Approaching Fullerton

I'm excited to be on a train where everything works! 

The coach seats on this double-decker Amtrak Surfliner have many comfortable, ergonomic features and subtle points of adjustment, something the 1970's era Southwest Chief did not have, making it a much better place to relax and write the next great American novel. My feet just found an adjustable, padded footrest and there's a big tray that folds out in front of me! 

There are plenty of electrical outlets located next to our handsome upholstered seats and an abundance of nearby overhead storage. Best of all, a spacious, well-designed, clean restroom has helped restore my hygiene as well as any hope I may still have for the future of passenger train travel in America.

A passenger's comfort in coach on the Surfliner is not an afterthought, as it seems to be on many passenger trains. Relaxation and on-time departures and arrivals are business as usual on this handsome train that runs between San Diego and San Luis Obispo, a distance of 350 miles, 11 times a day. The train averages a speed of 40 miles an hour, sometimes reaching up to 90 miles per hour.

I  hear you scoff. You compare that 90 mph to the Brits and the Japanese who zip around their tiny countries at speeds of over 200 mph. Well, all I've got to say to that is that — God forbid there was an accident — I'd much rather be in a heavy American train that was flying off the tracks at 90mph. 

The conductor's voice comes through loud and clear on the public address system, most unusual for Amtrak, "Next stop San Juan Capistrano!"

We cruise along at over 80 mph and pass a few old Pullman Cars parked along the side of the tracks. Railfans call those classic cars "Private Varnish" since they are owned by people who have enough money to attach themselves onto an Amtrak train when they want to go somewhere: They are the true one-percenters.

The conductor is friendly and snaps a photograph of me in my seat. 

Monday, May 20. 8 a.m.

I'm aboard the Surfliner again, this time heading back to Los Angeles Union Station. My friend Joe and I had an excellent time together at his home in San Juan Capistrano eating, drinking, smoking, joking and carousing. 

We ate at a pleasant outdoor café near the ocean, drinking excellent local homebrews, eating chowder, crab, fresh mussels and other assorted delights, my treat: $70 with tip, followed by a Sushi bar with Sake, $40 Joe’s treat.

We staggered back to Joe's bungalow and stayed up late into the night talking. Ours is a friendship that has lasted 35 years and has been well worth the energy, effort, and money that it takes to keep such things on track. 

I can go years without saying a word to Joe but once I pick up the phone, he will recognize my voice right away. And when we meet, it is as though no time had elapsed.

I confess: I don't like calling people on the telephone. When I was young, my parents insisted that we keep our conversations short because those calls used to get very expensive. Now calls are pretty much free, but I can't get into the habit of calling people. And if I do ring up people, I struggle to keep a conversation going.

Because when everything is said and done, I don't have much to say. I draw a blank when it comes to my recent accomplishments, and since I hate to gossip, the conversation can become even more lacking.

So this is a dilemma that will probably never be solved because I hate talking on phones as much as other people hate putting pen to paper.

Now I'm struggling with my bags as I transfer to a city bus upon my arrival at Los Angeles Union Station.

Tuesday, May 21. 9:30 a.m.

The connection from the Amtrak Surfliner to the city bus, the 401North, was uneventful. After arriving at Union Station, I walked a few blocks uphill, pulling my big bag and carry-on on a two-wheeled luggage cart secured with long bungee cords. 

The 401 North bus comes every 10 minutes during the morning and costs only $2.35.  In 20 minutes I was transported 16 miles to within four blocks of Mother’s new retirement home, an eight-story complex in Pasadena.

The people on the clean city bus were amiable and helpful with my luggage. My bags were blocking access and making it difficult for people to enter and exit. One fellow with the most bizarre crossed eyes, who did not own a car, seemed to know everything there was to know about getting around Pasadena and I did not hesitate to pick his brain for information.

I arrived at Mom's retirement home's in a downpour after having walked the distance from the bus stop to the front door in my water-resistant anorak. The rain did not bother me at all even though I was quickly soaked. Indeed I felt grateful for it. This whole region needs lots and lots of rain to recover from a relentless drought, and I'm not going to jinx this downpour by cursing it.

Pasadena is a lovely town, full of history, shopping and lots of affordable restaurants, especially downtown in its historic district. After cruising Colorado Blvd for an hour, we found the “Fortune Chinese Restaurant,” a tidy little place on Raymond St., a few blocks off Colorado. Mother and I sat by some of the cleanest windows I have ever seen. My how clean windows make a world of difference, both on a train and in a restaurant!

We had the place to ourselves, and I ordered shrimp in lobster sauce, and mom ordered sweet and sour chicken. The meal came with a  pot of tea, an egg roll, as well as a bowl of sweet and sour soup — the total cost with 15 percent tip came to $11. Service, presentation, price, and ambiance were all excellent. What more can a person ask?

After I settled into Mom’s spacious new  apartment, I  was impressed with its high ceilings and airy ventilation. This place is not as stuffy as her previous place.  I also noticed the robust architecture and safety features throughout, especially in the bathroom which featured grab bars on the walls to prevent falls. 

The spacious bathroom has tile throughout, and you can walk directly into the shower without having to step into a bathtub, another nice feature.

Selma picked us me up at 6:30 last night and we went to see the movie “About a Boy,” featuring Hugh Grant. It was a great English movie about a selfish, carefree, single guy who gets it into his head that the most desirable women are single mothers. He hooks up with one and incidentally meets her darling son to whom he becomes unabashedly attached.

We were held spellbound for the entire film, consuming two huge buckets of popcorn and two  mega cups of diet coke. We shared the popcorn buckets, of course, and the cup had two straws. The deal is that you buy the huge ones, you get a free refill. 

Now a new day beckons and I am determined to help Mom find a Costco nearby and also get some maps from the Automotive Automobile Association. She does not know the town all that well and perhaps, in the next couple of days, we can both get to know it a little better.

4:30 p.m. My cousin Gail, the daughter of my recently departed Uncle Jack, is going to be here in about an hour to make my re-acquaintance after many, many years.

This morning Mother and I shopped and also found the neighborhood Costco, not that close, really. We stocked up on Glucosamine Sulfate at Costco and bought a new remote control for the TV set and a new telephone, as well.

Mom's remote control device had reached its "end of life" ages ago, and the mere punching of its buttons aggravated the pain in my tennis elbow. 

When I complained, Mom said, “if it’s so hard to press the buttons on the remote, then maybe you shouldn’t watch TV.” And I agreed, which was not exactly the response she expected. 

That old remote had seen better days, and I was not about to press those buttons till I popped a muscle. Mom said my complaints were a trivial thing, but I disagreed. 

So much of Mom's life these days revolves around watching TV. I could see her setting her body up for an ergonomic injury. Not to mention the stress of dealing with a worn out remote.

So in short, Mom paid $8.99 fora new remote control. I popped in the batteries and Voila! It worked: Volume, channel changer, on-off switch, the whole nine yards. Her new telephone worked well, too. It has lots of neat features like ten memory buttons and a volume regulator. And that only set her back eight bucks!

Mom was starving by the time we made it through the checkout line at Costco and she insisted on grabbing some lunch at their delicatessen. 

I got a slice of pizza and Mom bought a Hebrew National Kosher Hot Dog with all the fixings. She loved it and called my attention to the fact that just about everybody around us was also eating hot dogs as well. 

The thought of eating a hot dog, after living with food purist Jennifer so long, was kind of repulsive to me at the time. But judging from the delight everybody seemed to be having  I think maybe I should overcome my hesitation and indulge in one of America’s most beloved pastimes: a hot dog and, my personal favorite: a raspberry flavored Nestea.

Wednesday, May 22. 8:30 a.m.

My cousin Gail and I had a pleasant 15-minute visit before she had to up and run. It had been 13 years since I had last seen her and she hadn't changed a bit and said neither had I. After getting things as up-to-date as we possibly could during her brief fifteen-minute stay, she left like a whirlwind.

Mom, Selma and I jumped in the car and headed for a small French restaurant whose whereabouts we vaguely knew. We were going to celebrate Selma’s birthday, and it was Mom’s treat. Sadly, Mom had left her hand-written directions at home and was practically in tears when she realized that she had forgotten them.

Our collective memories proved to be somewhat intact. After all, how many French Bistros can there possibly be in a given three-block radius? As we circled the target area, Mom poked her head out the driver-side window and asked a stranger for directions. He pointed us to the restaurant, and in the end, we were only 15 minutes late for our reservation.

It was a pleasant restaurant, the Beau-ja-lay  Café — or something along those lines. A bit of France in Pasadena with a waiter who spoke with a lovely accent, excellent food (tiny portions though) and a final bill that required a strong constitution.

I ordered duck, and everybody else ordered beef and fries. I order duck every chance I get in the hope that I may someday get a duck as good as the duck I once ordered at a Chinese Restaurant in Iowa city, during a legendary car trip Jennifer and I once took to visit her hometownj.

The duck sucked. Why is it that nothing can compare with the duck I ate in Iowa city? Or the pork ribs I ate at the Coop in Iowa City? Or even the turkey focaccia I chowed down on at a sandwich shop in Iowa City? 

There something magical about Iowa City, food and my palate, by God! In Iowa City what I ordered looked like a duck, tasted like a duck and was, in short, definitely duck. Every other time I get order duck, I get some small cut from a breast, I guess, almost like cold cuts. Nothing to write home about.

The server at the French restaurant was worth writing home about, however: He was a lovely young man with smooth, strong arms and a lively demeanor. I could not take my eyes off of him — the best part of the meal. Now I’m off on my own for the afternoon to explore Pasadena before I begin to pack for the rest of my journey.

Thursday, May 23. 9:45 a.m.

I am sitting at a window seat aboard the Coast Starlight a vintage 1970 doubledecker streamliner. This train is exactly like the Southwest Chief and nothing like the Surfliner.

This morning I took the 410 South bus from Pasadena to about a block away from Union Station. The bus was empty when I got on the train and standing room only when I got off. As usual, the bus driver was very kind and didn’t seem to mind all my luggage. I occupied a wheelchair location and managed to stay out of everybody’s way this time.

I spent yesterday at the Huntington Museum, just down the road from Mom’s retirement home. I was a bit pressed for time but managed to see Huntington’s art museum, book collection, and gardens in the space of three hours.

The art museum has three portraits by my main man, Sir Thomas Lawrence. His most famous painting is, of course, Pinky (1794), which hangs opposite The Blue Boy (1770) by Thomas Gainsborough. They are so perfectly juxtaposed and balanced in the main gallery that each guarantees the other’s claim to fame. (Fun fact: An X-ray of the Blue Boy revealed that a dog sat at his feet at one time.)

I marveled at a page from the Guttenberg Bible printed on vellum, a page from Audubon's "Birds of America" double elephant folio, and an exhibit dedicated to the works of William Morris who was a fan of simple accessible language and elegant typography.

Morris was keen on art deco borders that appear to be his claim to fame. I found them a bit busy, to be honest, but could not help but wonder at the way this man, who supposedly never set a line of type, could coordinate the craftsmanship of a dozen artisans to produce works of art that were in faultless execution and excruciating in their detail.

10:15 a.m. 

After I returned home from the Huntington Library, Mom prepared a delicious lunch. Generally, I do not care for her cooking, but this meal was very, very good. She took a salmon filet and fried it in olive oil and seasoning. “Seared” is the word that comes to mind to describe the method of cooking.

Complementing the meal was fresh corn on the cob (I ate two) and creamy mashed potatoes. Delicious! The salad was of the pre-packaged variety, not so great, but certainly edible. I wolfed everything down quickly. I was starving!

I met up with Selma and Fred for a party celebrating the publication of an enormous book on Cuban art, written by a genuine Cuban immigrant. The host prepared an outstanding lasagna dish, and there was plenty of food for everybody. 

I particularly enjoyed checking out the furnishings. Everything looking like it came from the ’50s, from the black bakelite electric metronome by the rosewood piano, to the old Amana microwave, to the chrome kitchen chairs. 

You know all of those pictures you see of Cuban cities with old American cars from the ’50s that have been kept running forever? I could not help wondering if the furnishings in the apartment were rescued from the dump and lovingly taken apart, repaired, cleaned and reassembled. 

Generally, when I walk into a place that has such old appliances and furnishings, I am tempted to describe it as frozen in time, like a fly trapped in amber. I was transported back in time, but the furnishing was as fresh and perfect as brand new.

I mingled with the guests and was a regular social butterfly. And I felt a certain gratification at being welcome among strangers and taken seriously as a creative individual even though I  will not give up my mundane day job of running a copy center for a bunch of engineers.

 Our visit to the colorful artists lasted a brief hour, “hit and run” as Fred calls it, and we left just as I was contemplating my third generous helping of Lasagna. Back to Selma’s place where I played with her new state of the art Macintosh computer. I tried to set up a Hotmail account and Instant Messaging with no success.

It’s a lovely computer, looking very much like something you’d expect to see on Star Trek or in a museum, with a flat display jutting from a half-sphere base like a modern swan sculpture by Brancusi or Henri Moore. But, in the end, it’s still a fucking computer with all the problems that plague computers. And, if you try to force a solution, the damn thing talks to you in a calm female voice. A bit unsettling to say the least.

Anyway, I could not connect or download  Hotmail properly and eventually gave up for the evening since we were all quite exhausted. I do believe I have got her interested in Instant Messaging or texting, and am hopeful she will figure out how to finish the downloading process we barely began. I don’t blame her computer by the way. I believe the problem lies in the server or Microsoft.

4 p.m. Back on board the Coast Starlight

We are passing through a sun-stroked landscape called the San Suzanna Mountains.  This region features three tunnels, including one that is 1½ miles long!) Filming for Mash and The Lone Ranger took place here. 

The train appears to be half full, and I am thinking I may have two seats to myself. Traveling the Coast Starlight on a weekday may have proven to be an act of genius.

The recently restored Glendale train station proudly greets visitors with its historic plaque. If intercity travel can thrive and flourish in this day and age, I have hope that it can revive in other parts of the country, as well. We are being given plenty of time to enjoy the station’s flowing Spanish architectural detail since the electrical power in this old train has just failed.

We are staying on schedule and winding our way through the hills above San Luis Obispo, making 180-degree horseshoe turns so long you can see the engines in front and the last locomotive and the caboose at the same time! The last car is "private varnish" attached to the Amtrak train (en route to the Indianapolis 500).

Our train is climbing and sometimes going down steep angles, doing things I never thought a passenger train could do. We are far removed from the four-lane highway beneath us. My ears are popping as we climb higher and higher, moving at what feels like 30 or 40 mph. 

The tracks are not in the greatest of shape, but the ride is tolerable at this speed, and the view is breathtaking. The coach is very comfortable, friendly and chilly, just the way I like it and the train is non-smoking. I can tell the difference, and I think it’s great. 

We are going through lots and lots of long tunnels and my oh my, they are dark. 

Although this is all very exciting and lovely, the highlight of the train ride so far was skirting the coastline between Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo, especially the part that passes through the thousands and thousands of acres of pristine land that makes up Vandenberg, the nation’s third largest Air Force Base.

Our nation’s Air Force Base not only helps protect us, but they also protect our coastlands, wildlife, and prairies. One might see an occasional radar station, a geodesic dome, a launch pad or landing strip but one must struggle to find them. There are not even public roads going through this place, for security reasons. But Amtrak goes straight through the base and gives us a front row seat to an American treasure.

This marks the end of the THIRTY-SECOND installment of "The Last Hoorah." If you'd like to start from the beginning, then please click this page.

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