Or: I Left My Heart at Francisco's
So I went to the movies on Saturday night, and naturally I had my phone silenced during the film. This puts me in stark contrast to the guy next to me, who started getting an alert about 20 minutes from the end of the picture that kept repeating about every three minutes. I'm not sure how long I let this continue before I turned and whispered, "COULD YOU PUT THAT AWAY?!" But I digress.
What I really want to talk about is the voicemail I had waiting for me when I came out of the theater. It was from a St. Paul number that I didn't recognize, and it went like this . . .
INEBRIATED MAN: Hey, Steve, give me a call.
OK, first of all, my outgoing message clearly says, "Hi, this is Courtney. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." But again, inebriated.
INEBRIATED MAN: I'm extremely drunk.
Duly noted.
INEBRIATED MAN: I went to Francisco's house, and he tried to get me drunk. You won't believe it.
Excuse me, tried? He seems to have been wildly successful. And yes, we do believe it.
INEBRIATED MAN: He's really [mumbles] for me.
I've listened to this message about 20 times, and the best I can make out is "He's really got a thing for me." Which might explain the next sentence.
INEBRIATED MAN: Oh, I will never go again to his house. Believe me.
Dude, we believe you. (How incredulous is Steve, typically?)
INEBRIATED MAN: Never . . . never . . . never.
Probably a good idea. Though the emphatic repetition leads me to believe some things may have happened that you're not particularly proud of.
INEBRIATED MAN: Okay. Call me later, okay?
I do want to call this guy later. Just to check up on him. Just to let him know that his intoxicated ramblings reached across time and space (or across Verizon's network, which is equally complicated) to find me, and that I will cherish this random message long after Francisco has lost interest. It's the least I can do.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Spellcheck Shmellcheck
Sometimes, I'm forced to ask myself serious questions. It's not something I particularly enjoy, but I often find it cannot be avoided. Recently, I had to ask a question that, if you're over 30, may also have occurred to you: "Am I just getting old, or is the casual nature of electronic conversation reaching a level that simply spits in the face of common decency?"
Even if you've never considered it in quite those terms, you know what I'm talking about. And if not, here's an example of an email exchange I had with a representative at a large financial institution. It's verbatim.
ME: Hi there. I talked briefly with [teller name] last week when depositing a check into my business account, and she mentioned that my business could upgrade to an account that would not charge a monthly service fee. Is there a minimum balance we would need to maintain? Please let me know. Thanks!
This, I feel, was an appropriately crafted query with one basic question.
REP: Hi I just get your email let me know when you wan come and set down whit me so we can see what options we have for u
I'd just like to point out that this was an official employee of the bank, and not some teenager who wandered in off the street and mistakenly assumed she was tweeting. This person was, for all intents and purposes, the face of the company, which presumably wanted to entice me to put even more of my hard-earned money into its hands.
ME: I don't have a lot of time during work hours, but I could do 15-20 minutes on Friday if you're available.
REP: What time so I can ready for u
What I should have done at this point was call "game over" after the refusal to spell out three-letter words or to use punctuation of any kind. But I gave her one more shot, partly because I kind of wanted to meet her face-to-face out of sheer curiosity.
ME: How about 11:00?
REP: Hi can you meet me at 12:00pm I have
And that was the end of the message. No joke. Strike three. I resigned myself to the fact that I would never know exactly what her problem was. Instead, I shot a message to the online customer rep and had my issue resolved within 24 hours. Two emails, complete with real sentences!
To the rep, I sent one final reply, in which I delicately explained that I would not be meeting with her, largely due to the confusing and incomplete nature of her communication and suggesting that she strive to be more professional in the future. I wasn't mean, but I think some constructive feedback was needed. The next person might not be so accommodating.
Then again, the next person might have been a teenager who wandered in out of the Twitterverse and was delighted by the refreshingly down-to-earth "communication." If you can call it that.
Even if you've never considered it in quite those terms, you know what I'm talking about. And if not, here's an example of an email exchange I had with a representative at a large financial institution. It's verbatim.
ME: Hi there. I talked briefly with [teller name] last week when depositing a check into my business account, and she mentioned that my business could upgrade to an account that would not charge a monthly service fee. Is there a minimum balance we would need to maintain? Please let me know. Thanks!
This, I feel, was an appropriately crafted query with one basic question.
REP: Hi I just get your email let me know when you wan come and set down whit me so we can see what options we have for u
I'd just like to point out that this was an official employee of the bank, and not some teenager who wandered in off the street and mistakenly assumed she was tweeting. This person was, for all intents and purposes, the face of the company, which presumably wanted to entice me to put even more of my hard-earned money into its hands.
ME: I don't have a lot of time during work hours, but I could do 15-20 minutes on Friday if you're available.
REP: What time so I can ready for u
What I should have done at this point was call "game over" after the refusal to spell out three-letter words or to use punctuation of any kind. But I gave her one more shot, partly because I kind of wanted to meet her face-to-face out of sheer curiosity.
ME: How about 11:00?
REP: Hi can you meet me at 12:00pm I have
And that was the end of the message. No joke. Strike three. I resigned myself to the fact that I would never know exactly what her problem was. Instead, I shot a message to the online customer rep and had my issue resolved within 24 hours. Two emails, complete with real sentences!
To the rep, I sent one final reply, in which I delicately explained that I would not be meeting with her, largely due to the confusing and incomplete nature of her communication and suggesting that she strive to be more professional in the future. I wasn't mean, but I think some constructive feedback was needed. The next person might not be so accommodating.
Then again, the next person might have been a teenager who wandered in out of the Twitterverse and was delighted by the refreshingly down-to-earth "communication." If you can call it that.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Dear Diary: Aspirin Espionage
It somehow comforts me to know that, at about this time 26 years ago, my mother was attempting to trick me into taking medication. It may interest you to know that she did not abandon these attempts, as I distinctly recall a similar betrayal involving a bowl of icky-tasting "applesauce." Mom, if our poodle could lick off all the peanut butter and spit out the heartworm pill, I'm pretty sure your 7-year-old could detect acetaminophen in her favorite foods.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Cutting In
One one of my recent visits to get my hair cut, there was a young guy in the chair behind me who came in with a special request. He was going to be starring in a play, and he needed his hair cut appropriately for the role. His stylist was the most earnest and possibly most oblivious woman I've ever heard try to carry on a conversation. She desperately wanted to participate in a meaningful dialogue, but she jumped to conclusions so quickly that it sounded like this:
MAN: "I'm in this play . . ."
STYLIST: "Ohhhhh, so like Shakespeare."
MAN: "No, this production is set in the Old West, and . . ."
STYLIST: "So you're looking for like a 1920s thing."
MAN: "I think more like the 1890s, but . . ."
STYLIST: "Ohhhhh, okay. Can you imagine how gross and dirty people's hair was back then? I suppose it doesn't matter much cuz you'll be wearing a cowboy hat."
MAN: "Well, actually, my character's from the city. The Ricochet Kid."
STYLIST: "What?"
MAN: "I'm known for being able to shoot people by bouncing bullets off of things."
STYLIST: "Ohhhhhhhhhh. So like The Matrix."
MAN: (sigh) "Not exactly."
At this point my stylist stopped snipping away because we both had the giggles. I'm lucky I didn't lose an ear.
MAN: "I'm in this play . . ."
STYLIST: "Ohhhhh, so like Shakespeare."
MAN: "No, this production is set in the Old West, and . . ."
STYLIST: "So you're looking for like a 1920s thing."
MAN: "I think more like the 1890s, but . . ."
STYLIST: "Ohhhhh, okay. Can you imagine how gross and dirty people's hair was back then? I suppose it doesn't matter much cuz you'll be wearing a cowboy hat."
MAN: "Well, actually, my character's from the city. The Ricochet Kid."
STYLIST: "What?"
MAN: "I'm known for being able to shoot people by bouncing bullets off of things."
STYLIST: "Ohhhhhhhhhh. So like The Matrix."
MAN: (sigh) "Not exactly."
At this point my stylist stopped snipping away because we both had the giggles. I'm lucky I didn't lose an ear.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Resolution Retooled
Here we are
at the start of a new year, and I've already broken my first resolution:
to cease blog posting in favor of spending time on a more substantial
writing project. (Which is good news if you're a regular reader and bad
news if you're my as-yet-imaginary future novel).
I
initially thought it would be a great idea to take a break, partly
because, even though I didn't quite manage 100 posts last year, it
sometimes felt like a bit of a chore to put my storytelling muscles to
work without knowing who exactly (if anyone) was reading and/or
appreciating it. I know that sounds lame. I should be writing simply for
writing's sake, yes? Putting myself out there, throwing words together with reckless abandon
for the sheer joy of communication, sustained only by my
personal pride in a job well done (or so I hope).
And yet,
no matter what we do, we like to have some way to measure our progress.
Not necessarily to determine whether we've been "successful," but at
least to know that our efforts are worthwhile. I don't think it's too awfully self-centered to admit that everyone needs a little validation here and there.
But how much is enough? Ay, there's the rub. Is it enough if even one
person's day is brightened by something ridiculous I decide to type into
this glowing box? After all, isn't it a little bit of a miracle that
anyone is even remotely interested in something I have to say in the
first place?
Yes.
Yes, it is. So, I decided to compromise, and I made two new resolutions.
First, to get over myself. Second, to post once a week. That way, my
storytelling muscles still get a workout, but I can focus the other days
on the as-yet-unnamed literary experiment. Sounds simple enough. But
then again, so did setting up the wireless printer that I bought my
parents for Christmas. And we all know how that turned out.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Unreasonable
On my way to work the other morning, my bus driver stopped and waited through a couple traffic lights. Normally I find it quite annoying to just sit stalled while the rest of the metro passes us by, but I understand the reason for it. Unfortunately, the lady in front of me did not.
"What's the holdup?" she snapped.
"I'm ahead of schedule," the driver replied.
"Well, I'M not!"
"Sorry, we just have to wait."
"Unbelievable!"
She then proceeded to whip out her phone and loudly declare to the person who answered (and all of us) that she was GOING TO BE LATE THIS MORNING because her bus was RUNNING BEHIND.
Now, I've been riding metro transit daily for 7 years, and 98% of the time I'm in my desk chair at 8:55 on the dot. However, riding the bus does not guarantee you arrive at your destination on time, any more than taking a taxi or driving your own car. And I include the train in this, because no mass transit system is immune from obstacles that can crop up to complicate your commute.
I don't understand why some bus riders have such unreasonable expectations. You just paid $2 to essentially have a personal chauffeur drive your ass to work while you sleep, chat, or text rather than fighting through rush hour, paying for gas and parking, and putting excess miles on your vehicle. Granted, that chauffeur cares nothing about your personal comfort and will leave you behind if you're 10 seconds late, but still, it's a bit magical, on par with being able to mail a letter to literally anyone in America for around 40 cents.
I especially don't understand it when people suddenly stand up mid-ride and are shocked to learn that the bus they boarded isn't going exactly where they want it to. They're typically real bastards about it, too, as if the driver just changed his mind and chose a destination that wasn't clearly indicated in lights above his windshield. I'm utterly baffled by this. You can't just leap on a random mode of transport and assume it's headed in your general direction. It would be the equivalent of me running to the airport, boarding the first plane I saw, and then being irate that it wasn't, in fact, going to France.
Because then I'd have to whip out my phone and loudly declare that I COULDN'T TAKE TWO SECONDS TO READ A SCHEDULE and the pilot could not READ MY MIND OR CHANGE COURSE, which I find highly UNREASONABLE.
I bet complaints like that sound even better in French.
"What's the holdup?" she snapped.
"I'm ahead of schedule," the driver replied.
"Well, I'M not!"
"Sorry, we just have to wait."
"Unbelievable!"
She then proceeded to whip out her phone and loudly declare to the person who answered (and all of us) that she was GOING TO BE LATE THIS MORNING because her bus was RUNNING BEHIND.
Now, I've been riding metro transit daily for 7 years, and 98% of the time I'm in my desk chair at 8:55 on the dot. However, riding the bus does not guarantee you arrive at your destination on time, any more than taking a taxi or driving your own car. And I include the train in this, because no mass transit system is immune from obstacles that can crop up to complicate your commute.
I don't understand why some bus riders have such unreasonable expectations. You just paid $2 to essentially have a personal chauffeur drive your ass to work while you sleep, chat, or text rather than fighting through rush hour, paying for gas and parking, and putting excess miles on your vehicle. Granted, that chauffeur cares nothing about your personal comfort and will leave you behind if you're 10 seconds late, but still, it's a bit magical, on par with being able to mail a letter to literally anyone in America for around 40 cents.
I especially don't understand it when people suddenly stand up mid-ride and are shocked to learn that the bus they boarded isn't going exactly where they want it to. They're typically real bastards about it, too, as if the driver just changed his mind and chose a destination that wasn't clearly indicated in lights above his windshield. I'm utterly baffled by this. You can't just leap on a random mode of transport and assume it's headed in your general direction. It would be the equivalent of me running to the airport, boarding the first plane I saw, and then being irate that it wasn't, in fact, going to France.
Because then I'd have to whip out my phone and loudly declare that I COULDN'T TAKE TWO SECONDS TO READ A SCHEDULE and the pilot could not READ MY MIND OR CHANGE COURSE, which I find highly UNREASONABLE.
I bet complaints like that sound even better in French.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Cluck You
This story comes to me by way of a friend of a friend, so I can't take credit for much more than just repeating it ... but I think it's worth repeating.
So this person goes into a certain fast food establishment and is waiting in line. The rather large woman ahead of her orders two buckets of chicken. Without thinking, the cashier asks, "For here or to go?"
The woman, shocked, berates the employee, asking whether the cashier actually thinks she's going to sit down in the restaurant and eat two whole buckets of fried chicken by herself.
In response, the cashier simply yells, "Bitch, I don't know your life!"
So this person goes into a certain fast food establishment and is waiting in line. The rather large woman ahead of her orders two buckets of chicken. Without thinking, the cashier asks, "For here or to go?"
The woman, shocked, berates the employee, asking whether the cashier actually thinks she's going to sit down in the restaurant and eat two whole buckets of fried chicken by herself.
In response, the cashier simply yells, "Bitch, I don't know your life!"
Monday, November 28, 2011
Not Sponge-worthy
I just read the following one-star review for a memory foam bath pillow on Amazon.com. I officially love this reviewer:
Want to know what the secret to the "memory foam" this project boasts? Some of the "wicking" technology so prevalent in sports gear, perhaps? Or the stuff that makes the liquid disappear in diapers? Or the magic of those special "wings" in maxipads, for crap sake? Nope. It's a big ole sponge. It's a big ole sponge in a terry cloth cover. Terry cloth - which is commonly understood to be the sponge of the fabric world - wrapped around a big ole sponge. This thing soaks up about 5 pounds of bath water immediately and then drags those two desperate little suction cups that were supposed to hold it perched in place down to their watery grave. The poor little suckers didn't have a chance. And even if one of them does manage to hang on, the big ole sponge-wrapped-in-pseudosponge just slips off of it like a family-sized loaf of so much wet bread.
That was Sunday. Now it's Tuesday night and the loaf of bread slumped in my empty bathtub is just as wet, but really, really cold. Cold and wet and slumpy in the bottom of the tub. A real "Calgon, take me away" kind of allure... Want to know the secret to the "dry" in the "Microdry" this project boasts? Yeah. Me, too.
Want to know what the secret to the "memory foam" this project boasts? Some of the "wicking" technology so prevalent in sports gear, perhaps? Or the stuff that makes the liquid disappear in diapers? Or the magic of those special "wings" in maxipads, for crap sake? Nope. It's a big ole sponge. It's a big ole sponge in a terry cloth cover. Terry cloth - which is commonly understood to be the sponge of the fabric world - wrapped around a big ole sponge. This thing soaks up about 5 pounds of bath water immediately and then drags those two desperate little suction cups that were supposed to hold it perched in place down to their watery grave. The poor little suckers didn't have a chance. And even if one of them does manage to hang on, the big ole sponge-wrapped-in-pseudosponge just slips off of it like a family-sized loaf of so much wet bread.
That was Sunday. Now it's Tuesday night and the loaf of bread slumped in my empty bathtub is just as wet, but really, really cold. Cold and wet and slumpy in the bottom of the tub. A real "Calgon, take me away" kind of allure... Want to know the secret to the "dry" in the "Microdry" this project boasts? Yeah. Me, too.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Holy Lola
Dining Date: November 2011
On My Plate: Fantastic house-made meatball starter, then "The Boise" pizza: thinly sliced potato, gruyere, caramelized onion, olive oil, and rosemary. Delish! Dessert was vanilla soft serve ice cream drizzled with olive
oil and sprinkled with sea salt. Sounds crazy, tastes great.
Servers Rate: Very friendly. The manager stepped out from behind the bar to chat with several patrons throughout the evening.
Fun Fact: They have a photo booth in the back and an entire wall covered with strips to keep you entertained if you have to wait for a table . . . which you might, because this place is hopping. Plus, the mismatched, kitschy dinnerware is hand-picked from second-hand stores and estate sales.
The Damage: Beware. You will probably want to try everything on the menu, not to mention the great selection of tap beer and wine. But at $10-$15 for a 1-2 person pizza and $8-$12 for apps, it could add up fast. Pace yourself.
The Verdict: Pizzeria Lola is just too fun, warm, inviting, and inventive not to visit again. A lot of care has gone into crafting this tasty menu and laid-back ambiance. What a treat.
Earning My Interest
Dining Date: November 2011
On My Plate: This was a happy hour excursion, so I can't speak to the main dinner menu, but the pulled pork sliders (three of them for $4) were scrumptious. I also gave the Jamaican jerk chicken wings a try, though they were too spicy for my liking. Also on tap, a $4 Summit.
Servers Rate: I've read some bad reviews slamming the service here, but our waitress was attentive. Granted, it was a Monday night and not exactly busy, but she was friendly and checked in with us repeatedly.
Fun Fact: This place is built in the old Farmers and Merchants Bank (hence the name) in downtown Minneapolis on 6th and Marquette. And honestly, aside from being gorgeous, it's straight-up cool. The old bank offices are now private dining areas, the teller area is now the kitchen, and the vault is now stocked with wine. Somehow, they managed to incorporate the historical elements with beautiful modern design quite seamlessly.
The Damage: Minimal, largely due to a good happy hour menu. The dinner prices more clearly reflect the swank atmosphere.
The Verdict: Though its posh vibe was a bit intimidating at first, I would definitely pop in for after-work drinks with friends again. The couches in the lounge area are comfy, and it's quiet enough to have a conversation. Plus, since it's in the Westin Hotel lobby, the people-watching opportunities are endless.
Gimme Five
Dining Date: October 2011 (Edina location)
On My Plate: The most glorious cheeseburger known to man. Plus some fries and a Coke. Oh, and some complimentary unshelled peanuts.
Servers Rate: Everyone is too busy crafting deliciousness on the grill to serve you. Humbly wait your turn at the end of the counter like everyone else. It's worth it.
Fun Fact: Unless you absolutely love onion, beware ordering it at this establishment. It's not diced or chopped as usual, but rather a huge, thick slice. Otherwise, go crazy on the toppings and condiments! Also, seating is minimal and it's usually busy, so maybe grab it to go.
The Damage: Average. My burger, small fry, and soda cost me about $11. My advice would be to skip the fries, since they always throw a handful in the burger bag anyway.
The Verdict: This wasn't my first time here, and it won't be my last. Not that I
think this place needs any more good press, because they're going like
gangbusters, but they do one thing and do it well: making a burger that melts in your mouth. I think my sister put it best when she said, simply, "I don't want it to end."
Encore!
Dining Date: September 2011
On My Plate: The grilled cheese sandwich and creamy tomato soup.
Servers Rate: Excellent.
Fun Fact: This restaurant is located on Level Five of the Guthrie Theatre in downtown Minneapolis. It's the sit-down alternative to Level Five Express, which is essentially a sandwich and drink counter. You can relax and enjoy your meal at the Cafe until the seating call for your show. For this reason, they stop taking reservations after 6:00 p.m.
The Damage: Fairly minimal, depending on what you order. Entrees range between $10 and $20. It's primarily high-end comfort food, and they periodically offer three-course packages that correspond with current productions.
The Verdict: Although there are plenty of dining options near the Guthrie, having your meal at the Cafe is the perfect one-stop shop. It's a great start to (and really completes) the whole theater experience, without breaking the bank. However, if you want to have a fancy post-show drink in what feels like a spa, I would recommend Sea Change on the lower level.
Ecuadorable
Dining Date: August 2011
On My Plate: Hornado con papas, which is actually the picture shown above. Two big pieces of roast pork served with llapingachos (little potato pancakes with cheese). I thought mine came with fried plantains, but I could have just stolen one off someone else's plate.
Servers Rate: I may be biased, because our waiter was very cute. He patiently explained that the mysterious white, relatively flavorless starch on my plate was hominy.
Fun Fact: This cute little place is in a boxy building right on the corner of Central and 28th. Keep your eyes peeled or you'll blow right by it.
The Damage: Under $20, if you don't go crazy on drinks or apps.
The Verdict: Everybody I ate with ordered something different, and they all came away with a "decent, and definitely an experience" rating. Perhaps Ecuadorian just isn't for me. My meal was a tad salty, and I probably wouldn't order it again. I would like to try their empanadas, though.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Soulless
This is one of my all-time favorite instances of bizarre English use from Japan. It was printed on a merchandise bag at a department store, and it made me laugh so hard I cut it out and pasted it in my journal. As it turns out, it's just as funny ten years later.
I don't know why the speech bubble is directed at the character who doesn't appear to be speaking. I also don't know if that smiling cloudlike figure at the top is supposed to be the charater's "lost" soul, or why it appears to be trying to catch an airplane. Simply the fact that this is a topic of normal conversation (and that everyone involved seems super happy about it) is confusing enough.
But there were a lot of confusing things about Japan. Wonderful, hilarious, ultimately baffling things. Like the hooded sweatshirt I bought that reads "It's a You Make" on the front, and then on the side says "Don't tell anyone about this." Oh, don't worry. I couldn't explain it if I tried.
I don't know why the speech bubble is directed at the character who doesn't appear to be speaking. I also don't know if that smiling cloudlike figure at the top is supposed to be the charater's "lost" soul, or why it appears to be trying to catch an airplane. Simply the fact that this is a topic of normal conversation (and that everyone involved seems super happy about it) is confusing enough.
But there were a lot of confusing things about Japan. Wonderful, hilarious, ultimately baffling things. Like the hooded sweatshirt I bought that reads "It's a You Make" on the front, and then on the side says "Don't tell anyone about this." Oh, don't worry. I couldn't explain it if I tried.
Fill in the Blanks
In the spirit of being back to regular, non-vacationey, everyday amusements, I heard a lady on my bus tonight say the following:
"It's the one with Mariska Hargitay. You know. Something, something, SUV."
So ... it's a vague show about sport utility vehicles?
"It's the one with Mariska Hargitay. You know. Something, something, SUV."
So ... it's a vague show about sport utility vehicles?
Friday, October 28, 2011
Tales from the Rails: Final FAQs
So, after chugging around the country for two weeks, what did I learn (besides the fact that you can't pump your own gas in Oregon)? Here are a few Frequent Amtrak Questions:
Would I do it again?
Yes. But I'd like to experience the relative luxury of a sleeper on trips that span more than one night.
Knowing what I know now, what would I have done differently?
1. Brought along a full-size blanket. My coat didn't quite cut it some nights.
2. Brought along something to knock me out.
3. Brought along something to knock that crying kid out.
4. Not brought along a book about trains because I thought it'd be interesting. Turns out, once you're actually on one ... not so much.
5. Loaded up an electronic device with movies. Once that sun goes down, and you can't see anything but your own reflection in the window, and they kill all the cabin lights so people can sleep, there are still several long hours to fill until daylight. Although this could have been avoided by #2.
6. Spent more time at the beginning hanging out in the lounge car. It's the best way to break up a long stretch of track and meet new people.
7. Taken more video at the beginning of the trip. This bright idea didn't dawn on me until after CA.
8. Brought some cans of soda with me, since the cafe attendant will give you a glass with ice.
9. Opted for more breakfasts in the dining car and never eaten anything from the cafe.
10. Not said that hot dogs were "okay."
What were the best things you took with you?
A slim notebook, my iPod, my camera, a book light, granola bars, a travel pillow, PURELL, and a "roll with it" attitude.
Were things mostly the same on every train?
Nothing about Amtrak is standard, except for the super wet bathrooms and the semi-crappy food. Procedures vary widely, depending on where you are (and on the quality of the crew). Sometimes they check your ticket at the station, sometimes on the platform, sometimes on the train. Sometimes you get assigned a seat, sometimes not. Sometimes the car attendant comes by to place your destination ticket above your seat, sometimes you do it yourself. Sometimes the conductor tells you where you are or whether you're running on time ... most of the time not. Bottom line: you're pretty much on your own as far as information. Nobody's going to give it to you, you just have to go in search of it.
What surprised you the most?
The train was quieter than I expected, but bumpier. I can't tell you the number of people who made jokes about being drunk as they pitched to one side and staggered from car to car. Of course, some of these people were actually drunk.
Conclusion?
Traveling on Amtrak is a bit old school. There's nothing high-tech about it. You're not riding on a bullet train, you're riding on a motel with wheels. But, if you have the time, it's usually cheaper than flying, you can check a ton of luggage for free, there's room to move around, and you certainly see a lot of America and meet (ahem) interesting people.
The most accurate comparison I can offer is that train travel is a bipolar experience. When it's bad (especially if you're tired or cranky or ... trapped) you feel like you're in hell. When it's good, you feel like you're the smartest person in the world for re-discovering this fantastic mode of transportation. At its best, it feels like a real adventure. But medication probably wouldn't hurt.
Would I do it again?
Yes. But I'd like to experience the relative luxury of a sleeper on trips that span more than one night.
Knowing what I know now, what would I have done differently?
1. Brought along a full-size blanket. My coat didn't quite cut it some nights.
2. Brought along something to knock me out.
3. Brought along something to knock that crying kid out.
4. Not brought along a book about trains because I thought it'd be interesting. Turns out, once you're actually on one ... not so much.
5. Loaded up an electronic device with movies. Once that sun goes down, and you can't see anything but your own reflection in the window, and they kill all the cabin lights so people can sleep, there are still several long hours to fill until daylight. Although this could have been avoided by #2.
6. Spent more time at the beginning hanging out in the lounge car. It's the best way to break up a long stretch of track and meet new people.
7. Taken more video at the beginning of the trip. This bright idea didn't dawn on me until after CA.
8. Brought some cans of soda with me, since the cafe attendant will give you a glass with ice.
9. Opted for more breakfasts in the dining car and never eaten anything from the cafe.
10. Not said that hot dogs were "okay."
What were the best things you took with you?
A slim notebook, my iPod, my camera, a book light, granola bars, a travel pillow, PURELL, and a "roll with it" attitude.
Were things mostly the same on every train?
Nothing about Amtrak is standard, except for the super wet bathrooms and the semi-crappy food. Procedures vary widely, depending on where you are (and on the quality of the crew). Sometimes they check your ticket at the station, sometimes on the platform, sometimes on the train. Sometimes you get assigned a seat, sometimes not. Sometimes the car attendant comes by to place your destination ticket above your seat, sometimes you do it yourself. Sometimes the conductor tells you where you are or whether you're running on time ... most of the time not. Bottom line: you're pretty much on your own as far as information. Nobody's going to give it to you, you just have to go in search of it.
What surprised you the most?
The train was quieter than I expected, but bumpier. I can't tell you the number of people who made jokes about being drunk as they pitched to one side and staggered from car to car. Of course, some of these people were actually drunk.
Conclusion?
Traveling on Amtrak is a bit old school. There's nothing high-tech about it. You're not riding on a bullet train, you're riding on a motel with wheels. But, if you have the time, it's usually cheaper than flying, you can check a ton of luggage for free, there's room to move around, and you certainly see a lot of America and meet (ahem) interesting people.
The most accurate comparison I can offer is that train travel is a bipolar experience. When it's bad (especially if you're tired or cranky or ... trapped) you feel like you're in hell. When it's good, you feel like you're the smartest person in the world for re-discovering this fantastic mode of transportation. At its best, it feels like a real adventure. But medication probably wouldn't hurt.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Day 13: The Empire Builder Strikes Back
Trip Leg #5: Chicago to St. Paul. 418 miles. 8 hours.
My very forgiving friend Deidra picked me up at close to 11:00 p.m. at the station, after numerous (and nebulous, since I had no accurate arrival info) text messages. We were supposed to have an entire day together to catch up, but since I got cheated out of eight hours while trapped on the Zephyr, we ended up with about an hour to chat before hitting the hay. However, we did drive past Millennium Park and Navy Pier and the Art Institute on our way to her condo. It was the quickie tour.
The next morning, I rode back into downtown with her. During this trip, she got pulled over and ticketed for having expired license tags. Thanks again, Chicago. I hardly knew ye. Since she works only four blocks from the station but had meetings all morning, I was turned loose in the city. However, I had nowhere to stash my bags, which limited me to staring up at big buildings, eating a leisurely lunch, and wandering around enormous Union Station to kill the few hours before my train.
2:00 p.m. After being disappointed on every leg of the trip, I finally had Amish on board! I kept my ears tuned for Low German to see what I could pick up, courtesy of my grandparents.
2:15 p.m. I realized this would be my first and only trip without an overnight. By this time, I felt like I could do eight hours standing on my head. Before pulling out of the station, I saw a monk in orange robes pause to take digital pictures of the train as he boarded. Who knew? They're tourists, too.
3:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. The guy across the aisle from me introduced himself as "Kay," a college student from Nigeria, and popped over for a conversation. When he learned I was an editor, he wanted opinions on his English skills. He also mentioned that he was considering moving to Minnesota because Michigan was too cold, which is like moving to the Sahara because Arizona is too hot. I issued the appropriate warning about local winters and considered my work done.
5:00 p.m. I escaped to the lounge car to journal. During that time, the guy behind me said the following about train travel: "I used to fly airplanes. I've seen everything you can see from 30,000 feet, and let me tell you, it ain't this!" The fields were golden, the trees were red, I had a Mountain Dew and some honey roasted peanuts and only a few hours till home. It was heaven.
6:00 p.m. Kay joined me at my table with the hot dog he'd just purchased. He asked me if I was going to eat, and I said no, I didn't have far to go, and I wasn't hungry. He then asked if I liked hot dogs, and I said, "They're okay." He disappeared briefly and returned with a hot dog and apple juice (what a combo) intended for me. A super nice gesture, but I really wasn't hungry and wasn't about to choke it down to be polite, so I told him I'd eat it later.
7:00 p.m. In the course of our second conversation, Kay told me several interesting things. First, that I "look very serious" and like I "don't have many friends." Second, that I would look better without my glasses. Third, that I "look Chinese" in the picture he took of us. Okay. His intentions were good, but the execution could have used some work. Nevertheless, we spent a pleasant hour working a word find book together until he got sleepy and I suggested we both return to our separate seats for some shuteye. Of course, I had to take the hot dog with me.
8:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. I pretended to be sound asleep to get some time to myself, since Kay had begun checking in with me for everything. At one point, as I headed downstairs to the bathroom, I heard a voice behind me: "Courtney, are you all right?" I turned to find him on the stairs looking concerned. Again, well intentioned and probably just a cultural difference, but clingy.
10:15 p.m. That damn hot dog was still sitting on my tray table, and I kicked myself for not ditching it while Kay was napping, because he made a point to remind me not to waste it. So, when I got off the train in St. Paul, I had to zip the stupid thing into my bag to avoid looking ungrateful.
11:00 p.m. Kay and I bid farewell, and I left with Christian, my late-night chauffeur. When he asked for the details of why I'd been hugging an African dude near the luggage return, I could only reply that it had been an interesting end to the trip. And I had a wiener in my backpack to prove it.
Stay tuned for the epilogue.
My very forgiving friend Deidra picked me up at close to 11:00 p.m. at the station, after numerous (and nebulous, since I had no accurate arrival info) text messages. We were supposed to have an entire day together to catch up, but since I got cheated out of eight hours while trapped on the Zephyr, we ended up with about an hour to chat before hitting the hay. However, we did drive past Millennium Park and Navy Pier and the Art Institute on our way to her condo. It was the quickie tour.
The next morning, I rode back into downtown with her. During this trip, she got pulled over and ticketed for having expired license tags. Thanks again, Chicago. I hardly knew ye. Since she works only four blocks from the station but had meetings all morning, I was turned loose in the city. However, I had nowhere to stash my bags, which limited me to staring up at big buildings, eating a leisurely lunch, and wandering around enormous Union Station to kill the few hours before my train.
2:00 p.m. After being disappointed on every leg of the trip, I finally had Amish on board! I kept my ears tuned for Low German to see what I could pick up, courtesy of my grandparents.
2:15 p.m. I realized this would be my first and only trip without an overnight. By this time, I felt like I could do eight hours standing on my head. Before pulling out of the station, I saw a monk in orange robes pause to take digital pictures of the train as he boarded. Who knew? They're tourists, too.
3:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. The guy across the aisle from me introduced himself as "Kay," a college student from Nigeria, and popped over for a conversation. When he learned I was an editor, he wanted opinions on his English skills. He also mentioned that he was considering moving to Minnesota because Michigan was too cold, which is like moving to the Sahara because Arizona is too hot. I issued the appropriate warning about local winters and considered my work done.
5:00 p.m. I escaped to the lounge car to journal. During that time, the guy behind me said the following about train travel: "I used to fly airplanes. I've seen everything you can see from 30,000 feet, and let me tell you, it ain't this!" The fields were golden, the trees were red, I had a Mountain Dew and some honey roasted peanuts and only a few hours till home. It was heaven.
6:00 p.m. Kay joined me at my table with the hot dog he'd just purchased. He asked me if I was going to eat, and I said no, I didn't have far to go, and I wasn't hungry. He then asked if I liked hot dogs, and I said, "They're okay." He disappeared briefly and returned with a hot dog and apple juice (what a combo) intended for me. A super nice gesture, but I really wasn't hungry and wasn't about to choke it down to be polite, so I told him I'd eat it later.
7:00 p.m. In the course of our second conversation, Kay told me several interesting things. First, that I "look very serious" and like I "don't have many friends." Second, that I would look better without my glasses. Third, that I "look Chinese" in the picture he took of us. Okay. His intentions were good, but the execution could have used some work. Nevertheless, we spent a pleasant hour working a word find book together until he got sleepy and I suggested we both return to our separate seats for some shuteye. Of course, I had to take the hot dog with me.
8:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. I pretended to be sound asleep to get some time to myself, since Kay had begun checking in with me for everything. At one point, as I headed downstairs to the bathroom, I heard a voice behind me: "Courtney, are you all right?" I turned to find him on the stairs looking concerned. Again, well intentioned and probably just a cultural difference, but clingy.
10:15 p.m. That damn hot dog was still sitting on my tray table, and I kicked myself for not ditching it while Kay was napping, because he made a point to remind me not to waste it. So, when I got off the train in St. Paul, I had to zip the stupid thing into my bag to avoid looking ungrateful.
11:00 p.m. Kay and I bid farewell, and I left with Christian, my late-night chauffeur. When he asked for the details of why I'd been hugging an African dude near the luggage return, I could only reply that it had been an interesting end to the trip. And I had a wiener in my backpack to prove it.
Stay tuned for the epilogue.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Day 12: More Revenge of the Zephyr
When last we left our intrepid traveler, the car attendant had eloquently estimated our arrival time as "ain't gonna be no 2:50." Shortly after that, the conductor announced that he couldn't even begin to make an accurate guess, so we were left to our own devices.
2:00 p.m. I sat reading a book, while the guy behind me kept making threats on his cell phone. I gathered that he wanted his girlfriend (or ex-girlfriend?) to send him money in Chicago, because he knew he would now be stuck there. Evidently she was being difficult, because he said this: "You better send me my money, or I'm gonna send my mama, my sister, and my baby mama over to your house!" He followed it with: "Bitch, I been on a train for two days! What the fuck you mean, 'What's wrong?'" But my favorite nugget of wisdom came from a conversation he had with a friend: "You know why I'm always gonna be alright? Cuz I'm a good nigga, man. Yeah. I may not be where I wanna be, but I'm always gonna be alright."
3:00 p.m. The conductor announced our arrival time as "7:00 at the earliest." I saw Jennifer and Tom's authentic American vacation adventure fall apart at the seams.
3:45 p.m. to 5:45 p.m. We sat at a standstill in the middle of a cornfield ("like dummies," according to one lady) waiting for freight traffic, since we no longer had the right of way. I went to the lounge car because the kid was still screaming. You wouldn't think a kid could yell for 24 hours, but you'd be wrong. The noisy one was about 18 months, but his 3-year-old sister was also on board. The mom wedged them in next to the window and slept while they wailed. Periodically, a frazzled passenger would offer to walk them up the aisles or play with them, and she would apathetically nod while she continued to text on her phone.
6:00 p.m. The mood in the lounge car took a dangerous turn when the cafe attendant announced that we'd run out of most food ... and booze. Add this to the fact that none of the smokers had had a break since 5 a.m., and you've got a semi-scary pit of frustration brewing on board. Everyone was angrily calling Amtrak to figure out what to do after missing their connecting trains, flights, hotel reservations, White House tours, etc. The skinny blonde makeout guy turned out to be a real smartass who basically tried to incite a riot. At one point, a random lady in the car yelled, "Oh, Lord, we gon' DIE on this train!"
6:30 p.m. I chatted with a super awkward Asian dude who kept asking me weird ice-breaker questions. "So what would you say your most memorable college experience was?" I wondered if he was reading them off a prepared list.
7:00 p.m. They announced they were feeding us all a complimentary meal in the dining car, so we all piled in for "chicken fricassee," which is short for cubed chicken ladled over rice. Plus apple juice. It was underwhelming but went a long way to quell some ugly attitudes.
8:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. We continued to crawl and stop, crawl and stop. The conductor gave up talking to us ages ago, apparently, and nobody would give us any clue about where we were or how much longer it would be. The car attendant's standard response became, "I got no idea, man. I on't know," which was helpful.
10:00 p.m. I thought to myself, "I just want to get off this train before I hit menopause."
10:15 p.m. We finally pulled into Union Station. Miraculously, the conductor managed to get on the intercom to announce this very obvious fact. The lack of communication was appalling. You know who had been communicating, though? The high-maintenance woman across the aisle and the cafe car attendant. They appeared to have made a love connection during our ordeal and exchanged numbers and plans to fricassee each other later that night.
10:30 p.m. We all disembarked and walked down the length of the train while the driver of a luggage/passenger vehicle honked and yelled at us. It was quite the welcome to the Windy City.
2:00 p.m. I sat reading a book, while the guy behind me kept making threats on his cell phone. I gathered that he wanted his girlfriend (or ex-girlfriend?) to send him money in Chicago, because he knew he would now be stuck there. Evidently she was being difficult, because he said this: "You better send me my money, or I'm gonna send my mama, my sister, and my baby mama over to your house!" He followed it with: "Bitch, I been on a train for two days! What the fuck you mean, 'What's wrong?'" But my favorite nugget of wisdom came from a conversation he had with a friend: "You know why I'm always gonna be alright? Cuz I'm a good nigga, man. Yeah. I may not be where I wanna be, but I'm always gonna be alright."
3:00 p.m. The conductor announced our arrival time as "7:00 at the earliest." I saw Jennifer and Tom's authentic American vacation adventure fall apart at the seams.
3:45 p.m. to 5:45 p.m. We sat at a standstill in the middle of a cornfield ("like dummies," according to one lady) waiting for freight traffic, since we no longer had the right of way. I went to the lounge car because the kid was still screaming. You wouldn't think a kid could yell for 24 hours, but you'd be wrong. The noisy one was about 18 months, but his 3-year-old sister was also on board. The mom wedged them in next to the window and slept while they wailed. Periodically, a frazzled passenger would offer to walk them up the aisles or play with them, and she would apathetically nod while she continued to text on her phone.
6:00 p.m. The mood in the lounge car took a dangerous turn when the cafe attendant announced that we'd run out of most food ... and booze. Add this to the fact that none of the smokers had had a break since 5 a.m., and you've got a semi-scary pit of frustration brewing on board. Everyone was angrily calling Amtrak to figure out what to do after missing their connecting trains, flights, hotel reservations, White House tours, etc. The skinny blonde makeout guy turned out to be a real smartass who basically tried to incite a riot. At one point, a random lady in the car yelled, "Oh, Lord, we gon' DIE on this train!"
6:30 p.m. I chatted with a super awkward Asian dude who kept asking me weird ice-breaker questions. "So what would you say your most memorable college experience was?" I wondered if he was reading them off a prepared list.
7:00 p.m. They announced they were feeding us all a complimentary meal in the dining car, so we all piled in for "chicken fricassee," which is short for cubed chicken ladled over rice. Plus apple juice. It was underwhelming but went a long way to quell some ugly attitudes.
8:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. We continued to crawl and stop, crawl and stop. The conductor gave up talking to us ages ago, apparently, and nobody would give us any clue about where we were or how much longer it would be. The car attendant's standard response became, "I got no idea, man. I on't know," which was helpful.
10:00 p.m. I thought to myself, "I just want to get off this train before I hit menopause."
10:15 p.m. We finally pulled into Union Station. Miraculously, the conductor managed to get on the intercom to announce this very obvious fact. The lack of communication was appalling. You know who had been communicating, though? The high-maintenance woman across the aisle and the cafe car attendant. They appeared to have made a love connection during our ordeal and exchanged numbers and plans to fricassee each other later that night.
10:30 p.m. We all disembarked and walked down the length of the train while the driver of a luggage/passenger vehicle honked and yelled at us. It was quite the welcome to the Windy City.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Day 12: Revenge of the Zephyr
Trip Leg #4: Denver to Chicago. 1,038 miles. 26 hours (give or take 8).
I should have known it was going to be a weird trip when there was a guy in the station wearing an old-fashioned top hat and a girl who loudly declared to anyone who would listen that she was "leaving a bad relationship" and had an arm in a sling to prove it.
This was again the California Zephyr, just the second half of the route. And, as it turns out, the awesome Zephyr's evil twin.
7:45 p.m. Finally boarded after a brief delay and ended up sitting next to a not-unattractive guy who was unfortunately wearing strange, lederhosen-esque shorts. Surprisingly, he was not traveling with the two German guys who sat in the lounge car and talked at the top of their lungs, secure in the anonymity of a foreign language.
8:00 p.m. There was already a little kid crying.
8:01 p.m. to midnight. More crying.
12:01 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. Yep, still crying.
5:00 a.m. We pulled into Omaha where, due to bridge construction ahead, everyone except the Chicago-bound people had to get off and board buses to their destinations in between. The conductor promised the rest of us "non-stop service" to Chicago, with the caveat that we were being rerouted to a Union Pacific line. This meant, of course, that we would need a Union Pacific locomotive and a Union Pacific engineer, so we sat stalled while these changes took place for a good two hours. I stared out my window with sleepy eyes at a skinny blonde dude and his girlfriend, who engaged in an hour-long, intermittent makeout session during their farewells.
7:00 a.m. It was about this time that the high-maintenance chick sitting across the aisle from me snapped, having been forced to listen to yet another terrible snorer behind us. She stood up and yelled, "Who's DOING that? Shut UP!" Uh, newsflash, genius: when people are snoring, that usually means they're asleep, and therefore unable to hear you.
8:00 a.m. I headed to the dining car for breakfast and got seated with Jennifer and Tom from Manchester. (I know what you're thinking. Was Amtrak just an international cavalcade of fun? Yes. Yes, it was.) Oh, plus Nancy from Madison, Wisconsin. We had a very pleasant conversation, during which Tom actually used the word "gobsmacked" and Jennifer instructed me on how to travel cheaply in London, Italy, and Venice. They'd started their trip in San Francisco and were off to New York before heading home on the Queen Mary.
9:00 a.m. to noon. I napped a bit but still managed to overhear the man behind me state that "Ain't no white person in their right mind," and that he wanted to "slap erry one of 'em." Another woman behind me was hacking so loudly that I was convinced she had black lung and needed immediate medical attention. During this period, we were stopping about every 10 minutes waiting for maintenance crews to get off the track.
12:15 p.m. Did I mention that the kid was still crying?
12:30 p.m. When someone asked the car attendant how far behind schedule we were, he simply replied, "I on't know. But it ain't gonna be no 2:50." You, sir, are a prophet.
To be continued.
I should have known it was going to be a weird trip when there was a guy in the station wearing an old-fashioned top hat and a girl who loudly declared to anyone who would listen that she was "leaving a bad relationship" and had an arm in a sling to prove it.
This was again the California Zephyr, just the second half of the route. And, as it turns out, the awesome Zephyr's evil twin.
7:45 p.m. Finally boarded after a brief delay and ended up sitting next to a not-unattractive guy who was unfortunately wearing strange, lederhosen-esque shorts. Surprisingly, he was not traveling with the two German guys who sat in the lounge car and talked at the top of their lungs, secure in the anonymity of a foreign language.
8:00 p.m. There was already a little kid crying.
8:01 p.m. to midnight. More crying.
12:01 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. Yep, still crying.
5:00 a.m. We pulled into Omaha where, due to bridge construction ahead, everyone except the Chicago-bound people had to get off and board buses to their destinations in between. The conductor promised the rest of us "non-stop service" to Chicago, with the caveat that we were being rerouted to a Union Pacific line. This meant, of course, that we would need a Union Pacific locomotive and a Union Pacific engineer, so we sat stalled while these changes took place for a good two hours. I stared out my window with sleepy eyes at a skinny blonde dude and his girlfriend, who engaged in an hour-long, intermittent makeout session during their farewells.
7:00 a.m. It was about this time that the high-maintenance chick sitting across the aisle from me snapped, having been forced to listen to yet another terrible snorer behind us. She stood up and yelled, "Who's DOING that? Shut UP!" Uh, newsflash, genius: when people are snoring, that usually means they're asleep, and therefore unable to hear you.
8:00 a.m. I headed to the dining car for breakfast and got seated with Jennifer and Tom from Manchester. (I know what you're thinking. Was Amtrak just an international cavalcade of fun? Yes. Yes, it was.) Oh, plus Nancy from Madison, Wisconsin. We had a very pleasant conversation, during which Tom actually used the word "gobsmacked" and Jennifer instructed me on how to travel cheaply in London, Italy, and Venice. They'd started their trip in San Francisco and were off to New York before heading home on the Queen Mary.
9:00 a.m. to noon. I napped a bit but still managed to overhear the man behind me state that "Ain't no white person in their right mind," and that he wanted to "slap erry one of 'em." Another woman behind me was hacking so loudly that I was convinced she had black lung and needed immediate medical attention. During this period, we were stopping about every 10 minutes waiting for maintenance crews to get off the track.
12:15 p.m. Did I mention that the kid was still crying?
12:30 p.m. When someone asked the car attendant how far behind schedule we were, he simply replied, "I on't know. But it ain't gonna be no 2:50." You, sir, are a prophet.
To be continued.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Days 10-11: Denver
When my train pulled in to Denver at about 6:30, I was disappointed to find that the regular Union Station (a glorious, cavernous, picturesque piece of history) was under construction. Thus, we were re-routed to a small cinderblock "station" nearby that was as small as it was sad.
As I stepped onto the street, my cow-eyed lounge car companion, my burly seatmate, and two other (more outgoing) Australians had formed a posse that was determined to find a liquor store and stock up, even though it's illegal to bring your own booze onto a train and/or drink it in your seat. I wished them luck in their quest, doubting they would make it back in time but hopeful for the fortunes of the nearest long-range taxi driver.
My friend Katie picked me up and we drove about an hour to Colorado Springs, where she lives and works as a photo archivist at a library. I mention her profession only because it has endowed her with a wealth of knowledge about the area, meaning that I essentially had my own personal historical guide. Here are some highlights from my visit.
Garden of the Gods. We strolled through this beautiful park at the foot of Pikes Peak, getting some sun and watching several novice rock climbers panic in their attempts to scale the huge red boulders scattered about.
Manitou Springs. We spent the majority of our time in this cute, touristy town at the Penny Arcade, where I put a penny in a machine reading "Advice for Single Women," and it told me to "Try Necking." Point taken. We then got hooked on an old horse-racing game with a skee ball theme, and I hit a hot streak that resulted in 70 points, which got converted into a hot pink shot glass with a tikki theme. Item of note: as we walked past some squat buildings on the main street, Katie pointed out that they used to be TB huts back in the day. I remarked that if I had a business in one of them, I'd make it a train store and call it Consumption Junction. Without missing a beat, Katie replied that she'd have a restaurant called Conspicuous Consumption. Advantage: Katie.
The Olympic Training Center. We arrived just before the free tour started, which began with a very patriotic 15-minute video montage of Americans kicking ass. It ended with a personal tour of the facility by an aspiring Olympic athlete, in this case a 90-lb. female weightlifter who admitted in Tonya Harding-like fashion that there was "one girl ahead of her" that she "had to get rid of" before she'd make it to London in 2012. Do tell!
The DAM. We spent most of Sunday at the Denver Art Museum, which was fantastic. Downtown Denver is quite inviting. After stopping for a lovely lunch at a pub, getting yet another ice cream (Josh and John, meet Little Man!), and taking a walk along the river in the gorgeous late afternoon light, it was time to ride the rails once again.
Little did I know that my trip from Denver to Chicago would go horribly, hilariously wrong.
As I stepped onto the street, my cow-eyed lounge car companion, my burly seatmate, and two other (more outgoing) Australians had formed a posse that was determined to find a liquor store and stock up, even though it's illegal to bring your own booze onto a train and/or drink it in your seat. I wished them luck in their quest, doubting they would make it back in time but hopeful for the fortunes of the nearest long-range taxi driver.
My friend Katie picked me up and we drove about an hour to Colorado Springs, where she lives and works as a photo archivist at a library. I mention her profession only because it has endowed her with a wealth of knowledge about the area, meaning that I essentially had my own personal historical guide. Here are some highlights from my visit.
Garden of the Gods. We strolled through this beautiful park at the foot of Pikes Peak, getting some sun and watching several novice rock climbers panic in their attempts to scale the huge red boulders scattered about.
Manitou Springs. We spent the majority of our time in this cute, touristy town at the Penny Arcade, where I put a penny in a machine reading "Advice for Single Women," and it told me to "Try Necking." Point taken. We then got hooked on an old horse-racing game with a skee ball theme, and I hit a hot streak that resulted in 70 points, which got converted into a hot pink shot glass with a tikki theme. Item of note: as we walked past some squat buildings on the main street, Katie pointed out that they used to be TB huts back in the day. I remarked that if I had a business in one of them, I'd make it a train store and call it Consumption Junction. Without missing a beat, Katie replied that she'd have a restaurant called Conspicuous Consumption. Advantage: Katie.
The Olympic Training Center. We arrived just before the free tour started, which began with a very patriotic 15-minute video montage of Americans kicking ass. It ended with a personal tour of the facility by an aspiring Olympic athlete, in this case a 90-lb. female weightlifter who admitted in Tonya Harding-like fashion that there was "one girl ahead of her" that she "had to get rid of" before she'd make it to London in 2012. Do tell!
The DAM. We spent most of Sunday at the Denver Art Museum, which was fantastic. Downtown Denver is quite inviting. After stopping for a lovely lunch at a pub, getting yet another ice cream (Josh and John, meet Little Man!), and taking a walk along the river in the gorgeous late afternoon light, it was time to ride the rails once again.
Little did I know that my trip from Denver to Chicago would go horribly, hilariously wrong.
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