Amtrak Theater on the Texas Eagle

[This event happened on my train ride to Texas in February of this year.  It's taken me this long to recover from the shock and put down into words the unique experience that was the beginning of my trip around the US.]

I think this one of those rare instances where life takes a hold of you and and shakes you and reminds you that you're not in control. That can be a good thing...sometimes. At the beginning of this trip it seemed pretty horrible.  I was already bummed because I had not been able to get a window seat for the 40 hour train ride to Texas.  One of the reasons I had for taking the train was to see America from 15 feet instead of 30,000.  I was not expecting a full train.  When Sean and I had taken the overnight train to Flagstaff a few years back there was plenty of room to move about and sit wherever.

As I sat there waiting for my 40 hour best friend to arrive, I was anxious.  Please be a grand mother, or a nice mellow hippie person.  Not an oil rig worker, thug rapper ex-con or CEO.  I didn't even have to look up, the smell of alcohol arrived well before my seat mate took his prized window seat next to me.  The guy looked to be in his late 20's and right away we were uncomfortable with each other. I'll call him Bob. Me being corporate bred and uptight, him being a hard partying, hard drinking, deep voiced dude. As the seats around us filled, it was clear he was going to be more comfortable with his surroundings than I was.  Before we had even left the station the guy across the aisle had raided the cafe and returned with a tray full of Corona's, and was bragging how soon he would be heading back to get the rest.  He was heartily cheered by those around us.

Directly behind my partner was an African American gentleman in his late 50's, early 60's who loved to talk, "Communication, it's all about communication".  I'll call him Ernie.  I'm not using real names just in case I run into any of them on a train again. Plus I've already forgotten them anyway.  I never saw the guy directly behind me, but I could tell he was younger and quiet.  Across the aisle from him, and catty-corner behind me was an African American man, also in his late 50's.  We shall name him Harry. He was on his cell phone talking to his wife about how nice it was in coach, "yeah, they put me in coach and it's reeeaaal nice"  I sat there wondering what was worse than coach, where had he sat prior to this, baggage.  As far as I know, coach is as low as it goes. Huh?

Unlike most of the men I encountered on this heartbreak express, Harry was the only one heading towards a relationship.  Like Ernie and Bob, and two other guys I overheard in the observation car, most men on this train were running away from ruined relationships with their "whore of an ex {girlfriend/wife}." Harry was proudly telling his wife, "Don't pay the mortgage, I have a financial blessing, I'll take care of paying that mortgage when I get home".

Things went smoothly for the first 30 hours or so.  Everyone got along and enjoyed each other stories. There was talk of lawyers, guns and money, most of which I escaped by hiding in the observation car.  I even slept there one night so I could lay horizontally, instead of trying to sleep sitting up, next to Bob.   But things started to get interesting.

I don't remember where it was, but somewhere before San Antonio we had a long layover.  Harry mentioned, in a rather dramatic fashion that he needed to go to the market, by himself.   Apparently, he hoped in a cab to do just that. It's one of those things that wasn't weird, except it was.  Back on the move.  Saturday night we pull into San Antonio for, surprise, a 10 hour scheduled layover.  Huh.  Always read the train schedule.  I could have rented a car and been in Austin in an hour, or at least a hotel room.

Lucky for me, my seat mate Bob had friends in San Antonio and he planned on a night of drinking and a shower and sleeping on clean sheets.  Cool, because they had decoupled us from the rest of the train and my observation car was on it's way to New Orleans.  If Bob hadn't left we'd have been elbow to elbow all night long.  I got the luxury of spreading across two seat and laying on the metal bar between the seats.  Believe it or not I was grateful.

Now here is where things got interesting and tense.  Keep in mind that through out this whole trip, something one of the fellows had said stuck on the front of my mind.  "You know I take the train because there are things I got that can't get through airport security"  Terrific.  When Ernie had gotten back on the train and he recanted a tale of his encounter with Harry a couple of hours ago.  When we all got off the train Ernie had befriended a couple of the lady passengers on the train.  They were standing around talking.  Apparently they were on their way to walk around San Antonio and get diner.  They invited Harry.  Harry got indignant, and how dare they butt into his business, he was taking another cab to somewhere and it was none of Ernie's dam business were he was going. Ernie was baffled and I think a little insulted.

When the sun arose on our orphaned train, desperately in need of an engine to pull it the last few miles to Austin and beyond, Ernie finally got the chance to tell Harry, who by now was clearly relaxed and drunk, what had been bugging him all night.  Something alone the line of "I don't want to talk to you no more, so just don't say another word to me..."  This is were things got a little bit Survivorish.  With each side trying to build alliances by being extra nice to the people around us.  Harry offered me a beer, I politely refused because it was 6:00 AM in the fucking morning.  Meanwhile, Bob, sitting next to me, who not more than a minute ago was telling me how much he drank last night, and how hungover he was, gladly accepted and popped the top on a can of Budweiser.  For the love of God, somebody bring me an observation car.

When we finally got hooked up to our new train, I quickly ran to the cafe car looking for coffee and to escape the sure to be multiple shootings about to occur in coach.  I enjoyed the fresh air and solitude of a peaceful empty observation car. I went back into our original car.  Surprisingly, everyone was not lying dead on the floor, but the stench was overwhelming.  I realized that nobody in that packed car, except Bob, had showered in the last three days.  It smelled like someone had put a ham sandwich and a can of corn in an old shoe and buried it for three days.  Getting off the train an hour later in Austin felt like getting released from prison.

Another women from the same train looked at me on the platform and we smiled at each other and she said, in a gleeful tone, "We made it".  We did.  But you want to know the funny part, I kinda missed everybody for the next few days. Life's weird.  Either way, I was glad to be alive and standing in the shower of the Austin Motel.

Is this Hell or American 731 to Dallas

[I actual wrote this in my head on the airplane, but things get crazy when you get back to the real world so it took me some time to put it into pixels]

I think I'm dead.  At least that's the thought seriously running through my head from the middle seat on American 731.   I'm on the 4th of 5 flights in 2 days that will take me home and time has stopped.    Maybe I have died and I just don't know it.  Maybe this is what hell is like, stuck in middle seat 17E of  an American Airlines flight  from LaGuardia to Dallas Texas between two men who do not speak.  Maybe this is what happens when we die. We don't remember the plane crash or whatever, but all of a sudden we are in a never ending, grey limbo, bored beyond all capability.  Hell is not horrendous fire and flames and sulfur, but it's the middle seat on a flight that just goes on and on and on.

The reason I'm thinking this is because time has stopped.  Technically, the longest leg of this journey was the 7 hours from Dublin to New York yesterday evening.  It, pun intended, just flew by.  Now I'm not sure if it's because I had a window seat and in a rare act of kindness the travel seating god didn't put next to an arm rest stealing, leg touching, mouth breather in a suit who has no sense of humor or any desire whatsoever to even smile.  Or maybe it was the pleasant young woman who sat next to me, or the three, free, inflight movies on my own personal entertainment system.  But that flight felt like 3 hours.  This flight however, a supposed 4 hours, is just not ending.  Time is not a static element, it's surely ebbs and flows.  Or I'm dead.

But finally I do arrive in Orange County, so I guess I'm not dead..... wait a minute.

Coming Home

It's hard to know if I can call this, or any of these trips, a success.  It feels like I should, I mean I did the core of what I wanted to do.  The week in Lisbon with Melanie was magical, for both the city and the company.  I made it to the south of France, and specifically Arles.  I  took the train up through Europe and made my way to Amsterdam and spent a week wandering along the canals.  In looking back at past trips, I never forget the hardships, but I always smile at the experience and the journey.

The only direction in my head as I metaphorically dipped my oars in the water was to explore Europe in Van Gogh's footsteps and see some of what he saw while his art took him throughout Europe.  I guess if I had to critique the trip in a harsh light I would have wanted to see more of where he lived.  Places like The Hague, Borniage,  St Remy.  But as it turns out traveling through Europe is quite expensive.  I guess it's a good thing that I don't think about money (too much), but it does leave one with a bump on the psyche when the harsh reality of the cost of plane and train tickets collides with my dream like reality.

My last solo trip to Europe, the Berlin, Copenhagen, Sweden trip has some real sparkling magical moments that somehow were lacking on this trip.  I did really enjoy Arles and not just because I was standing in the exact spots where Van Gogh painted masterpieces, but that was a big part of it.  If I had to pick a magic moment it would be the night shoot I did in Arles.  I took the tripod out after dark and got some great shots and felt like a I took a big step forward in my evolution as a photographer.  The concert in the ancient Roman amphitheater certainly added to the sparkle.

Usually by this time, after a spell on the road, I am very homesick and am counting the seconds until I get home and get to see everyone.  And, well, I am.  However, I'm also starting to think about where I want to go next. Travel truly is addicting.  I know that I want to go with someone, I'm really burnt out on solo travel for the time being, and I would love to do something outdoors, maybe a photo safari in Yellowstone or a rugged trip to New Zeland, who knows.  I do know that I'm not done yet and I still have so much to see before I take that one last trip..... to Los Angeles.

Pigeons Hate Bicycles

I believe that the preponderance of bicycles in Amsterdam has an effect on the pigeon population. I think there are so few pigeons because they hate all the bicycles.  I have never seen so many bicycles in my life.

One travel tip I forgot to mention in the previous post; while walking in Amsterdam your biggest threat is not pick pockets, trams, motorcycles, bums or cars... it's bicycles.  I learned this after a few close encounters of the dingy bell kind.  Every time you cross the street, every time you walk past an alleyway or the pavement changes color under your feet,  look every which way you can, then look again.  Because chances are the first place you looked now has a bicycle bearing down on you at full speed.  AND the operator of said bicycle is on a cell phone, talking or texting.  They are everywhere and they have the right of way. Almost every street has a bike lane and the lights do not seem to apply to them.  So even though you have a green light, check to the left, right, forward and behind, and then again, because they will come barreling around the corner behind you and they ain't stopping.

I think all of this annoys the hell out of the pigeons.  Not only are the bikes filling the streets, but everything stationary has a bike attached to it.  They lock them to trees, railings, light posts, street signs, statues and even park benches,  which makes the bench unusable. There are thousands of them.  If you ever commit a crime on a bike and want to hide your get away vehicle, lock it to a light post in Amsterdam, it will never be found.

Pigeon One:  "I hate these dirty bikes they are everywhere"
Pigeon Two:  "I know they are like rats with wheels"
Pigeon One: "BREAD CRUMB!!"

Travel Tips from the Battle Hardened

Electricity is expensive in Europe so don't be at all surprised when you step out of your hotel room at night into a pitch black hallway.  You have a few options.  The most economical is to just grope along the walls near your door and feel for the light switch that could be anywhere. Hopefully your room is not close to the stairs.  Another way to go is the stylish miners lamp that you wear on a headband and must never take off, least you forget it when you need it most.  If none of these work for you, your cell phone can be a crude but effective flashlight, if you have it on and if your wallpaper is a picture of the sun.

Along the same line, when you enter your room, you may be perplexed that none of the lights come on and the television seems to be broken. Do not be alarmed.  Look by the door of your room, see previous paragraph if it's nighttime, for a slot for your room key.  It works like this.  Putting your room key in this slot turns on the electricity for your room, removing it  when you leaves turns off the electricity, saving the hotel hundreds of dollars as you can not leave the lights, TV or hair dryer going as you head out for a night on the town.

Trains.  My favorite topic.  When you finally find out what track you are on and scurry over to wait for your train, you are not completely done.  Remember your train may be coming from somewhere else and may only stop for a few minutes. Your train may be long.  Haste is required. Look for a board on the platform that you just hurried to.  It's easy to find because everyone else will be going over to look at it too.  It tells you where on the platform your car will stop, and what letter you need to stand by.  For example, if I'm in car (voiture in French) 6, the sign will show me that I need to stand by the big letter "W" on the platform.  When the train rolls up, voila, you step right onto the train.

When you go to Starbucks you have to ask for the wifi login.  Also the receipt will have the key code for the bathroom.  Which doesn't change very often so you can use it on subsequent days. Europe is weird when it comes to restrooms, most places like train station etc will charge you 50 cents (the euro equivalent) to use the facilities.  Remembering the key code at Starbucks can come in handy.

Train employees will only tell you the bare minimum.  Ask lots of questions.  Not that it really matters because none of them speak English.  Warm up for your trip to Europe with lots of charades. Their job is to sell you a ticket and to make sure you don't step onto the tracks, period.  Everything else is up to you.

Some ATMs love spitting out 50 euro notes, which is a pain because most places do not like to break them.  In such a situation, look for a McDonalds or a Starbucks, or any American food service company.  They never seem to mind breaking large bills... of course you gotta order something.

For getting around Europe, sometimes trains can be expensive.  Taking the train to Toulouse from Lisbon would have taken a day and cost me over 200 euros.  If you go to the usual travel sites, Expedia, Orbits, etc, the flights can be just as pricey or more.  Try EasyJet.  It's Europe's version of Southwest.  My flight to Toulouse, with a checked bag, was 88 euro.  It's a cattle call, first come, first served seating, and anything you drink or eat will cost you, but it's very well run and the web site is cool.

Last tip:  Don't go to Toulouse.

Nice Train, Nice Train

I've been bitchn so much about the trains, I thought I'd throw a change up and say some nice things about taking the train in Europe. Here we go.

When you take the train you get to see most of the graffiti in town. In some towns, it's the only place were there is graffiti.  In Toulouse I didn't see any street art until the train left the station towards Arles.  Then there was tons of it by the tracks.

Generally when you arrive in a town and your at the central train station there is a metro or tram that can get you where you need to go.  Not always the case with airports.

No security checks.  You can keep your shoes on and your pants don't fall to the floor when you take your belt off.

Trains are on time.  My experience so far anyway.  (all of this is generally speaking of course)

The people on the trains are polite, and follow the rules when it comes to not smoking or talking on cell phones.

On the train towards Amsterdam, the announcements where made in Dutch and English. This was frightening on the French trains, the announcements where only in French and you cringe, hoping that he is not saying something like. "If you are going to Toulouse, your need to get off at the next stop or you will be put in prison, where the guards do not speak English".  Sorry, just a tiny little complaint, mon petite.

And best of all, when I was standing in the cafe car having a beer, avoiding the kicking 3 year old.  I asked the attendant how fast we were going.  "Do you want mph or kilometers" he asked.  I was thinking we were maybe going 90 or 100 mph, we were really moving.  "175 mph" was his answer.  Wow, I thought, that's freaking cool.

Train Days

It's raining in Toulouse.  I'm sitting in the train parked at the station before we head out to Paris.  Yesterday's trip from Arles back to Toulouse was easy for a train day.  The only stress point was self inflicted.  Hey remember when I said about train travel, that something is always fucked up or gets fucked up I should have mentioned that half the time it's friendly fire.

The departure board had two trains leaving on the same track about 2 minutes apart.  Dam, this happened in Berlin and it drove me crazy.  What if the 9:00 train is late and, my train, the 9:02 comes in first.  How will I know I'm getting on the right train.  OK, so the first train comes in and EVERYONE gets on board.  What the hell, lucky for me the coffee cart guy is right there and he let's me know I'm on the right train. As I sit down and take deep breaths I seem to remember a little bus symbol next to the 9:00 "train"  Dam it, why they gotta put buses on the train board.

As we roll out of Toulouse, my seat sucks. I swear that snarky lady at the international counter gave me the worst seats.  I'm on the aisle, and there is a  pillar where I should be looking out the window.  Lucky for me the train is half empty and I can move around and find decent seats. I just hop back to my seat at every stop and then look around as we roll out and find something good from the leftovers.  It's a nice 6 hours scanning the French countryside as the train rolls in and out of the shadows of big fluffy white clouds.

The stress point for today's adventure concerns the arrival and departure points for my connecting train to Amsterdam. It works like this at any train station.  We train goers all stand under the big board looking up at our train on a long list of other trains waiting for the little number to appear that tells what track we're on.  When that happens we all going running like rats in a maze, scurrying to our platform... to wait some more.  As I'm standing there, it dawns on me that my train arrives at Paris Montparnasse and yet my train to Amsterdam leaves at Paris Nord.  I'm no climatologist, but aren't those two different train stations, many miles apart.  I run into the Information office to wait for the next available clerk who doesn't speak English to ask the important question.  I say the two station names and hold out my fingers far apart, she says one word "Metro".  Ahhhhh, like a Hitchcock movie, her face seems to move far away from me and yet closer a the same time.

No problem, I got this, I've been to Paris twice, I've ridden the New York subway system on my own, after my 13 year old niece showed me how.  How hard could it be. Probably a lot of us have to get to Paris Nord, so there will be signs.  I wasn't really that worried... until I got off the train in Montparnasse.  It was like Times Square on New Years Eve except everyone was in a big hurry to get somewhere, like now.  I just start following the heard, hoping to see a big "M" for metro somewhere.  Information desk, OK, now we're talking, "Parly vou English"  dismissive "no"  Of course not, that's why you work at an INFORMATION DESK! I see the big "M", OK, then I see a big "M" information desk. Bingo. I wait in a long line and get my ticket and I ask which metro to take, cause there's literally 6 different lines to take. "4" she says, it's a mad house.  OK, good, I can just look on the map for "Paris Nord"  Not there, it's got to be Garre Nord, right, cause that's what they put right on my ticket. Garre is French for train, right?  I roll the dice, I've only got about 45 minutes to make my train, if this is wrong...

I make it to the station, Paris/Garre Nord and see my train on the big board, whew.  Home free.  And I've convinced myself that this train ride will be easy. You know where this is headed don't you.  I'm watching the big board, watching...waiting... track 8.  I look over at track 8 and 100,000 people start swarming that way.  Oh boy.  It's elbows and suitcases at 10 paces as we're all trying to get on board first, for no reason, it's reserved seats my bruthers.  I make my way in and see a three year old in my seat.  Um, French dude, your child is in my seat, and I'm having a stressful day so move your child cause I'm almost sure I can take him.  (He was the cutest kid, sporting a Sammy Davis Jr type hat, you know, really short brim.)  The dad says he gets that the kid's in my seat, but I'm still standing here holding up the line.  He tries to move the kids from my seat and the kid goes hyperbolic.  "It's fine" I say, he can have my one and only window seat for these last two days.  When all is said and done the dad is not even on the train, but the mom is holding the kid in her lap for 4 hours, where he can occasionally kick me if I happen to nod off.  And just to frost this cake of misery, my seat is part of a set where it's two seats facing two, so I'm also looking across at two very angry looking German women.  They looked piiiissssed.  Now where's that observation car.

[please note: that last line will make a lot more sense when you read about my, soon to released, adventures on the Texas Eagle last February.  I'm not a writer, obviously, but is that called foreshadowing, probably not]

It Was Still Cool

I was out after dark trying to find magic night shots. I don't think I got anything great, I still have so much to learn, but that's what drives me.  Anyway, I happened by an ancient Roman Ampitheater, a concert was about to start.  I had seen them running a sound check during the day.  The amphitheater is very small so I'm guessing it's not a big band, Stones, Zeppelin are probably out, but maybe ZZ Top or a Lover Boy.  It sounded cool. 

I forgot about it as I set out from my hotel about 8:30.  When I walked by, the lights were dark on the stage but the crowd had lights on them, and some really cool, ethereal music was playing as the crowd grew restless and started clapping.  I could see into the amphitheater from outside the gates and the few guards did not seem to mind so about 20-30 of us hung around waiting for the free show.  It was a young crowd, so I ruled out classical or Jazz or a Grateful Dead reunion. Probably not Lover Boy or ZZ top as well.  This was exciting, it was so cool to see all the sound equipment and lights on stage and I got that just before go live excitement, which always reminds me of waiting for the Stones to go onstage at the Forum in 1975.  God I'm old.

They finally come out, I can't see anybody, but they start to play and it's kinda emo music, cool, but sad and slow.  The lead singer sounded very familiar, but I couldn't tell if he was signing in English or not.  I hung around for a few songs just to make sure they were not gonna break out with Black Dog or Misty Mountain Hop and I would have walked away from the warm up for a Led Zeppelin reunion tour. This type of thing has been know to happen to me(right Melanie?).

When I get back to my room, I quickly Google "concert Arles Spetember 11" and sure enough it's Sigur Ros from Iceland.  WHO?  Oh well, he had a pretty voice.  It was cool anyway.  My luck, tomorrow night it will be the Stones.

Field of Dreams

I had a choice to make this afternoon.  A local museum is having a Picasso exhibit.  I haven't had a fix lately from the Spanish master.  Or, do I follow the Van Gogh map (in Spanish) and find more Van Gogh places around Arles.  How many times can you stand in the spot where master pieces were created.  I can go see Picasso in a museum any ole time, right.

My first stop was my best stop.  I want to be able to tell Sean, and Kaelynn one day when she understands what Van Gogh means, that I had a beer in the cafe of one of his most famous paintings "Cafe Terrace at Night".

I'm sitting in the cafe, Le Cafe La Nuit (The Night Cafe), not more than 10 yards from where Van Gogh sat 124 years ago. How funny life is.  When he sat here, facing me ages ago, he had no idea what he would mean to so many people.  How very powerful his art was to become.  Picasso said "To know my art you must know my life"  That was never more true than with Vincent van Gogh. It's not just the brush strokes, the colors, the starry nights or magnificent use of yellow.  It's knowing the passion and the pain that was the lens that brought us fields of wheat, lillies or starry night cafes.  It's knowing his intense desire to be accepted and loved.  Love that never arrived, not even from his parents.

If I could go back in time and meet anyone, Jesus, Einstein, Picasso, Natalie Wood, it would be Van Gogh on that very night.  I would tell him that 124 years from now he would be loved and that there are plaques all over Arles commemorating some of his greatest works. And that people from around the world would visit this town because of him and his work. He would call me crazy, rightly so, and I don't know if anything I can say could ease his pain.  Part of the allure of him is that it is such a tragedy, along the lines of a Shakespeare play.  Such a great artist never knew how much he would mean to so many people, to everyone who feels different, unaccepted, unloved, doomed.  Maybe what we do in our lifetime will amount to something even if we never know it; if we just keep painting.

Whats Spanish for Stars?

The first rule of trains.  Something will either be fucked up or it will get fucked up.  Every single time.

I'm up early, I'm super packed and ready to go. I get to the station an hour before my train leaves.  So far so good.  I have even figured out, by watching the others, where on the platform I need to stand. This is important because the train only stops long enough to let people off and let people on. You don't want to be on the wrong end of the platform.  I get to my seat, number 23, an aisle seat, oh well, it's only 3 hours.  The guy in the window seat is gesturing to me and pointing a the black hand bag in my seat. OK, it's nice, but it's doesn't match my shoes.  Turns out the train people book him and his wife both for seat 24.  Well being the ambassador of goodwill for America (you're all welcome) I found another seat.  But what this means is that from now on, at every stop, I'm looking over my sholder waiting for someone to start yelling at me in French. I'm pretty pissed off at this point in the trip, so words will be exchanged; international incident will ensue.  The conductor comes by and the couple start saying French things to him, he shrugs and walks away.  OK then.  And of course you know the couple is going way past my stop, so no freaking way I'm getting my seat.  As things go, it was stressful, but I didn't get kicked out of my seat until we were about 45 minutes from Arles (stop pronouncing the "s") so I just stood in the passage way by the door, counting the minutes before the conductor walked by and yelled at me in French and I punched him.

Towns are funny.  They are like people.  You generaly know if your going to like them right away.  Something about them makes you comfortable, even though you just met.  The only other town I've had this instant shine to was Fort Bragg. Good things happen right away. This town is what I was looking for, it's eveything Toulouse was not.  It's quaint, charming, with tons of history, and more importantly enough Van Gogh suvinoirs to fill the small coluisum in Arles (don't say the "s"); built in the days when this was a Roman outpost. It's very touristy here, but that's OK beacuse it means most of the restaurants have English menus, and the people don't try to avoid English.

I droped my bag at the Hotel and went to explore a bit.  I'm trying to find the tourist office to pick up my Van Gogh walking map.  It tells you how to find some of the very spots where he created his famous paintings in Arles ("s" is silent).  They of course are out of the English maps, "Would you like French" asks the women sweetly, "NO" I yell out too loudly, "do you have Spanish?"

Croissant Anyone

It's Sunday in Toulouse, and I'm guessing, what with this being a very catholic nation, that everything is closed for God.  I was planing on going to Le supermarket and buying a cheap lunch and diner.  This means a cup of noodles and a frozen, microwavable something. My master plan was foiled.  I had tried to go last night on my way home from the sunset shoot by the river.  But on a Saturday night, everything in my neighborhood was shuttered up before 8PM.  Uh-oh.  This morning as I headed towards the market, rosary beads in hand, my heart sank, and more loudly my stomach as I turned the corner and saw the shutters still down.

Lucky for me, two of the shops in the trash strewn French version of a strip mall are owned by Muslims.  I know I'm profiling, but in a good way.  A small produce market and a bakery.  The produce market has a small bag of pasta and a can of tomato paste.  More praying that my apartment came equipped with a can opener.  At the bakery I was able to buy a bag of croissants with a donut for 2 euro.

I know I could hop on the Metro and ride into town and probably find something more grown up.  But for some reason I can't explain, I would rather eat a bag of croissants for lunch and dinner than get back on the Metro.  I don't have a can opener.

Parle Français?

It's not good to come to France after going to Portugal.  The first thing that jumps off the page is the completely different attitude towards the English language.  In Lisbon everyone spoke English, and seemed to enjoy speaking English. Every night on the small television set, the size of a toaster oven, Melanie and I usually found a TV show in English with Portuguese subtitles. One night the previous Batman movie was on, another it was Californication. In Portugal they have no problem putting English words on museum exhibits, menus, signs, etc.  English does not repulse them as it seems to do with the French.

The French seem to hate English.  On television, every English speaking show is dubbed in French, and the credits are even re-written in French.  This includes such shows as The Simpsons, Malcom in the Middle and    ER.  Nothing is in English, nobody seems to speak English, even if they speak English.  Even the woman at the International counter of the train ticket office spoke very little English.  Most of my train reservations where made by pointing at her screen and praying that I had guessed the right French word for "Thursday".  I really hope I do end up in Arles.

I don't mean to bang on the French, They are not mean, and have been nice to me when I have bought things.  They are just very, very much in love with their language, pathologically so. It does come across sometimes as a little bit of a superiority complex.  The rest of the world seems to have embraced English as the second language of choice and the language of travelers.  And of course as an American I hardly have the right to lecture anybody on intolerance.  But I'll do it anyway, cause it's fun.

C'est la vie

The Good and Bad in Lisbon (mostly good)

Before I detail my misery, a little about the last 6 days in Lisbon.  I got to Lisbon the day before Melanie arrived on Friday.  The timing was perfect.  It gave me a chance to learn the Metro, get checked in to the room and learn the lay of the land so that when Mel arrived her and I could hit the ground running.  I knew she had a tough time in Spain and would be glad to see a familiar face.  It was difficult for us to communicate as neither of us had phones that work in Europe, which meant I had to hope that she made her flight as I stood outside the arrival area with my little hand made "Melanie" sign, scribbled the sleepless night before. It was so wonderful when she turned the corner.

The next five days are a blur of endless walks through the magical old streets if Lisbon, Starbucks every morning for coffee and free wifi, eating at sidewalk cafes, and late afternoon beers by the harbor.  We played the tourists one day and took one of those open air sightseeing buses all around town and to the small town of Bellum. We visited the Castle S. Jorge overlooking the city and got in as many museums as is humanly possible.  At night we would huddle up in our room and wait for the nightly American TV show that seemed to appear out of nowhere.  One night it was The Dark Night with only 2 commercial breaks.  But best of all it was spending time with my daughter, which is so rare these days and very much cherished.

Today, Wednesday, I'm very sad.  I dropped her off at the airport and we hugged goodbye.  I turned and headed off to see Europe by myself. You kinda hold your breath when your children fly.  I took the Metro back two stops to my new hotel to wait for my flight to Toulouse tomorrow.  I mopped around a part of Lisbon that couldn't be more different than the old historic district that Mel and I had explored.  It's modern, full of brand new glass and steal monstrosities, with a mall the size of an airport.  I hate every bit of it.  What was it the tin man said to Dorothy, "I know I have a heart, because it's broken".

Spectacular

Sunday, June 10th through Friday, June 15


You would have thought I would have written more as this has been an eventful trip (all good.)  Let's recap.  Drove to San Jose on Sunday, had dinner with Melanie, after which I got to go to a dive bar with my daughter.  Wait is that a good thing?  On Monday took the BART to the Embarcadero and hung out with Mel in "The City" waiting to get on the boat to Alcatraz at 3:55PM.   The Alcatraz trip was great.  I wish I had not made it so late in the day.  I was hoping for the magic hour to cast a warm glow on my sure to be spectacular photographs, but we got squeezed for time.  


Tuesday I headed for Santa Rosa.  Stayed at an Airbnb, and as usual it ended up being great.  It was a beautiful little garden home in a quiet neighborhood and the hostess was fantastic, very friendly and helpful and  fun to talk to.  Found some great stuff to shoot around the railroad station (of course) and enjoyed hanging out in the little downtown area.  Julie's house had a garden in the back yard and I spent a fair amount for time there relaxing, drawing and watching the big tree sway in the wind.


Thursday, before heading to my next destination of Fort Bragg, I took a side trip to Sonoma.  Whoever said "it's the journey, not the destination" was driving along highway 12 towards Sonoma.  The drive through the vineyards in the morning was breathtaking, the beautiful hills, the cute vineyards and rows and rows of sun drenched vines.  The town of Sonoma however didn't appear to have much going for it.  I'm not sure why I was expecting a cute little glitzy town, but it twernt there.


The drive to Fort Bragg was challenging, about 50 miles of a two lane winding, twisting highway.  But it was beautiful with some parts going through deep dark shadow filled tunnels of glorious redwoods.  When I got to this small seaside town I was starving, so I found a cute little Japanese place and got lunch.  Lucky for me I took my camera.  I walked around the town and headed for the railroad tracks.  I heard a train whistle and was surprised to find an ole fashion locomotive huffing and puffing at the train station.  And best of all, next to it are parked some old, rusted, beautiful railroad cars from the days of yesteryear.  I snapped away and can't wait to see how these will look once I HDR them.  It was one of those days where things just fall into place without an kind of planning.  I wanted to get to the coast and see the ocean, and without even knowing where I was going I ended up finding a place to park and a walk way down to an incredible stretch of the coast line.  The wind was whipping up the waves and it was just flat out gorgeous.  


The plan was to capture this beach at sunset, which for some strange reason I keep thinking is a lot earlier than 8:30.  So after resting up for a while at the Motel 6, I headed back to the beach at 7PM.  And I waited and waited and waited as the sun just seemed to just hang in the sky forever.  The wind was freezing and strong and  almost knocked me and my tripod over on numerous occasions.  I gave myself a good talking too and reminded myself that an artist must suffer for their art.  So I hung in there, snapping away at every possible angle and f-stop setting I could think of, until I thought the best of the light had gone.  With teeth chattering and nose running I ran back to the car and headed off to McDonalds to pick up dinner.  Sitting in the drive through, facing the ocean, I couldn't help but notice the SPECTACULAR sky lit up in enormous swaths of orange and purple and magenta.  AHHHHH!   "Nice sunset" says the woman at the drive through window, to which I reply "Uh-huh".


I'm not sure what it is about this town, but I feel very comfortable here.  There's nothing pretentious or artificial about it, it's genuine. I feel lucky here.  Today, after the Starbucks thing, I drove north and found some great spots to take pictures.  I sat on a black sand beach and did some charcoal drawings and ended up at the Mackerricher state park.  Tonight I will go back to the beach at sunset, but this time I will show up, bundled up, at around 8:15.  If the trip so far is any indication, it will be spectacular.

The Curse of Las Cruces

Well I'm unexpectedly back home again after a crazy couple of days.  I've been having an issue with the surgicaly repaired eye and although I believe everything is OK, I can see fine, etc. it has been a little scary.  I decided to push through and keep my plans to go to Silver City, but first thing Saturday morning I went to Starbucks (duh) and wanted to test out my wireless connection. (I believe at this point the reader should just assume that every day starts at Starbucks). After four days of working with the Motel 6 tech support guys trying to figure out why all their access points kept kicking my off of my Suburgatory episodes on Hulu, I began to suspect the problem lies within.  Sure enough, even at Starbucks, no WiFi.  Now this was serious.  Medical issues are one thing, but NO WIFI!! The great and powerful Oz was telling me to go home.  I was booked to stay at someones house in Silver City and there is no way to do that without streaming.  Not sure why most of these people do not have television sets, maybe that's a good sign, but most likely they are all serial killers and they don't want you to accidentally see them on America's Most Wanted while your sitting on their sofa. You are likely to panic in that event.  Either way I was glad to be leaving Las Cruces, it depressed the hell out of me and clearly the feeling was mutual.  


So I canceled my stay in Silver City then booked a room in Phoenix for Saturday night. [Note:  while driving past the exit for Silver City, one of the signs read "Silver City, 30+ art galleries"  Nooooooooo! ] There was no way I could make the drive from New Mexico to Corona in one sweep.  I was so sick of Motel 6's I decided to stay at a Holiday Inn Express in downtown Phoenix.  It was fantastic, although I'm puzzled as to why their vending machines are not encased in metal cages made out of military strength magnesium... weird.  Downtown Phoenix is modern and glitzy and very, very clean. The Holiday Inn there was within walking distance to restaurants, museums and both the baseball and basketball stadiums.  After grabbing a bite to eat I walked around and enjoyed not being in Las Cruces.  All of a sudden I stopped dead in my tracks.  Hanging on the side of the Science Museum is a huge picture of Van Gogh.  The Van Gogh Experince was currently showing at the museum.  This was divine providence, clearly all my bad fortune was for the purpose of getting me to this very spot at this singular moment of space/time.  I MUST GO TO THIS.


So the next day I did.  It was breathtaking, moving, emotional, incredible and every superlative ever thought up by mankind.  Every human being on this planet must go see this.  It's a huge dark room, with 20 foot high screens everywhere, showing Van Gogh's works, set to music and accompanied with some of his writings.  Thank goodness the room was dark, for I was almost in tears a couple of times.  My favorite quote was "I am always doing what I cannot do yet, in order to learn how to do it."   If you get the chance, truly look at his work. I began to wonder why I had not spent every minute of my 54 years doing just that.


I'm a feared that this has become habit forming and I am already dreaming of taking the Amtrak to Seattle....

Las Cruces Art

[Written Friday, March 23rd]
Well I hit the art scene in Las Cruces this morning, that took about 2 hours, and only because I was fortunate enought to stumble into the gallery of Flo Dougherty, who I'm sure was gald to see another human being looking at her art.  It had probably been weeks sense her last vistor.  she was very nice and her work was very good, and in a variety of stlyes.  It as nice to talk art with someone. 


After that I drove around Las Cruces looking for a possible spot to photograph the mountain range that looks down upon the city, hoping to get a great shot during this evening's sunset. Not really much luck and it depressed the hell out of me.  This city seems like nothing more than a bunch of aprtment buildings.  Many of which, surprisingly, have rooms to rent.  My guess is it's very affordable.


A little after noon I headed back to my room to paint.  I had an idea for a "painting".  I am not in the least bit being modest when I say that my paintings look like something a fifth third grader might produce on an overdose of fruit punch and gummy bears.  In order to maintain a small smattering of pride, I am not calling them paintings but more brush and paint exercises. I am pre-beginner at this point and just learning how to mix paint and work the brushes.  Man do I need some type of lesson.  First thing on my list after if I settle down somewhere.


Oh, I did see a great painting in the Las Cruces Art Museum, which is a cute little space.  The painter is named Sallie Ritter.  Unfortunetly many of these older painters do not have much of a web presence and I can find almost nothing on her on the world wide web of the internet on this earth.


I'm off to Silver City tomorrow.  Come to find out they don't have their very own Starbucks. I have been assured by the mothership in Seattle that everything will be OK, and that a few days with a substitute "coffee" can do no serious harm, as long as I return to a bona fide Starbucks before the end of the month, I should be fine.  "Should be?!", No, No, No, I'm going to need more than that.  Oh well, life is an adventure.

You May Arrive in Las Cruces

I'm at the eastern most part of this trip, although I'm almost halfway across the country...  Anyway, the road betwwen Tucson and Las Cruces was a little more entertaining than the first leg of the journey.  The secenery was like more pretty.  I will call that strech of highway "Extensional Road" because of signs like this: "High Winds May Exists" or my favorite, and possiblly the title of my first collection of short stories, "Zero Visibility Possible". If I happen to ever write a collection of short story.


The clerk checking me into the Motel 6 was super nice and even apologized that the rate is higher on Friday then today.  I said not problem, but he threw in free Internet anyway.  Maybe the other Motel 6 called ahead and told him of all the trouble I had with the WiFi in Tucson.  Yeah, I'm sure that's what happened,  he probably even talked to him on the Motel 6 network of CB radios.  I think I've been on the road too long.

Tucson

On the Road Again

It's Thursday morning and of course I'm sitting at a Starbucks.  It's beautiful out and I have this little patio to my self, except for the two cute terriers waiting for their owner to come out with their Lattes, extra foam.  I have been without Wi-Fi for a few days so being connected again feels like somebody stuck an IV in my brain and I can function again. Here following are the words from the last few days.

Wednesday, March 21 - Tucson Arizona

I'm stayng on the cheapest hotel alley I have ever seen.  There are a half a dozen motels on this cul-de-sac that parrells the freeway.  They run the full gamet of pricing from 29.99 to the upscale Motel 6, that I call home, that is an exorbant 37.99. You know I love to live large.  From an internet connection that must go through a relay station on the dark side of the moon, to the suite of vending machines that sit safely in their big metal cages, this place is nice?

Yesterday's seven hours on the road through the desert was un-eventful.  Not much to see except the drive through Pheonix.  By the time I arrived in Tucson and finnished wresstling with the internet connection the sun was setting and I ended up grabbing diner just down the street at a waffle house. It was good but not spectacular.

This morning I headed for the closest clumping of Starbucks.  Here is my Starbucks theory. When you are new in town look at Google Maps and find the concentration of Starbucks.  They will usualy be in the cultural center of town, a little more upscale than the freestanding, satallite Starbucks and usualy close to a Unive rsity, fun resturants and bars and a place to pick up that fairy tattoo you've been thinking about for your ankle.  It was afew miles away so it gave me a chance to see some of downtown Tucson.  I'm excited because it looks fairly gritty.  Today I'm going to walk to the Tucson Art Museum, they have a Frida Kahlo exhibit, and try to photograph some Tucson grit and graffitti.

Later that day
Always read the fine print, even, espicaly in the world of art.  The Tucson Art Museum was very cute, very intimate and very southwest.  a mix of art and history and local architecture.  I was very excited to see the Frieda Kahlo exhibit, she is quickly becoming a favorite, not just for her amazing art, but for the life she lead.  Turns out the exhibit's subheading, "Through the lens of Nickolas Muray" means roughly, "we don't have any of Frieda's art, so her are a bunch of photographs Mr Muray took of her, and we printed them out on an inkjet printer. It was still interesting, and they actualy did a good job with the display.  Kahlo photographed very well and her expressions are very transparent and interesting.

Nickolas, who was not only Frieda's lover, but also a pilot, a championship fencer, an artist and of course a photographer, in the days when one did not just run to best buy and buy a Nikon.  As one of the placards said "he lived a rich and textured life"  Now that's something to aim for.  Made me wonder if men like that still exists.  I sat in a box making someone else rich, while I just winned and led a frozen life.  Not no fucking more.

Home Again

Well this leg of the journey is done.  I'm home now basking the glow of family and friends. As traumatic as it was leaving everyone, it is equally rewarding coming home.  My last day in Vancouver was good, nothing more than a long walk around all of downtown.  From whatever Starbucks I found myself in on the North side across Granville street to the Burrard Bridge, along the beach on the south side.  The view of the 10 or so oil tankers in English Bay was a little sad. Through Stanley Park and the picturesque Lost Lagoon and back down through the glittering condos and glass towers near Coal Harbor.  


The night before, coming back from Chronic Tacos in Gas Town (I know, I know, but I had a craving for Mexican food and I have never had the Chronic) I  managed to get off some great early evening shots with my bag of tacos and big drink in one hand and my camera in the other.  One of the shots was a perfect shot for HDR, but I made the cardinal sin of photography and left the camera on auto for a night shot, so the ISO was way too high and consequently the noise in those photos was off the chart.  Rookie mistake.


So Monday night, I had practiced setting my camera to the right mode, and studied how to set the ISO, etc, and waiting for the magic hour when the lighting was just right, and headed out for that photo that would make me a legit HDR photographer.  Well not only did the camera not cooperate, but I had re-shot from the wrong corner (smack to forehead).  Oh well, we learn from our mistakes and I get to keep my amateur standing, for now.


I feel like I should sat something profound and meaningful to wrap up this journey, so here goes.  It was very traumatic to leave loved ones and hit the road.  I honestly had no idea when I would be back. My intent was to be gone for at least a couple of months.  But being away from everyone was just too hard.  However, the longer I was on the road, the more comfortable I became with being alone and the adventure of it all.  Now I really miss it.  But if I leave I miss everyone I love.  I guess that's the duality of just about everything in life.  Next up is finding a way to balance the two.
p.s. I'm working on a series of HDR versions of some of the more interesting photos from the road.  Stay tuned, I will have a special exhibit coming soon-ish.  Here is a sneak peek.

[The flower market, just off the ferry in North Vancouver, inside the cute little shopping mall.]

Sunday Notes

Went into MacLeods books, right on the corner, it felt like walking into an episode of hoarders with books, stacks and stacks of glorious books.  I bought a book on Van Gogh, just to support the place. Magical.

Lat night I wanted some night shots of North Vancouver from the harbor.  It was windy and freezing, but I sat there as the sun set and toughed it out.  On my way back I found a cute little art Gallery and discovered the Canadian artist Shirley Thompson.  She has passed away, but her painting are incredible.  I found this image online, but seeing it in person takes your breath away.

There is a lot of women's curling on Canadian television, reason enough to move here.

Took the 15 minute ferry ride over to North Vancouver.  Not much there except a cute little mall with seafood and trinkets and of course three Starbucks.  It was fun riding the ferry.

They are filming an episode of Alcatraz a block over from my hotel. I talked to film crew guy and they use Vancouver because parts of it look like San Francisco.

Aboriginal Please!

Saturday, morning, after the free hotel "breakfast" I headed out to find a Starbucks with hopefully a newspaper and a place to sit.  I didn't even bring my camera.  I figured I'd be back in an hour.  There are a tons of Starbucks, as well as fifty billion other coffee houses in this city, but the Starbucks are tiny, with rarely a place to sit.  So I ended up at Blenz Coffee, there are tons of these around as well.  Before I knew what was happening, I had been walking around for a few hours, enjoying the sights.  I checked out the Waterfront subway station. I'm thinking of taking the ferry across the bay to North Vancouver for funzies.  As I'm heading back to my hotel, I come across the Vancouver Art Gallery.  Bingo.  It looks big and impressive from the outside.  I put down my $17.50 and excitedly walked in.  I don't mind the money, but that's an hour and a half I'll never get back.


First off the sign should say "Canadian Only Art Museum".  Everything seemed to have a Canadian defensive explanation attached to it.  The worst part of the museum was the headline exhibition entitled "Beat Nation, Art Hip Hop and Aboriginal Culture"  Here's the thing, you can't just do hip hop, as if your from Compton, with the  exact same gestures and dress (minus the Raider gear) as an African American and call it aboriginal hip hop. I mean, you can, but you would be wrong. I sat and watched three full music video's of this "aboriginal" art form and left in disgust. Add a little of your own culture to it and I'll listen. Fuse it with you. I might not like it but I'll respect it.  A few splashes of tribal petroglyphs does not make your hip hop art aboriginal, neither does the "Fuck the White Man" photo.   The low rider bicycles were straight out of east LA. Very disappointing and derivative.


Continuing on my path back to the hotel, I cam across a great little Japanese restaurant, and buried my freezing head in a huge bowl of steaming ramen. With that and my Canadian Molsen all was right again.  

The Pizza District

Vancouver is by far the most interesting of the three cities on this tour.  It's got the grit and funkyness of the East Village, a little bit of San Francisco,  some Seattle, and even a Gas Lamp district reminiscent of San Diego. On the bus, just after we crossed the border, the surrounding area was very neat and tidy and clean, which is what I was expecting from Canada.  But Vancouver itself is as gritty as any big American city.  Lots of great alleyways, old walls and graffiti. And to prove it, the first thing I see on the local news when I turn on my Canadian television is a story about a decades old wall that was just uncovered when they tore down the building next to it.  They are calling it the ghost wall.  First thing on my list.

This morning, after the obligatory Starbucks, I to head down Granville street to photograph the ghost wall. It's raining.  After shooting the wall, I keep heading down Granville, it's very hippie, funky.  Before long I'm walking up the Granville bridge with some great views of the city and inlets. 

Holding and focusing a camera and an umbrella with freezing hands is not as much fun as it sounds, so I duck into another Starbucks and find a cozy spot with a great view of the corner.  It starts to snow!, big heavy flakes.  It's not cold enough for it to stick, so the ground is just wet, but it's still cool to see.  I enjoy the walk back to towards the hotel so I can thaw out for a bit.

I seem to be staying in the old book store and pizza district.  There are three really old bookstores within a stones throw.  You know those old book stores where everything is in stacks and it's looks like the dust was there before the books.  Can't wait to look trough them.  Also, within a two block radius there has to be twenty pizza places.  As I get to the hotel I grab a slice of pepperoni and mushroom, it's fantastic pizza. So I guess it's a little bit Chicago as well.

Dinning with Friends

The last few days have been a roller coaster ride... on the Empire Builder.  I didn't sleep well Tuesday night.  I was not quite used to the bed and the Amtrak steak, which had been recommended by another passenger, was tougher than an MMA fighter.  Wednesday morning, I went to breakfast.  All the meals are included in the price of the sleeper room, so I ended  up eating every meal for two days in the dinning car.  The food's OK, but the fun part is getting to meet so many people.  They always sit four to a table, so every meal is with someone new.  Everyone is nice, except on this Wednesday morning, I sat with three people from North Dakota, which is going through an oil boom due to this new extraction method called fracking.  It's horrible for the environment, and as a left coast liberal, of course I had to mention that.  I was quickly reminded that people have to feed their families.  "No doubt" I calmly said, and had my dose of humility to go along with my french toast.  You quickly learn to keep your opinions to yourself while on the road.  All that aside, I meet some really nice people in the dinning car, and it was one of the best parts of the train ride. 


I spent most of Wednesday in my roomette, enthralled with making HDR versions of some of my photographs.  I can't wait to show them.  I am actually doing two versions of each because I'm trying to decide which of the two leading HDR software tools I want to keep.  After processing about 20 photos, twice, I still can't decide.  But it was enjoyable, just looking out the window, eating in the dinner, and working on my photos.


After rolling through North Dakota and Montana the sun was beginning to set, when I realized that we would be going through the real scenic part of the trip after nightfall.  I was bummed, I had really been looking forward to seeing Glacier National Park from my window.  I asked Curtis, our train attendant, and yup, it will be dark for that, if you were taking the east bound Empire Builder you could see it. Greeaaat. I reluctantly went to bed, knowing I was going to miss something incredible.


I slept good, and woke up at 6:20, which was perfect timing.  Breakfast service was short and early because we were due into Seattle at 10:30AM. As I ate with a sweet young couple from Montana, the sun came up and we were in the mountains, surround by stunning views, trees dusted with snow, winding rivers and white covered peaks.  It was everything I had hopped this part of the journey to be. After breakfast I went back to my roomette, and chatted with the elder couple in the room next to mine (we had lunch together the day before) and snapped hundreds of glorious pictures.


We ended up being put on a bus to Seattle at Everett , some fuss about a mud slide blocking our train.  Seattle was very beautiful and just got added to my list. I arrived in Vancouver on schedule and walked to my hotel, it's a beautiful day and only a mile and half from the station.  More on Vancouver tomorrow.


Most interesting site of the day: (Wednesday)  A huge frozen lake in North Dakota, with cars and trucks parked in the middle of it.  They were ice fishing.

Barreling Darkness

Outside the blackness rolls past in a rapid clatter.
Cold closed warehouses backlight with a single yellow lightbulb, displaying semi-circles of snow and parking lot.  
A railway yard 10 tracks deep, miles of frozen freight cars braving a northern winters night.
The light from the window next to mine showing me white tracks, illuminating nothingness as I watch from my dark rolling bed. 
So dark I see no reflection, only night. 
Barreling furiously through cold miles, an occasional blinding flash of red clanging bells.  
The charcoal sky silhouetting still blacker trees as we hurl through nothingness. 

Solitaire

[Tuesday, Feb 21, later in the day]


This is mad crazy good.  So far I have the best of both worlds.  I can retreat into the cacoon of my single roomette, as they call my room in Amtrak speak, or I can head back three cars into the real world of the observation car, where dem coach folk hang out.  My part of the train is full of old white people, who are booooring. So after my complimentary champgane, which I'm sure they give me as a primer, so I will head to the cafe car and buy more alchol, which totaly works by the way. Once in the observation car, I feel home again.  With my Corona and lime, I sit down to draw and peek at the beautiful Winconsin country side.  That's not sarcasm by the way, this state is beautiful.  The gentelemen behind me is playing solitaire and singing, loudly.  And it's not that he's playing cards by himself that's a little odd, but he is playing the deck with extreme vigor, cards are slamming down on the table as he makes up words to slow songs.  The white people around me are looking over nervously and tossing disapproving glances like hand grenades.  I have a big smile on my face. This is delightful.

Brandy in the Dinning Car Sir

[Note: the following were written on the train, but with Amtrak being liers about their Wi-Fi, I'm just now getting to publish them, enjoy]

[Tuesday, Feb 21]


So this is what first class feels like.  From the moment the Amtrak guy at the ticket counter realized I was "hello, in a sleeper car, and not some funky coach passenger" it's been first class the whole way.  Entrace into the special lounge, free coffee and snacks and a restroom that didn't have a homeless guy taking a bath in the sink. Sorry my brother. As we exited through the special double doors, I could feel the lack of stress from hoping I could find a window seat in a car packed full of rolling eye balls, people hoping I didn't sit next to them.  I felt like a 6 year old heading for the train around Dinesyland. 


My indivdual cabin, is snug.  It was two seats facing each other and a folded up bunk bead overhead.  But it's my own space, and I don't have to worry about leaving my stuff as I wonder about to the observation car, and more importantly for the next two nights I'll be completely horizontal.  Not trying to fit my ass betwwen the metal bar between two recliners, with something metallic sticking in my ribs; and that's only if I'm lucky and have an empty seat next to me. This is the only way to Amtrak if you're going any where over 28 hours.


Listen to the places the Empire Builder is passing through during the next 46 hours as it heads along the northern top of the United States; Glacier National Park, Mississippi River, Gateway to Mount Rainer, The Rocky Mountains and the Columbia River Gorge.  It passes through Winsconsion, Minesota, North Dakota, Montanna, Idaho and Washington.  When I land in Seattle I still have a four hour bus ride to Vancouver, but I could do that standing on my head.  I believe at this point I am road hardened.


p.s. They are bringing me some champagne in a little bit.

A Chicago Walk

I have to say, so far on this trip, my two favorite days are the days where I do nothing but walk around, explore and photograph. On a gray overcast day in Austin, I walked the west side and got some great city shots of grit, grime and graffiti.  Today, I spent three straight hours walking this great city, stopping only long enough to take shots of the city with big shoulders.  This is a robust, muscular, masculine city. It seems to be even more compact, with more tall building than Manhattan.  Looking down the street in any direction from the corner of Adams and Clark and I feel as if I am standing at the bottom of the grand canyon of concrete.


I started off by heading back to Union Station to make sure I know where to go tomorrow.  It's a big station and I'll be carrying my 70 lbs of gear.  After that I headed along the river north, then over to Millennium Park, Chicago's version of Central Park.  It is an amazing space, and it makes me want to come back in the summer. I headed for the Navy Pier but from what I could see it looked like a bunch of  carnival rides.  So I decided to head back south, along the lake to the other end of the park.  As Solider Field was on the south side of a stack of museums there, I pushed on.  I as able to get close to the stadium, but I could't see the field.  It was still cool for me to see what the typical Bears fan would see on an NFL Sunday as they head to the stadium.


I must have walked 6 miles today, but it was great.  Unfortunately, the photographs do not do justice to the city, the camera can only capture so much. The rest is in my dome.

click on image to go to the Shutterfly album

Rabindranath Tagore

"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky."
—Verse 292, Stray Birds, 1916.

Notes from The Art Institute of Chicago

This museum is amazing, second only to the Metropolitan or MOMA in New York.  I was one of the first in line when they opened at 10:30 and quickly ran to the Van Goghs before the thundering herds of philistines would block my view.  I found his self portrait and was almost moved to tears.  He is quickly becoming one of my favorite painters.  They have a room full of Van Goghs and Guaganins mixed together, and other rooms full of Degas, Monets and many Toulouse-Lautrecs.  It was a delight.


I made a magical discovery, one of those things that only seem to happen in a museum.  I followed a sign with a beautiful painting of a women's face, and the word Tagore.  When I entered the room there was a huge photograph of a bearded gentlemen, probably in his 60's.  His name is Rabindranath Tagore.  Putting aside the fact that he is a Nobel Laureate in Literature, a poet, novelist, world traveler and was knighted by the British Crown, at the age of 60 he started to paint and draw.  The exhibition at the AIC was captivating. The tenor of his works are dark, with rich tones of orange, browns and black.  Partially due to his color blindness, but more to do with the sorrow his life imparted on him, three of his five children passed away while he was alive, as did many of his family and dearest friends. Searching the web when I returned to my hotel, I could not even find a fraction of the incredible works on display at AIC.  Sometimes you have to leave the computer in order to learn something spectacular.

I ran across three American painters from the 19th and early 20th century, Thomas Moran, Albert Bierstadt and Thomas Doughty.  Their technical skill are amazing, the light and shadows and foliage are stunning.  My only critique is that its hard to tell these American landscape painters apart.  Even my untrained eye can easily distinguish the unique styles of Monet, Modigliani,  Gauguin and Van Gogh.  But the Americans are very similar in style and hard to differentiate.


Marc Chagall’s "America Windows" was beautiful, don't miss it.

Sometime in your life, go to this museum, it is a must see.

Zombpocalypse

The train ride from Austin to Chicago was 28 hours.  It was not uneventful, as these train rides tend to be, or... not be? On Friday, pulling into Fort Worth we were vehemently told to remain in our seats until explicitly told we could get up.  Weird.  Then we were told there was a "situation" on the train.  Myself, in the window seat, served as lookout to my fellow travelers on the other side of the train.  I debated whether to tell them about the guy I just saw walking by with "Arson/Bomb Squad" on the back of his vest.  He didn't seem to be in a hurry, that's good right? Seriously, would I cause a panic if I yelled out "the bomb squad is here".  And why in the world are we not being told to "RUN LIKE HELL YOU MF'ers"  In these days of global connectivity, the guy in front of me with the iPad gave us the scope on what was going on in the car right behind us, literally 50 feet away.  "Suspicious" package found on Amtrak train in Fort Worth. Turned out to be an empty lunch box.  HAHAHA, all that terror for nothing, that's funny.  Oh yeah, and also, somewhere between us and Dallas a chemical freight train had derailed.  It's always something on the Amtrak.  All was fine in the end, we didn't blow up and went around the hazardous derailed freight train.  Another day on the road.

The next day as we rolled along through St Louis, Missouri, and most of Illinois, something strange hit me.  I see lots of towns, but no people walking around.  Sure people are driving their cars, but where are the children playing in the yard, or people shopping in the small town shops. It's a Saturday, and we must have rolled through 2 dozen small to mediums sized towns. I see no people.  I had only two possible explanations.  First of all Illinois is one of the cleanest states.  Compared to Texas, Arkansas and Missouri, the yards are neatly kept, the houses are nice, it's a comparatively neat and tidy state.  Maybe everyone is just so tried from keeping everything so clean, come the weekend, they just veg out in front of the TV.  Or, maybe the train has lost communication with the outside world, and the zombpocalypse is occurring.  Given my recent adventures on the train, I'm going with the later.

The Do's and Don'ts of Austin

Lets start with the Do's:

• Visit South Congress street, even though it's trying to be, it's still kinda hip and fun.
• Visit the Blanton, it's a very good art museum.
• Eat, food is a key ingredient of what makes Austin, Austin.
• Get a great cup of coffee at Medici Cafe, near 2nd and Congress, and sit outside and enjoy the city.
• Take the free tour of the State Capitol building.  Very interesting and a beautiful space.
• Sit on the pedestrian bridge, just a hair east of the Lamar street bridge.  Great view and magical when the train comes by.
• Visit Fortney on W 6th avenue, an antique, curio, anything you can imagine shop. This place is special.

Don'ts

• Be over 30, this is a city for the young. In this city you are either young or homeless.
• Walk anywhere, the intersections here are truly frighting, pedestrians are invisible.  I would rather cross the 405 at rush hour.
• Look for the million bats on the Congress street bridge before mid March, apparently they have commitments in Mexico prior to that.
• Spend a minute at the Art House Gallery, I like weird art, but that was pushing it and the space is tiny.
• Come alone, this place is all about going out to eat and hitting the incredibly interesting bars downtown.

A Beautiful Day in Austin

One of my best days in Austin.  It started out cold and rainy, and for some reason that made it all that much more beautiful.  Yesterday I didn't go downtown, the day was black and white and eleven shades of grey. Today when I stepped off the bus at 4th and Congress everything was in vibrant color.  Downtown is humanity concentrated.  It's business men walking next to homeless guys, it's moms and students and black and white and artists and scientists and all with some sense of purpose.


I wanted to capture some of Austin's gritty, but no less beautiful side, and of course most of it sits directly next to the railroad tracks.  The grey skies didn't dampen the mood, it seemed to highlight it and give everything a powerful glow.  Here is the photo shoot as it happened, minus the repetitive shots.

After this I went to the movies and saw a great film from Iran, "Separation". It was very intense and gripping. Highly recommend. When I came out of the movie the sun was out and it was warm and perfect outside.  Dam it.

Oklahoma Twilight

Some days on the road feel like accomplishment. Yesterday, I put aside a few demons from dark days past and hopped on the city bus for the first time.  The goal for the day was the Blanton Art Museum, which sits on the University of Texas campus. I got there early so I walked around and explored. It's a beautiful campus, with the highlight being the Darrell K Royal football stadium which sits right on campus.  Fall here must be magical. It was a thrill to just peek inside the stadium from a gate by the end zone.

The last couple of days I came across two pieces of art that really inspired me.  The first is called Parsonage Garden, by Vincent Van Gogh.  I have been so enamored with the painters of Paris from the early part of the 20th century, I have not really taken the time to look at Van Gogh.  I found a big coffee table book full of his incredible art, sat in a big comfy chair and soaked in the magic. 


The second is a piece I discovered at the Blanton by J.Jay McVicker, titled "Oklahoma Twilight"  Both pieces have a dark, monochrome tenor and captivated me with there stark lines and shadow and highlights.  Both are beautiful, rich and dark.


I've decided my artistic goal for this trip is to draw 100 faces in pencil.  Nothing fancy, just little faces with the basics, shape of the head, eyes (two) and a nose and mouth.  At the Blanton I sat and drew faces from paintings and from the Greek statues.  I have a long way to go, but hopefully I'm on my way.