God Bless America!

Over the last 60 years, construction on the largest man-made structure in history was begun and now approaches completion while drawing only the smallest attention from mainstream media. This incredible structure stands astride an astounding area of 1.0577 x 10¹⁴ square feet! The actual height and capacity of this great building is not yet known because construction is not yet complete, but the marketing department insists that the breakthrough materials and methods used for construction of this massive monument will provide only the highest quality of life for all 305 million of its occupants.

Among the proudest innovations is a new “environmentally friendly” recycling technique which allows the girders used to support the lower, more foundational levels to be removed and “recycled” into the basic structural members of higher stories. Taking inspiration from the financial sector, this technique works on the principle of diverted load whereby the girders, pillars, and other needless structural elements of the building are encouraged to “delegate” so as to make better use of their precious time and energy. This clever maneuver allows for the “promotion” of certain elements which appear to be unnecessary to higher levels in the overall structure. Thus, a considerable percentage of construction materials used on the wide and once-sturdy base, can be relocated to a slightly smaller upper level; and the process repeats.

When asked about the emerging shape of his new creation, the chief architect—an American born failed-plumber, turned failed-financier, turned failed-politician, turned chief architect—suggested, “I prefer to think of the whole scheme as less of a pyramid and more of a dome.”

Regardless of the shape, the American’s “Dome” boasts other earth-shattering innovations as well. “I think I’m most proud of the new insulation system,” commented Zephyr Hindenburg, head of heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. “We have achieved a system which completely shuts out all external fluctuation and influence. This allows us to heat the air inside and then recirculate that same hot air throughout the entire building without having to worry about the various climates outside these walls.”

Mr. Hindenburg refused to comment on the massive proportion of world energy used to accomplish this anti-climatic miracle, but did direct us to his mistress who is the head of the marketing department: “We have brilliantly invested the resources of only a small majority of the world into this single monumental structure,” said a busty Candy Honeywell, clad in a see-through tank-top and cutoff low-rise silk thong with half of the corporate logo microscopically emblazoned on the remaining fabric, “and because of that we have become not only the world’s leading outsourcing economy of construction labor, but also the chief technological innovators in dome-based construction schemes. Once this incredible building is complete, we won’t have to rely on the world for other input, oversight, or perspective—only natural resources. At the same time, we will have solved such inter-domal environmental problems as global warming with the massive cooling towers we’ve located in the Canadian wilderness. Together with the coal-burning power plants we’re building in the South American rain-forests, (internal) climate issues will be a thing of the past. What a brave new world we live in!”

But most experts around the world are concerned about the massively-myopic-lens-shaped structure because the foundation is already showing signs of major structural instability. The engineers responsible for the construction process were unavailable for comment on account of being too far above the ground overseeing construction of the upper levels to come down to earth and see for themselves. Nonetheless, we expect the first radio wave transmission regarding this issue to reach them in the next week and hope that a response will soon follow. In the mean time, the building is functioning beyond expectations in other ways—specifically in shutting out the outside influences of said world-wide experts. And despite the looming structural issues, the building’s owners—the Chinese scrap metal companies which have financed the construction—maintain a very optimistic outlook.

Until the construction reaches it’s final point, the inhabitants of the great monument remain blissfully settled inside its comfortable accommodations. Having never learned to speak a language except English, the single-language system has worked wonders in allowing this society to build its way into elevated national security; surely, a tribute to their lasting greatness!

The New Reading

It's a well-respected virtue of educated society to be "well read." At the crux of this value is the "pleasure of allusion." When a vague reference to some ancient Greek hero or a madeleine is caught, there is a telepathic wink made between reader and writer. Obviously, the more you read—books of the right sort, that is—the more references you will recognize, increasing your pleasure of allusion… and the snowball of pretension goes barreling down the slope.

Being well read is also heralded for its liberal virtue of introducing new ideas and new perspectives. The premise here is that a person is incomplete to the degree which they haven't judged the ways and beliefs of others according to their own rational faculties. Thus, even if one goes around and around the library to ultimately find oneself back at their original ideological foundation, at least now it's "well grounded."

I suggest there is another sort of human experience which accomplishes the same thing as reading: traveling.

In a coffee shop yesterday, I saw on TV from the corner of my eye a building. It instantly and mysteriously grabbed my attention from other matters because I recognized this building! The volume was off and I didn't know what the program was about, but I knew it was about something familiar. A near-instantaneous process of memory began searching my archives of experience and presented me a picture. This picture-->    Flooded with memories of sights and sounds and sensations and adventures, I remembered my travels in Portland, Oregon. That is where I took this picture, a picture of the building that was just on the television. And now I know where this TV program was filmed. As it continued showing a coffee cup, sack of beans, and latte art, I know what it's about. Even more, I understand it because I know the coffee culture of the Pacific Northwest quite well. Fond memories of happy days! Caught from a peripheral image of a place long left: The pleasure of allusion.

Along with the familiar places, a traveler reads foreign ideas. People in other places simply do things differently. Not all are created equal nor worthy of adoption by every wayfarer who wanders them by, but these concepts mid-westerners find so strange start to take a new form when considered in their native environment. I still sit sandaled sans-socks, but on cold and wet October mornings in Seattle, I admit that my toes were happy to wear SmartWool secured with straps.

So it seems we value traveling for the very same reasons we value reading: Each stretches us beyond our confines, broadens our horizons, and in the end, gives us something of which only we will ever know its value. T. S. Eliot said it so well: "The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

So a telepathic wink I send to you, dear reader:

Features of Habit

It's amazing to me how much of life is directed by habit!

I have a lot of flexibility in my schedule—being self employed—so I am acutely aware of and masochistically guilt-ridden by how unproductive I can be. It goes deeper than that, however. Since moving out of my parents house, I have been my own man. I do what I want when I want. My life is ruled by my desires.

A great example of this is with food. I always eat exactly what seems most desirable to me at that moment. When faced with the perennial question, "Where should we eat lunch?" I quickly take stock of my mood and my options, then choose exactly the dish that will best suit my fancy. (In my mind: a restaurant = my favorite dish there) Missing from this description is any outside will. I might capitulate slightly to a friend who strongly prefers a certain place, but even then, only if I have good reason to think that location will satisfy my momentary urges. But all in all, every culinary experience is preceded by this internal taking-of-stock of the whims of that moment.

I thought this was where it ended. I thought that I was just rather picky and self-centered and that I wanted what I wanted, every time. Recent experiments have modified this perception.

I have recently started a self-directed program I am calling "A Week Without." In this experiment, I choose a certain feature of my life's experience and simply go without it for a week. The purpose of this exercise is to challenge the behavior directed by my desires and hopefully grow as a person. What I have discovered is that there is force behind my desires: habit.

Let's continue the example of eating. Almost without exception, following a meal, I wanted something sweet to finish it off. This is the "dessert" my health-teacher mother never let me have as a child. (Since moving out, I've hardly missed an opportunity.) I didn't think this was that complex. I finished dinner; I want dessert. But after further reflection, I noticed some other patterns behind this. After what was generally a salty dinner, I wanted something sweet. Then after something sweet, I would often want something salty again—to be followed again by the urge for something sweet. (This is a viciously American cycle, I'm afraid.) There was a recurring pattern of post-salty desire for sweet, and post-sweet desire for salty.

Enter: A Week Without. I decided to take a week without sugar. Even more, I wanted a week without anything sweet! This meant no artificial sweetner: no Splenda, no Nutra-Sweet, no polysyntheticsianoacrisugarate. Take it a step further: no natural sugar either. Nothing that tastes sweet. It was one of the hardest weeks of my life!

It was one of the most enlightening weeks of my life! I made it. I did a whole week without anything sweet and I learned several important lessons: First of all, sugar is everywhere! It is really hard to find a weeks worth of food that doesn't include sweet morsels—especially in the bachelor's lifestyle—but it is possible. Second, I learned that some foods are very sweet which I never noticed, like bananas and beer and Saint Louis City water (ok, maybe I was a little delirious).

I also learned that behind my momentary culinary cravings were years of accumulated habits—in particular, this salty/sweet pattern. I had never before stopped to ask myself, "Why do I want that bowl of ice cream?" or "Why do I want that candy bar?" The craving goes back further than just a desire, it goes back to habit. In the last 10 years, I've built the habit of alternating between the two. When I took a week to break the cycle, I found that I didn't want sweet things any more. At the start, I expected to finish my Week Without on the couch with a half-gallon of ice cream, a spoon, and no bowl. The opposite happened. I went more than a week without. Day 8 was sans-sugar. So was day 9. I just didn't want it very badly, and the experiment was more interesting to continue than re-establishing my high-caloric carbohydrate intake.

By Day 10, I started back in with sugar in my coffee (coffee without sugar was really tough!), but not my usual dose of 4-packs-per-six-ounce-cup. I took a single pack-per-cup and it was really sweet! Almost too sweet. Since this experiment, I've gone back to eating sweet foods, but to this day, I don't have but 1/10 the amount of sugar I used to; and I don't miss it. I don't desire it. I don't crave it.

My desires were shaped by the habits I had built, and this week taught me that overcoming those desires was mostly an issue of breaking the habits. I think this is true across the board. Our lives are determined by our habits in great degree! Why is it hard to wake up early? Habit. Why don't I read more? Habit. Why do I waste so much time on the computer? Habit. Why are my social interactions always the same? Habit.

Therefore, I'm continuing my Week Without programs and applying it across the board. I've done a Week Without Music and a Week Without Video. I'm currently in the middle of a Week Without Skipping a Workout (with only moderate success. This may take a few tries.). Each one tells me more about myself and works wonders for growing as a person. And what's behind each of these behaviors that I wish would change is some deep-seated long-standing habit. Want to change a behavior? Challenge the habit.

POSTSCRIPT:  On a side-note, a side effect that I've found from my Weeks Without is that, depending on what I'm going without, it often feels like traveling. When you take a vacation, the whole idea is to get away from your normal routine. A Week Without gets you away from your routine. For example, when I did a Week Without Video, I had all this extra time. It was time I couldn't while away with movies or TV (by self-determined fiat), so I had to find other ways to relax. I read more. I went out more. I called old friends. I explored things around my city that I always wanted to, but never took the time. I went to the Art Museum. I drove through unexplored neighborhoods. I walked around my neighborhood for entertainment. And it all felt new and adventurous, like I was a stranger in this new land.

My! How much we miss when shackled to our own habits!

Metaphorically Doing Nothing

I am reading an absolutely captivating book (for the linguistic nerds) called Metaphors We Live By, written by Lakoff and Johnson. The insights gained from a careful examination of how we use language are legion! Language both represents what we believe and shapes how we think. As an example, here is an excerpt:

In viewing labor as a kind of activity, the metaphor assumes that labor can be clearly identified and distinguished from things that are not labor. It makes the assumptions that we can tell work from play and productive activity from nonproductive activity. These assumptions obviously fail to fit reality much of the time, except perhaps on assembly lines, chain gangs, etc. The view of labor as merely a kind of activity, independent of who performs it, how he experiences it, and what it means in his life, hides the issues of whether the work is personally meaningful, satisfying, and humane.

The quantification of labor in terms of time, together with the view of time as serving a purposeful end, induces a notion of LEISURE TIME, which is parallel to the concept LABOR TIME. In a society like ours, where inactivity is not considered a purposeful end, a whole industry devoted to leisure activity has evolved. As a result, LEISURE TIME becomes a resource too—to be spent productively, used wisely, saved up, budgeted, wasted, lost, etc. What is hidden by the RESOURCE metaphors for labor and time is the way our concepts of LABOR and TIME affect our concept of LEISURE, turning it into something remarkably like LABOR.

Pistols at Dawn!

A Couchsurfing friend recently emailed me asking for a place to stay for the weekend. When I saw that she was a freelance writer by trade, I challenged her to a duel: My city vs. Hers in prose of 500 words. What follows is after twenty paces, turn, and fire!

Gateway to Saint Louis

Once positioned third behind New York and Chicago as one of America’s greatest cities,¹ the tragic decline of Saint Louis in the 1960s and its recent re-emergence have reforged this since-forgotten jewel of America’s heartland. In its wake, the renewal of Saint Louis has left a legacy of rich history, vibrant society, and utterly breathtaking architecture.

Striking to the eye, Saint Louis presents an architectural richness which eastern cities like Boston and Philadelphia covet and western cities left behind. Neighborhood after neighborhood parades elegant Victorian Tudor brick homes whether housing the social elites or common Joes. The streets are filled with green and the city boasts the country’s second largest city park, Forest Park, which is home to world-class art and history museums, an award winning zoo, and science center—all of which are free and open to the public. For 8 months in 1904, Forest Park was the focus of the entire world as the Louisiana Purchase Exposition (a.k.a. “World’s Fair”) showcased the finest creations of mankind’s genius, be it architectural, technological, social, or artistic. The remnants of that magical era are still accessible today for the inquisitive visitor ready to be transported to where and when “The American Century” began.

Modern-day Saint Louis charms unsuspecting travelers with neighborhoods brimming with character and boiling with a vibrant social life. A myriad of fine restaurants line the main streets and out-of-the-way spots in each of Saint Louis’ unique neighborhoods. The Loft District of Washington Avenue sports a trendy strip of bars, clubs, and avant-guard restaurants among the historic buildings of the turn-of-the-century Garment District. The City Museum is just around the corner and defies all explanation but guarantees an unbelievable time! The Loop in University City is another sure-stop for any would-be visitor. This strip—named “One of the 10 Great Streets in America” by the American Planning Association—nourishes an eclectic mix of artistry, society, and history. Grab a root beer from Fitz’s and a table on the sidewalk and be ready to meet some friendly, loquacious passers-by. Or catch a concert across the street in Blueberry Hill’s Duck Room—the very place that Chuck Berry invented Rock and Roll and still performs every month.

No comment on Saint Louis can ignore its most significant visual feature: The Gateway Arch, commemorating the role this city played as the last enclave of civilization before a pioneer reached the Wild West. Saint Louis was the hub of westward expansion linking the old civilizations of the East coast to the new frontiers in the West. This legacy is breathtakingly commemorated in the Arch, an elegant historic form cast in modern stainless steel, which stands at 630 feet to greet all travelers as they cross the Mighty Mississippi. The Arch stands therefore not just as a gateway between East and West, but like Saint Louis itself, a bridge between our past and the bright future.

¹ Jacobs, Jane. The Death and Life of Great American Cities. 1961

Paying Attention

Walking home one rainy night in Hollywood, I took this sad picture on the front steps of a local church...






The very next night, I took this picture...

Hollywood To-Do List

Tourist things to do while in Hollywood:
- See the famous Hollywood sign
- Photograph a movie star against their will
- Tour a movie studio
- Write a screenplay
- Go on strike
- Get plastic surgery
- Buy some REALLY big sunglasses
- Carve my name into a blank star on the Walk of Fame
- Flake on plans with friends
- Hand prints in cement
- Buy a white Bronco; Drive it down the freeway
- Witness and/or participate in a drive-by
- Buy a house; watch it burn
- Go insane; cuss at the wind incessantly
- Convert to Scientology

The Art of Travel

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Having been a typical American, I think I can speak on behalf of the general population and say that we've lost the art of travel. Travel has become anything but. Like so many things American, the goal is to get it over with as quickly and unobtrusively as possible so that we can continue whatever myriad events populate our calendars. At best it's an interruption to the rest of what's important. At worst, we bring along the tools of our to-do list and travel time becomes "productive" time. I'm all for not wasting time--vehemently so! Instead, I'm suggesting that a new value be placed on the actual act of traveling.

Passenger train cars are studded with large picture windows along both sides. My recent 18-hour trip down the Oregon-California rails afforded me plenty of time to enjoy its displays. I didn't realize this until recently, but I think it's probably been about twelve years since I've sat and looked out the window of a moving vehicle. I've always been the driver--so of course I'm looking out the windows, but offensively and defensively. When you're a traveling passenger, you have the chance to look passively, and that makes all the difference. Even if the landscape is made of all familiar elements, something about their constant coming and going is hypnotic. I whiled away hours "seeing the world" out the window.

When day turned to night, the entertainment had to be found inside the train. Unlike an airplane where your interior movement is quite restricted, a train is a world of its own inviting exploration... Alright, it's more like a horizontal building all its own, but it's fun. Waiting for discovery on this trip were the dining car ("Reservations, please."), the cafe car, the observation car, and a long string of passenger cars.

The passenger cars were the setting for an interesting quest--the quest for a power outlet. You have strange needs while traveling. They're often basic needs you take for granted. At this moment, I needed a power outlet. At other times, the need is for a bathroom, or directions, or an all-night Starbucks. But now, I needed an outlet. I wouldn't have died if I didn't get one, but to do what I wanted, this is what I needed. When your traveling (as opposed to commuting or just going somewhere), you have the option to allow your thwarted needs to be an adventure and not a problem. I think this choice is largely what makes you a traveler instead of just a commuter. Then overcoming the problem is what makes "getting there half the fun."

This train, unlike those of previous travels, had electrical outlets in very short supply. Without an electrical outlet, my dear GPS device would not last through the night. It probably would have lost the scent about half-way through. Upon inquiring with the conductor (in his funny little hat--always a crowd pleaser), he said there was only one on the whole train. It was in the cafe car, and he had claimed it. I soon found it with his cell phone hoarding the precious electrons.

Upon further questing, I found that there was another behind the counter of the cafe bar, but alas, it was out of reach for a lowly passenger wanting to string a cord across the aisle. Refusing to believe this apparent state of affairs, I continued searching. It payed off when I discovered that there was exactly one outlet in every passenger car and mixed among the seats. Very accessible... for the person in that seat. Unfortunately, I was assigned another. On a train, the assigned seats are really more like a suggestion, so after making new friends with a socket squatter, I draped my cord along the wall and stated recharging. Problem solved. But after a little more roaming, I found an empty seat immediately adjacent to the plug in another car. Even better. I immediately staked my claim.

When the female conductor approached me a few moment later, I found out that this car was meant to be used by passengers getting on the train further down the line. But this obstacle was nothing a little sweet talking couldn't overcome. After making another new friend, also in a funny hat, I camped there over night, logging GPS coordinates all the way.

I woke up in Sacramento. Full battery. Breakfast was a disappointing 1000 calorie synthetic cinnamon roll I would regret very soon after. Not to be impaired, I relaxed in the observation car and took in the scenery for the rest of the trip and eavesdropped in on nearby conversations, all the while tracking our progress with the electronic breadcrumb trail in my pocket. It was a good thing, because when I noticed my position dot dangerously close to my destination dot, I scrambled to gather up my possessions strewn about. Packed and on my back, I hauled my bag and myself off the train to meet our destination--this adventure over for the time being, and on to another.

When not lost among "the rest of life,"¹ travel itself becomes an event of note. In times past, the single most defining experience of an entire lifetime may have been crossing a country, continent or ocean. In our time, familiarity has bread a lack of familiarity--some may even say a professional detachment. But I remain convinced that the art of travel is an option left open to anyone willing to embrace the adventure as one.


1 And by that, I mean exactly the opposite: "the business of life"²
2 If you read that phrase as anything other than "busy-ness," then you're not getting the clever word-play or the point!

Post-Portland Pondering

During my whole time in Portland, I was trying to get a handle on the identity of the city. Normally, when I've gone to cities before, you have a sense for the attitude of the city at large. For example, Seattle very much still has a grunge attitude along with a coffee-drinking, bookstore-frequenting, software-writing kind of vibe. Vancouver has a cosmopolitan Canadian vibe: "eh"-saying, late-'90s-fashion-wearing, pedestrian-walking, downtown-living.

Portland is a problem. There's not a whole lot of vibe to Portland. Nevertheless, by the end of this post, I'm going to attempt it. But before then, an observation: to an outsider, Portland is billed on two things: 1.) Being a particularly "livable" city (although no one really knows what that means), and 2.) Having a world-class mass transit system. After spending more than two weeks living there, I have concluded that Portland is billed on those points because that's all there is to bill.

This is not necessarily a slight to the city, however. Probably one of the things that makes Portland so livable is the lack of tourists. But, there's really not a lot for a visitor to do. You can tour the Portland underground (made famous by such TV networks as the History Channel, Discover Channel, E!, etc.)... or you can go down in your basement with a flashlight and tell ghost stories. They will both provide the same effect--the latter being notable cheaper an less likely to incur the wrath of more conservative historians who question the "historical" stories told about the shanghai underground.

The only other thing for a tourist to really do is ride and marvel at the Portland mass transit system. If you've been to another major city before coming to Portland, this experience will feel a lot like riding a bus. A slight exception should be made for the MAX (Metropolitan Area Express). This feels a bit more like riding a European train because it's on rails. Put together, the bus system and the MAX (which includes an impressively long ride through a tunnel under Forest Park) make up Portland's famous mass transit system.

As nice as that sounds, imagine my frustration when, immediately upon arriving in Portland, I found that the public transit system couldn't take me to where I was staying. The house was well within Portland's urban growth boundary, but almost a 3 mile walk from the nearest public transit stop (only 1 mile if I left the house at 7am). Thankfully, my kind hosts had planned to pick me up.

Herein lies one of Portland's most redeeming qualities: I found the people there to be unusually kind. I suppose they are famous for this as well, but it's harder to point at. Every single person I met, whether staying with them, purchasing from them, walking past them in the park or sharing a meal together, was impressively personable and polite. I think this is somewhat common in the Pacific Northwest, but Portland all the more so.

If I had to describe the general vibe I get from Portlanders, it would probably be such: they're easy-going, MAX-riding, home-beer-brewing, direction-giving, city-walking, Sunday-hiking, fleece-wearing, sleeping-in, outdoorsy types.

Now, unless you think I didn't like the city, let me say for the record that Portland is a unique, beautiful, and... nice city. Don't expect a tourist spot. Don't expect deep history. If you're looking for a nice, affordable place on the West Coast to settle down, this might be it.

Overall, Portland is a nice place to live, but I wouldn't want to visit there.

What I Was Missing

I can hardly stand this! There are likely only a few travel experiences so amazing as traveling by train through the Pacific Northwest at the peak of Fall. I'm in awe. It's unbelievable!

There goes another river. We crossed over an old school truss bridge. Mountains off to the left. No wait--mountains off to the right. Wait, now it's the waters of Puget Sound. The sun is poking through the mildly cloudy skies to light them up like aerial fire. Now we're traveling through a valley--the very bottom--along a creek filled with yellow leaves and lily pads. We just crossed the creek. Now it's on the right. Evergreen trees mix in with the fall colors on the far bank. Off to the left again, we have rolling mountains of green, gold and bright red. This next hill is a brilliant green pasture with the perfectly quaint little farmhouse on top, surrounded by fence and horses. A little farther along is a run down old barn. It's perfect for this setting. The distant mountains off to the right make a silhouette against the now explosive sun-cloud canvas. Now they're all gone. I can't see a single thing. But the hum and clatter of the train's motion is much stronger. We're in a tunnel and the world is taken away in a blink. Then bright light, brilliant yellows and green pines again. A voice comes over the line, “Ladies and Gentlemen, as we rocket out of the Rocky Point Tunnel, I'm pleased to announce our arrival into Kelso/Longview. For those of you leaving us here, we'll open the doors between cars number 1 & 2 and cars number 5 & 6.” With a graceful deceleration and stop along with an audible sigh from brakes, the train comes to a total stop. There's not a single sound. It is deadly quiet. Less than a minute passes. If you weren't looking out the window, you wouldn't even know we started moving again. It is still silent. A train whistle. Clack... ... Clack... ... Clack...clack... ... Clack...clack... ClaClack... ClaClack... Clack-A-Clack... Clack-A-Clack... We're moving again.

Inside the train car, I'm sprawled across four seats. They're in pairs facing each other with a table in between. Spanning across the entire table are my travel amenities: my newly acquired laptop, day bag, half a dozen other electronic gadgets and an empty Black Butte Porter beer bottle I bought (when it still had beer in it) from the bistro car. They don't call it a “dining car”. The “in-flight” movie just ended. Evan Almighty (seen it). I might not even realize I wasn't sitting in my own living room if it weren't for the motion of the picture windows on all sides (now showcasing a 150 foot shear rock cliff on the left and a golden sunset over a creek and wetlands to the right). We just crossed over another creek atop another historic train truss bridge.

The train is due in to Portland in an hour and I can't tell you how sad that makes me. How unusual it is to not want the journey to end! It's strange to think that what I thought would be only an interlude in my travel experiences has proven to be such a highlight. This is by far, the most pleasant trip I've had! I can't believe more people (in this country) don't ride trains! Of course, if they did, I would have to share my four-seater living room.

We're crossing a highway now. I can't help but look at the diamond headlights and ruby taillights with a bit of contempt. Do they know what they're missing? As they're running around from place to place, strapped in behind the wheel, I'm lounging with my feet up and shoes off. But then again, before this week, I knew little other than that. I never considered taking a train. Why would I? I had a car. I flew in airplanes. And I will do those again. But one thing won't happen again--I will never again sit behind the wheel at a train crossing, waiting impatiently, so I can get on my way without feeling at least a twinge of jealousy for the lucky travelers riding in style. And when I hear the sound of that train whistle through the air, it will take me back to these fond Fall days of tracking across the Pacific Northwest.

Rails Over Roads

The elegance of the rails is alive and well! I needed a ticket from Vancouver back to Seattle (on my way to Portland). It was about $3 more than a bus ticket and even though the train is only now pulling away from the station, it's been worth every penny.

There is a romantic allure to train travel that you simply don't have with plane, bus. or car travel. Maybe it's the bell I can still hear ringing; maybe it's the gentle sway of the double-decker car as it picks up speed; maybe it's the 25% occupancy leaving most seats empty for me to stretch out or the ~3 feet of legroom I have (no joke!); maybe it's the couple making out in front of me; or maybe it's the sun setting over the ocean shore where brilliant fall colored trees descend the mountains. Maybe it's all of this. But the experience as a whole is nearly enough to swear off plane travel entirely.

Ahh! There's the train whistle... And the familiar Ding Ding Ding Ding of the crossing signal as all the cars on the road stop for me. It is grand. It is magnanimous!

Here comes the ticket officer. I disappointed that he isn't wearing the funny little hat, but he's quirky and funny enough to make up for it. He says the customs officer will be through in an hour. Maybe he'll be the one pushing the perfectly-aisle-sized cart with beverage and pretzels. Or I suppose I could just walk to the dining car. There is no "Fasten Seat Belt" sign on a train.

Ahah! There's the conductor with the little hat. He seems to be just chatting with passengers. And that thunderous sound was a sister train going north on the adjacent track.

There's the whistle again. One positive side effect to travel by train is that, since you're still on the ground, you get to see a fair bit of the surroundings. We just drove (trained? rolled? tracked?) past the Paramount movie studio lots. Vancouver is known as Little Hollywood. Apparently, it is often much cheaper to film movies in Vancouver (before the dollar sank). "The Fantastic Four" was largely filmed here. I even ran across a film crew with their cranes and cameras and trailers while walking the streets of Vancouver's Gastown.

The only other time I've covered so many kilometers by rail was in Eastern Europe. This experience is much different here--it's North Americanized. Everyone has their own luxurious separate spaces, all facing forwards. In Eastern Europe, the train cars had separate little cabins with six seats each--three facing forward, three backward. So you're staring someone in the eyes the whole ride. There were no arm rests and chances were good that you would have the head of the smelly Russian next to you in your lap after twenty minutes.

Getting up for a stroll yielded some fine results. The dining car had good food for rather little money. People were sprawled out on the U shaped booths on each side of the car, taking advantage of the lack of passengers. Downstairs, the bathrooms were spacious and cleverly laid out. The drinking fountain came with cups. It's a smart little world in here.

Well, after the most enjoyable transit experience of my life, We roll into the station. I'm reminded a bygone era of turn-of-the-century elegance as the tracks back into the ornate historic station. The heyday of the railway has seen its end, but the end of the line on this rail trip has me on track for its elegance again soon.

Intermediate Impressions: Vancouver

When I first pulled in to Vancouver on that rainy evening and looked out over the city, I was struck by a very different looking skyline. I had heard that Vancouver was a very modern city and expected something like a small New York. But I was disappointed. The skyline looked... wrong. I've since figured it out. Unlike most American, or even European skylines, the Vancouver skyline is dominated by residential high rises. So it has a very different feel to it. Combine that with the local ordinance limiting the height of downtown skyscrapers to protect the view of yonder mountains, and it makes for an unexpected cityscape.

Adding to the unexpectedness of Vancouver's appearance, but in an entirely pleasant way, is the natural beauty of this city. (Seattle shares this in common.) Vancouver is surrounded by mountains in the distance, flanked with trees in the nearness, and boasts beaches and bays in between. Parks are everywhere--large parks, right by/in downtown (which is impressive given the ridiculous real estate prices here). Stanley Park is even Vancouver's biggest attraction.

The parks are one obvious example of Vancouver being a pedestrian oriented city. Not being in the US, they don't suffer the affliction here of assuming everyone has a car and wants to drive it everywhere they go. So Vancouver is very much designed around the walking person. Many streets (outside of downtown) only fit one car, after the nearby residents park on the street, because Canadian studies have shown that pedestrians feel better about crossing streets below a certain width. They also don't like to cross driveways, so you won't find any here.

Since they're not driving, you won't find any Drive-Thrus, either. All the shops a neighborhood needs--because each neighborhood has its own local everything--are storefronts along the commercial district. They don't quite have the charm of European shoppes, but are leaps and bounds beyond the American plague of strip malls.

What minimal driving there is brings with it some interesting quirks. First of all, gas only costs about a dollar. But, mind you, that's a Canadian Dollar (which I can't believe is worth more than the US Dollar, about $1.03!), and it's buying only a litre. Do the math. It hurts.

The interplay between pedestrian and automobile is also curious for Americans. For one, pedestrians will jump right out in front of oncoming traffic. What's even stranger is that the cars always stop, let them cross and carry on like it's normal... because it is. If a driver is going through a traffic light, he or she is likely to find it more than just green, but blinking green. In other parts of Canada, this means a protected turn signal, but here in Vancouver it means that the light is pedestrian controlled and at any moment, you may have a pedestrian changing the light to "amber" before you must stop at a red light to let them cross.

Whether pedestrian or behind the wheel, there is really no guarantee what the Vancouverite will look like. This must be one of the most heterogeneous populations I've seen. The city is at least half filled with non-Caucasian Canadians, most of whom are Asian. Thus, Vancouver boasts the third largest Chinatown in North America, and arguably, the most authentic.

Regardless of their ethnicity, Vancouverites currently all share a very smelly problem: the garbage service for the city has been on strike for months. Consequently, since they're such nice Canadians, many other public services have gone on strike in sympathy. So the libraries are closed and many other city offices. But cross your fingers, because this week's vote may bring the long strike to a much anticipated end.

As a final thought, among the charming peculiarities that distinguish this nearby neighbour sharply from her southern counterparts, I have to say I particularly miss American bookstores. In Vancouver, they don't put chairs in their bookstores. Can you believe it? They expect you to come in, buy your book, and leave. Even if there's a Starbucks attached (yes, they're en force here!), the signs and scanners prevent you taking an unpurchased book to your table as you sip a latte. So while huddled on the floor of the "Cultural Studies" isle, I stumbled upon the insightful commentary below from a new book about the TV show, "The Simpsons." Coincedentally, the author makes deliberate note of the show's Canadian writers along with some generally insightful comments:

"I have to say that Canadians tend to be a good deal more introspective and self-effacing than Americans, much slower than their southern neighbors to celebrate their triumphs and much quicker to expose their flaws. This is a disposition, note, that is ripe for the development of satire. Another fundamental difference is that many Americans believe--are in fact raised to believe--that everyone else in the world lives like they do, or else wants to live like they do, and that the American way of life is compelling to pretty much everyone. Whereas Canadians are raised with the absolute certainty that not even their closest neighbours live like they do, nor want to, and that their way of life is not even particularly compelling to those neighbours. America's enormous global influence--politically and economically as well as culturally--and Canada's comparative invisibility confirm these beliefs to some degree. America sees itself everywhere, Canada almost nowhere. The former thus develops a highly insular and inwardly focused culture, the latter an obsessively outward-looking culture. And the place Canadians most often gaze out upon is their big, brash next-door neighbour. This has provided Canada with a point of view utterly unique in the world: Canadians are by nature and circumstance experts in American studies, nearly as well versed as Americans themselves in the society and culture of the United States, able to identify every cultural referent, able indeed to pass for Americans--to produce pop culture that an American audience frequently mistakes for its own. Canadians almost instinctively get American culture, but at the same time they are profoundly aware that they are not entirely of it. And this allows Canadians to be critical of it with a degree of detachment impossible for an American, even as their privileged point of view ensures that their criticisms ring true."

No One Travels Alone

As I was putting my travel plans into motion, many people asked if I was going to travel by myself. I didn't know anyone who could or would allow such a big interuption to life's plans on someone else's timetable, so my answer was yes. I planned to hit the road on my own.

But there's something about the culture of travel that opens people up to each other in a way that's sadly missing in everyday life. I don't even mean between two travelers--even locals seem to sympathetically open up when they hear the other is on the road. Maybe it's the fact that everyone misses the people they left behind, or the reality of loneliness is much less denied, but the barriers between people are much thinner when one's on the road.

What this has meant to me is that, so far I have enjoyed the remarkable kindness of some phenomenal people! I am staying with two people who are unspeakably gracious. Not only have they welcomed me into their house and given me a place to stay (at no cost), but they've shared their food, shown me around and become friends. Also a new friend is another fellow couch surfer they had staying with them. Steven and I have adventured around and beyond the city, sipped coffee and talked about important things in life.

Then there is David and his wife Michelle, whom, after a chance meeting literally on the side of the road, became friends and showed remarkable kindness and hospitality. Add to all this quite a number of other new friends with whom I can enjoy a night out. Then combine all this with the small world bringing in St. Louis friends for a conference last week and local college buddies I hope to meet up with soon. It's enough to convince me that no one travels alone. So for anyone keeping track, my answer now is, "No, I'm not traveling alone; I'm meeting my friends along the way."

First Impressions: Seattle

It's exactly like you imagine!

There really are bookstores everywhere. There really are coffee shops on every corner--but only half of them are Starbucks. I don't think I've seen the sun since I arrived. This hour is the first which hasn't rained, or at least drizzled. People really do wear socks with their sandals, and interestingly, coats with their shorts. A fleece and hiking boots seems to be the standard uniform around these parts.

My favorite is when all this comes together to form the quintessential Seattleite: hiking boots, tall wool socks, bare legs, khaki shorts, REI fleece vest over a long sleeve Banana Republic t-shirt, wearing a loose baseball hat advertising no baseball team he bought at Nordstrom's, with an umbrella in one hand and with the other, conscientiously throwing his Starbucks cup in the nearest recycling bin on his way out of the boutique bookstore where he had a meeting with his publisher as he heads for a hike in the nearby woodlands. The temperature is going up to 60 tomorrow, so he's going kayaking. When do these people get any work done?

There are a few things I am surprised at, however. Maybe it's the weather or the fallout from acid trips during the Grunge heydays of the 90's, but I didn't expect the large numbers of crazy people (many in their late 20's or early 30's) on the city streets begging money for beer and ice cream or trying to sell you used batteries.

At any rate, so far Seattle is a delight and the perfect place to begin my journey. Yes, the wind blowing in off the sound is chilly and rainy, but it's such a sensory experience that I find the best thing to do is savor it. What a rich feeling it is to have the cold fingers of raindrops gently brushing your face under the tree canopied city canyons. And the cold makes the caramel apple cider all the more satisfying as you recline inside and open a good book. Better make it a Venti.

A Tribute to the Saints

Since moving out of my parents' house, the longest I've lived anywhere is 14 months--but that was before I came to Saint Louis. I have to say that I'm a bit of a restless spirit. I can't stay in any one place too long. I need to find something new, and particularly, something unknown. The side effect to this is that I've gotten pretty good at leaving--but that was before I came to Saint Louis.

Saint Louis had the distinction of being the largest city I've lived in to this point, but as my friend Bob says, Saint Louis is the largest small town you'll ever find. The city may sprawl broadly between the rivers and beyond, but that distance did nothing to separate the fine people I found there.

In the three years I spent and everything I did while there, the greatest mark was left by these disparate people. The California Kodatts really brought me there, found me a job, and were almost my only friends in the city for a time. The Roberts were my local family (among whom I even looked the part: "Is this Noah? My how you've grown!") with an endlessly welcoming Sunday table. The Journey became my home and revealed the rich, subsurface Saint Louis dimension with far too many good friends to name, but here are just a few: the brilliant compassion, surprising insight and silly British vocabulary of Peter; Bob's much cherished conversation, hikes, wine, free legal advice, and multi-faceted friendship; and Rebecca whom, among everything, I appreciate simply for who she is.

Saint Louis surprised me with her charm, but took me in with her people--especially the people who took me in. I left very dear friends when I left the McIntoshes' house. Cora is indubitably the sweetest and most darling little girl this city has ever seen! Ashley has crafted and welcomed me into the warmest southern home to be found in all the Midwest (and is a cook to die for!). And Jonathan, with the many fitting descriptions at hand, I describe most simply and most profoundly as my friend.

Other parts of this country have their charms and appeal, as I'm starting to see, but Saint Louis rightly sits in the prime of the heartland. It's not a description of geography though, at least not in my mind. With the dear friends whom I have, for the moment, left behind, when I think of home, Saint Louis is where my heart is.