When it comes to weather in Portland, Oregon, two things are fairly certain:
1. It will not snow on Christmas. (But it'll probably snow heavily the week before and/or two weeks after.)
2. It will rain on the second Saturday in June, the date of the Grand Floral Parade.
Today is the second Saturday in June.
I am wet.
I am sitting on a curb, wearing an Amtrak T-shirt and visor and a clear rain poncho, currently wondering what I was thinking. But I am not alone. Beside me is my friend Jenn, the one responsible for getting me this gig. My mission? Blow a wooden train whistle while marching in the parade alongside the Amtrak float. The route is only a few miles. It's only "Oregon Sunshine" that's pouring down on us.
And the "Amtrak Float" is not so much a float as it is a decorative hunk of flowers on wheels, but hey.
We showed up early. By the time the parade officially starts, we are waterlogged. Our float is near the end of the parade, after dozens of floats, marching bands, motorcycles, horses, and people cleaning up the horse poo. And so we wait.
Cold, wet, decidedly coordinated in our cute little Amtrak outfits, and bored.
Jenn gets out her cell phone and starts filming.
For our trouble, we get to be on TV. We get souvenirs and new outfits. And despite the rain, we have a blast.
Take a trip without traffic -- it's a great way to go!
At the time, I hadn't been aboard an Amtrak train in nine years. I was parading a lie.
Little did I know I'd soon be riding them way too often...
September 9, 2007
I am sick of trains. I'm writing this while aboard Amtrak train #1006, a cranky piece of machinery bound from Portland to Seattle, where I'm currently working as a nanny. I've ridden on eight other trains like it in the past month, and I'll be all too happy if I never have to experience the sensation of my body being jostled and tumbled over miles of bumpy tracks ever again. My leg room is minimal, though I must concur this is a step or two above Greyhound. Make that leaps and bounds, really.
The guy checking tickets looks familiar. Glasses, a mustache. Who does he remind me of? I ponder this briefly; then it comes to me -- Mr. McFeely, the postman from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.
The resemblance is uncanny.
As I write this, we're crossing the Columbia River, the border between Oregon and Washington. It's looking mostly blue today, with a tinge of green, as if someone has dumped 40,000 gallons of Flubber into the mix. Next we pause in Vancouver to pick up more passengers and try to stuff them aboard. Six stops to go.
The train is crowded. It is hot; a warm wind blows outside. Supposedly these trains have air conditioning... and while I do hear sounds suggesting this is true, I feel no cool air coming at me. Besides, sounds can deceive. Some of these trains have been known to make mysterious clunking noises -- when they're standing still. One comes to expect this, even ignore it. If the strange ticking wasn't followed by a deadly explosion last time, you're probably okay this time.
The women in the seats in front of me are having a conversation I can overhear clearly. They just met today, but they are divulging vast amounts of personal information. Have these people never seen Strangers On A Train? I suppose not.
Speaking of cinema, last week on my trip to Seattle, two young women were watching a DVD on their laptop across the aisle from me. Some comedy. Since they'd both been thoughtful enough to don headphones, the only thing I could hear was the sound of their laughter. Actually, I think most of the passengers could hear that:
Silence... silence... silence... BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
I was reminded of the song "I Love To Laugh," from Mary Poppins, specifically the lyrics that describe the different forms of annoying laughter. A laughter sample platter! On wheels! Oh, this was a treat.
I am used to annoyances. On nearly every trip, there's been someone. Once I sat across from a dad, two daughters -- about 14 and 10 -- and a little boy around 4. The boy spent most of the trip trying to get away with playing with the lever on the seat that makes it recline and, alternately, snap forward at an alarming pace. I'm sure the woman sitting behind him loved that. Eventually the tyke became enchanted with the lightboard near the end of the train car which displayed various messages, most of them useless, except for the one that warned people not to drink and drive. To illustrate this, a little car was shown hitting a little person, who then flipped over and landed on his head. Dead as a doornail due to a drunk driver -- oh, the terrible fate! The little boy thought it was hilarious. "Here it comes! Here comes the funny part!" he'd say, whenever the car showed up on the lightboard. "He bumps his head, huh, Daddy? He bumps his head and dies and turns into a bad guy!" Good ol' Daddy misses a valuable opportunity to warn his four-year-old about the importance of sobriety behind the wheel. He should be in one of those commercials. Talk to your kids -- before it's too late!
I was about that kid's age when I took my first train trip. It wasn't Amtrak, it was something called the Chelatchie Prairie Railroad. It had a snack car; I got to have a root beer. Despite my love of the Little Golden Books The Little Red Caboose and The Little Engine That Could, I did not know what a real train whistle sounded like before that trip.
After this excursion, I became aware of the distant sound of train whistles at night while trying to fall asleep. I recognized them for what they were, and thought how interesting it was that I had never really heard them before. Why, that's the sound of a train! I've ridden one of those! They serve root beer!
Trains in 2007 still have snack cars. A few weeks ago I decided to attempt to try every type of food they served... well, at least the things a vegetarian could safely eat. I tried a Greek sandwich, mac and cheese, pizza, a bagel, and Skittles before I realized I was getting ripped off and it was a hassle trying to get to the snack car. One lurch of the train and you're prone to falling into some unsuspecting passenger's lap. I say, bring your own Skittles. Less risk.
I've had the same conductor three trips in a row. I know it's the same guy because he has a distinct accent and thinks he is a comedian. He gets on the PA system and tells us not to flush anything down the train toilets that should not be flushed. Apparently such an act will cause mayhem. Maybe the pipes will back up and we will all die. In agony. Who needs pipe bombs when you have tampons of doom?
Two hours into our trip and the air conditioner still isn't working in this car. We're suffering. I know how the other passengers are feeling because they've loudly expressed their discomfort. Mr. McFeely heard about our plight, opened a control panel, and pushed a few buttons. The AC came on for about ten minutes. Then it died. He hasn't been back through. I've been using the "Passenger Safety Instructions" pamphlet as a hand fan, but I suspect the rapid paper movement may have been bothering the girl sitting across the aisle from me. I know it would bother me, but hot is hot. I wonder if the girl would like to know I was fanning myself to the beat of Like A Prayer?
I'm sure she'd be so totally interested.
It's a good thing I'm not fanning myself now, because I'm currently listening to Barenaked Ladies' One Week, and such an act would probably cause the pamphlet to fly out of my hands and take someone's eye out. Ironic it would be, but it probably wouldn't win me any friends. As it is, the beat is causing me to write rapidly. I vaguely feel like I've had multiple Coca-Colas.
The ladies in front of me are having some kind of Amtrak hootenanny. They're gathered around the windows and are exclaiming over the "sudden" appearance of Mt. Rainier. I saw it an hour ago. Maybe they were too busy gabbing to notice the giant mountain until now. Their conversations have been loud and nonstop. Wow, just think of all the wonderful things about their lives I could have learned thus far if I hadn't been determinedly trying to drown them out with my iPod!
So one thing auto travel has over train travel: when a good song comes on in the car, you can sing along. I think if I started spouting BNL lyrics just now, I'd get some odd glances. Who needs sleep? Well, you're never gonna get it... Extreme willpower is so being exerted right now!
We're riding one of the crappy trains. That could explain the AC issues. The pretty Cascade trains (right) are out of commission for the time being, due to Cracking in Vital Locations. So we get the old trains (left). The trip from Portland to Seattle takes roughly four hours, but sometimes it feels endless. It's like riding in the backseat of your parents' Buick for eleven hours and making it only halfway to Disneyland, and knowing if you'd taken a plane, you could have been on Dumbo, The Flying Elephant eight hours ago. Or at least be in line for it.
It has occurred to me, over the past few weeks, that a lot of my favorite movies include trains. Some even have important train scenes. Back to the Future III, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, Pollyanna, Anne of Green Gables, and of course the Harry Potter movies. I'm reminded of how I used to love going to Eastport Plaza with my mom, just so we could stop at the Learning Palace and I could play with the Brio Train set while my mother shopped. And I can't fail to mention my first electric train set. It was of the Snoopy variety. Schroeder was the conductor. It had blue tracks and came with several Peanuts-related accessories. I could spend hours watching the train engine loop around the figure 8 tracks. Occasionally it derailed. We still have half a tunnel and part of Snoopy's doghouse.
I'm bored. The iPod helps, sort of. I've listened to the same songs repeatedly. I've listened to a few books-on-tape. I've read People magazine and bits of Everything I Needed To Know About Being A Girl I Learned From Judy Blume. I didn't learn everything from Judy Blume, but I did learn a lot. She's in Seattle this coming weekend. Guess where I am going to be? In Portland! No booksignings for me. I've devoured lots of Skittles. Done a Crossword Puzzle. I hate it when you complete a whole puzzle except for ONE letter. It's maddening.
This time, for the first time since I started these crazy trips, I'm writing. Page after page in a small notebook -- scrawls and scribbles and sketches. Maybe I can turn this into an AJ article. I haven't written one in months; it's about time, you know?
But who would want to read an article about trains?
Maybe I'll write it anyway.
9/13/2007
(c)2007 AlligatorJuice.com
