I do want to carve a totem pole and defrwschest one day. The only question is when.
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