California Zephyr
Re: Where is Taylor Sirard?
When we were approaching a stop the conductor would announce whether we had time to get off or not. If we did have time the smoking group and anyone getting off for good would gather near the train doors, anticipating our arrival at the station.
At one such gathering, a tall middle-aged man with a cowboy hat and a guitar case was chatting about reuniting with his daughter after three years. There was genuine love-fuelled excitement in his eyes. His smile made it to the wrinkles near his temples. He had not a wide-eyed excitement, but one with a hint of something else pinched between his brow. Held in the crease in the middle of his forehead was disbelief, or maybe worry.
When the train finally stopped, we all got off. He chatted with us while he was waiting for his daughter. They had been separated by work and financial circumstances. He had to take care of the family ranch, and she had moved away. Both had been too poor to afford a visit. But he finally wrapped up his work and saved enough money for a train ticket. He left everything to move to where his daughter was.
The length of our stop had passed, and we queued up in response to the "All aboard!" call. We said goodbye to the cowboy and expressed our excitement for him. Just before I stepped on the train, it happened. He turned around to see his daughter approaching. She was just older than me. He dropped everything he carried to hug her and both of her arms reached up and around his neck. I cried.
It was the moments like that and meeting Jake the meatloaf enthusiast, that made me happy I chose coach over a sleeper car. Although I didn't have the whole row to myself the second night, I slept just fine in my reclined seat.
I awoke the third and final morning into a brutally Midwest terrain. Flatland, cornfields, downtowns made up of rectangular, brick buildings. The structures were falling apart, but not yet decayed. It was just after winter and it appeared as though the saturation had been turned down. Trees were bare except for the dull green pine needles. A dry, nutty-colored grass covered the yards. Even the houses were grey or white with tan roofs.
It was something I had never noticed before, growing up in that environment. I remembered my conversation with Jake about Midwesterners. I wondered, does the environment reflect the mindset or the mindset reflect the environment?
For the rest of the ride, I mostly kept to myself. Even without hearing the announcement, it was obvious when we reached our last stop in Chicago. Everything and everyone on the train began to shuffle. People shared gratitudes for time spent, guitars strummed, and card games played.
I took a final look back at the train, thanking it more than any one passenger or crew. The California Zephyr had carried me across the country with much more ease than I had experienced in all of my travels.
This patch of the road begins in Northern California. After a blurry three day shot from the towering red rocks in Sedona (and the unexpected parting from my RV), I landed at my sister's apartment in the equally towering hills of the Outer Sunset neighborhood of San Francisco. I was on a mission to make my way to Michigan, then drive a moving truck of her belongings back to the West Coast. For my journey eastward, I opted for a train ride. The California Zephyr.
I ordered a Lyft two hours before my departure, allowing ample time for traffic and navigating the station. The only other time I rode a train was a short trip from Grand Rapids, Michigan to Chicago for an art class field trip. I was imagining a large and busy building like the Chicago Union Station.
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I ordered a Lyft two hours before my departure, allowing ample time for traffic and navigating the station. The only other time I rode a train was a short trip from Grand Rapids, Michigan to Chicago for an art class field trip. I was imagining a large and busy building like the Chicago Union Station.
Across the bay from San Francisco, Emeryville was slight in comparison. It comprised of one small open room with about one hundred seats, a ticket booth with four windows, and a small coffee and snack stand. There was nothing to navigate, as all of the trains were boarded from one platform outside of the station. Not many people were waiting in the lobby. After my week of rushed travel, it was a relief.
With plenty of time for me to leave and come back, I turned out of the station and walked around the block. The local scenery was a highway underpass, tall office buildings, a gas station, and a loud construction site. There were no nearby cafes to bide my time, so I sat on a sidewalk bench and played my guitar. The apparent busking must have been bizarre for business people on their way to work. I sang anyway, content to be free of everything but a backpack and a small guitar.
Eventually, I made my way back to the station. The lobby had become more lively in my absence. There was such a contrast to the airport atmosphere I had experienced the day before. People were smiling, children dashed to and fro the vending machines for a last-minute snack. Conversations were expressed with loose gestures and I could hear excited tones in the chatter bouncing off the small walls.
I decided then that trains are the best way to travel. No TSA, no long lines, no tense neighbors. This remained true even after boarding. There was ample room to store all of my luggage and my legs fit fully within the space in front of my seat. Not to mention the ability to get up and move around at any time, which is imperative for a fifty-five-hour ride.
Fifty-five hours might be a long time in one vehicle, but I was happy to experience a more relaxed mode of travel than that of flying or driving. It gave me time to catch up on writing and sleep. My jacket was finally outfitted with the patch I purchased two weeks earlier in New Orleans.
The next day I did a bit more exploring of the train and its amenities. I splurged on breakfast in the dining car where I met a polite retired couple who had traveled by train several times. They said a sleeper car was essential and that they would be back for dinner. We didn't talk about much else. The breakfast was okay, and I decided I wouldn't be back for another meal.
When we stopped in Denver, I stocked up with enough food for the rest of the ride to Chicago. Anything else I wanted, like morning coffee, I purchased in the cafe car.
With plenty of time for me to leave and come back, I turned out of the station and walked around the block. The local scenery was a highway underpass, tall office buildings, a gas station, and a loud construction site. There were no nearby cafes to bide my time, so I sat on a sidewalk bench and played my guitar. The apparent busking must have been bizarre for business people on their way to work. I sang anyway, content to be free of everything but a backpack and a small guitar.
Eventually, I made my way back to the station. The lobby had become more lively in my absence. There was such a contrast to the airport atmosphere I had experienced the day before. People were smiling, children dashed to and fro the vending machines for a last-minute snack. Conversations were expressed with loose gestures and I could hear excited tones in the chatter bouncing off the small walls.
I decided then that trains are the best way to travel. No TSA, no long lines, no tense neighbors. This remained true even after boarding. There was ample room to store all of my luggage and my legs fit fully within the space in front of my seat. Not to mention the ability to get up and move around at any time, which is imperative for a fifty-five-hour ride.
Fifty-five hours might be a long time in one vehicle, but I was happy to experience a more relaxed mode of travel than that of flying or driving. It gave me time to catch up on writing and sleep. My jacket was finally outfitted with the patch I purchased two weeks earlier in New Orleans.
On our first stop, I was joined by a man named Jake. We talked about the grittiness of the Mid-West compared to the niceness of Cali. He boarded with a package of rectangular apple juice boxes. As we spoke, he drank three in a row, struggling to open each straw but not considering using ones already unwrapped. He drank it like a character prop, expressively adding sips to his speech. Jake mentioned some conspiracy theories and soon after we were discussing how humans came to be and the nature of reality.
After hearing about Bernadette he pulled out a tiny house book from his hiking bag. He was on his way back home to Toledo to start building his own. Thereafter, he planned to start making and selling concrete lawn "guards" that are in suits of armor. This project was not to distract from his five-part cookbook series of Meatloaf recipes. Jake had collected a wide variety of recipes in order to reach his goal of 100. Spaghetti meatloaf, Dorito meatloaf, even boiled egg meatloaf were among the list.
Jake told me he was still waiting for his "million-dollar idea." Eventually, he left the seat next to me to find another row.
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The views were worth it alone. From California, we passed along the coast, then headed into the Sierra Nevada mountains. As if we were on a giant tour bus, the conductor announced major landmarks along the way. We then traveled into the hilly desert of Nevada state. Outside the window were landscapes I had only seen from tens of thousands of feet above. This half of the country is big and majestic in ways you don't experience anywhere else in the country.
The next day I did a bit more exploring of the train and its amenities. I splurged on breakfast in the dining car where I met a polite retired couple who had traveled by train several times. They said a sleeper car was essential and that they would be back for dinner. We didn't talk about much else. The breakfast was okay, and I decided I wouldn't be back for another meal.
When we stopped in Denver, I stocked up with enough food for the rest of the ride to Chicago. Anything else I wanted, like morning coffee, I purchased in the cafe car.
I spent some time on the viewing deck, a car walled with expansive windows and seats facing out instead of forward. I wanted to enjoy the last mountain views before the Great Plains of Nebraska. In previous travels, the Rocky Mountains were the bit of turbulence we hit towards the end of the trip. I would always look out of the window, if possible, to the tiny veins of white that indicated snowcaps.
From the train window, the Rockies were giants and I was the speck in the landscape.
Despite what the couple at breakfast said, I was happy in coach. I think I preferred the people and the atmosphere. I preferred the familiar faces who got off at every stop that permitted a smoke break. It was this group of people that, as soon as we stepped foot on Colorado ground, passed around a joint.
From the train window, the Rockies were giants and I was the speck in the landscape.
Despite what the couple at breakfast said, I was happy in coach. I think I preferred the people and the atmosphere. I preferred the familiar faces who got off at every stop that permitted a smoke break. It was this group of people that, as soon as we stepped foot on Colorado ground, passed around a joint.
When we were approaching a stop the conductor would announce whether we had time to get off or not. If we did have time the smoking group and anyone getting off for good would gather near the train doors, anticipating our arrival at the station.
At one such gathering, a tall middle-aged man with a cowboy hat and a guitar case was chatting about reuniting with his daughter after three years. There was genuine love-fuelled excitement in his eyes. His smile made it to the wrinkles near his temples. He had not a wide-eyed excitement, but one with a hint of something else pinched between his brow. Held in the crease in the middle of his forehead was disbelief, or maybe worry.
When the train finally stopped, we all got off. He chatted with us while he was waiting for his daughter. They had been separated by work and financial circumstances. He had to take care of the family ranch, and she had moved away. Both had been too poor to afford a visit. But he finally wrapped up his work and saved enough money for a train ticket. He left everything to move to where his daughter was.
The length of our stop had passed, and we queued up in response to the "All aboard!" call. We said goodbye to the cowboy and expressed our excitement for him. Just before I stepped on the train, it happened. He turned around to see his daughter approaching. She was just older than me. He dropped everything he carried to hug her and both of her arms reached up and around his neck. I cried.
It was the moments like that and meeting Jake the meatloaf enthusiast, that made me happy I chose coach over a sleeper car. Although I didn't have the whole row to myself the second night, I slept just fine in my reclined seat.
It was something I had never noticed before, growing up in that environment. I remembered my conversation with Jake about Midwesterners. I wondered, does the environment reflect the mindset or the mindset reflect the environment?
For the rest of the ride, I mostly kept to myself. Even without hearing the announcement, it was obvious when we reached our last stop in Chicago. Everything and everyone on the train began to shuffle. People shared gratitudes for time spent, guitars strummed, and card games played.
I took a final look back at the train, thanking it more than any one passenger or crew. The California Zephyr had carried me across the country with much more ease than I had experienced in all of my travels.
zeph·yr | \ ˈze-fər \
a: a breeze from the west
b: a gentle breeze
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