A Slow Train to Portland and Other Tales

TWO MONTHS SINCE MY LAST COMMUNIQUE

First, may I whine just a wee bit?  Cheryl tells me people read this silly bloggie-ness and I usually (and humbly) refute that notion.  So if you would, please post a very short comment on this blog or email me at rjm6311@sbcglobal.net.  No need for a literary critique, just tell me if you actually read this crap.  I need to know for budgetary purposes since I do get some Federal Redevelopment Agency money originally meant for that football stadium on the parking lot at Great America.  Sorry for the inconvenience.

CRUISIN' ON THE COAST STARLIGHT

We had originally planned to drive to Portland earlier this month, score a rent-a-wreck and head for (Rockin') Rockaway Beach, OR.  There, we would join our dear Arizona Moss Cuzzins, Mel and Jacquey, at a timeshare they secured on the Oregon Coast.  But on the drive up the SuperSlab (Interstate 5) from our annual Aunt Bessie birthday visit in Long Beach, the extended boredom got us thinking......we hate airports, so what about the train?!?  

Immediately, Cherie stepped into a nearby phone booth and emerged as Sooper Travel Consultant ready to kick some Amtrak ass and take names. Of course, everything was sold out except Coach which is potentially scary particularly for 17 hours.  After a few days of trying, sleeper compartments became available.  Pricing is in the "don't ask" bracket, but does include meals and some wine tasting.

Train stations do attract some unusual inhabitants, and I am not talking only about the passengers.  Martinez was no exception with a gentleman walking in and out of the building while intermittently spewing out some unintelligible shouting, something about Berkeley or Emeryville or something like that.   I guess he was unhappy with the arrival time of the train but according to the station agent he never goes anywhere.  The Coast Starlight chugged into Martinez two hours late, which is considered "on time" in the railroad world.  We were shown to our compartment which happened to be a handicap unit double the size of the regular "room".  It had its own potty right there sticking out into the center of the room and the expected hanging bunk bed arrangement.  No ladder, I just had to find a way up there.

The ascent was OK, but the descent for the first of several pee breaks was disastrous.  I missed the bottom step and stretched the hell outta my left leg.  But the room was pretty great when the beds became chairs in the morning.  We watched the countryside go by while reading, munching and enjoying a Coke Zero or two.  We brought our own Zero since Amtrak was the first in an endless succession of "is Pepsi OK?" responses to my drink order.  No it's not, actually.

Dining on a train is delightful despite the surly dining car staff.  A piece of paper with a buncha boxes to check was plunked down on the table with no explanation on how to select breakfast.  So we faked checking a few boxes.  When "Kyle" returned he looked at the cards and just tore them up and tossed them down on the table.  "No boxes!" he sniffed, then demanding our orders.  Seems the card was for him and we tragically ignored the rules and insulted the living shit outta him in the process.  We did finally get a very good brekkie, though, and enjoyed the company of a 12 year-old boy escorting his 97 year-old grandfather home from Los Angeles.  Talking with other passengers is a high point of train travel.  Blame it on Prednisone but Cheryl had to continually drag me kicking and screaming away from fascinating conversations with fellow travelers.

PORTLAND AND BEYOND

We enjoyed a short but entertaining break in Downtown Portland before pointing our Chevy Cruze (pretty good ride, I'll admit) to Tigard for breakfast with Aunt Mary in her retirement home's dining room.  Excellent, I'll add. Only Pepsi, however. Then it was off to the coast on a beautiful Friday during the long, long July Fourth Week.  Oregonians don't get a lot of nice weather so we shared Hwy. 26 with every resident of Greater Portland.  The two-lane route was choked with beach enthusiasts causing many dead-stop situations, some up to 20 minutes long.  We were both squeezing our legs together in agony, and the roadside bushes started looking very good to me.  Every time I started to exit the vehicle, the traffic miraculously started to move.  Go figger.

We reached the coast at Cannon Beach, facing a line waiting for a parking spot then a line out the door at Mo's Restaurant.  While waiting in that line, one is absolutely surrounded by what we know as moych-'n'-dizing in the truest, Disney-inspired sense.  There were shirts, hats, hoodies, scarves, umbrellas, cups, mugs, underwear......jeez, you name it.  You even had to navigate sunglass racks and a Mo's sandal display to get in for a much-needed whiz.

At any rate, we did arrive at the (1-bedroom) condo for a beautiful twilight after another start-stop journey south on 101.  Unfortunately, sometime during the night, my insulin pump took a proverbial dump.  Nothing the Animas tech could suggest outside of total, irreversible failure.  Like a dummy, I have become complacent and do not carry a conventional syringe-administered backup.   Mel, Jacquey, and Cheryl leapt into action while I sat, paralyzed with fear, in front of my frozen mass-produced bagel.  The excellent endochronologist on duty at Muir Medical group, Dr. Bressler, called in an Rx to Safeway in beautiful (not) Tillamook, and the problem was solved.  Thanks everyone.

THIS IS THE CALIFORNIA BLOG CONTROL ADMINISTRATION (CBCA) INFORMING ALL YOU UNFORTUNATE READERS THAT THIS BLOG HAS EXCEEDED THE WORD COUNT AND BOREDOM LEVEL ALLOWABLE IN THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA AND WILL BE TERMINATED.  YES, WE KNOW THIS IT DESCRIBES EVENTS HAPPENING IN THE CRUNCHY-GRANOLA STATE IMMEDIATELY TO OUR NORTH, BUT SINCE THE ACCOUNTS HEREIN DESCRIBED REFER TO INTERSTATE TRAVEL VIA AMTRAK WE HAVE CONVENIENTLY ALTERED THE RULES TO BENEFIT OUR OWN DASTARDLY NEEDS. AND THAT DOES MEAN WE ARE DASTARDS, AND DAMNED GOOD ONES AT THAT.  

SLOWLY EXIT THIS BLOG WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND NOBODY WILL GET HURT.  WE KNOW YOU CAN'T NAVIGATE TO FACEBOOK OR WHATEVER PATHETIC WEBSITE SUITS YOUR DISGUSTING FANTASIES WITHOUT USING YOUR HANDS, BUT THAT ISN'T OUR PROBLEM, IS IT NOW?  SO DEAL WITH IT....HEY, YOU IN THE BACK, GET THOSE HANDS UP BEFORE WE GET REALLY MAD AND COME BACK THERE AND SLAP YOU UPSIDE THE HEAD!  YEAH, YOU WITH THE FUNNY GLASSES AND FAKE GOUCHO MARX MOUSTACHE!

YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED, POORLY WRITTEN AND COMPLETELY INANE REGULAR BLOG MAY RETURN TOMORROW, BUT ONLY IF YOU'RE GOOD, AND CLEAN UP YOUR ROOM, AND STOP HITTING YOUR LITTLE BROTHER, AND, AND, AND.....