Martinez, 1, or Train Travels/Strange Bedfellows

Below this is the entry I wrote after just getting off the train, but first I wanted to make note of where I am. I'm waiting for a bus in Martinez, CA, at the only open coffee place in town (the wireless is courtesy of the town library). The coffee place is full of old-guy regulars, really bare-bones kind of place with terrible chai and good brew coffee. The breakfast burrito is spicy enough. The walls are covered with postcards and letters from Marines. Seems like someone at this place spends most of their time sending coffee care packages to Iraq. I think about an ex-sailor I know who once got beat up in a public bathroom by a radical antiwar punk because she was wearing her uniform. I think, "that is not my kind of protest." I wish I had some coffee to send the Marines.

And now, the promised train entry. More on Seattle when I get to Santa Rosa.

As I boarded the train in Seattle, the porter promised me that I could have the window seat once we reached Portland, where my seatmate would be getting off. My seatmate, as it turned out, had a 4-month old with her, and spent the majority of her time in the observation car, teaching the baby about rivers and mountains. I took advantage of the extra seat and slept, curled sideways in a position my back and hips would later woefully regret.

I woke up in Portland; that is to say, I was awakened by a pixie of a woman standing over me and saying, “Um, hi, I think I’m your seatmate…” I sat up groggily, clumsily pulling all my stuff over to the window. “Oh, you like Anne Lamott? We’re going to be best friends!” she exclaimed, noticing the book under my pillow. Satisfied, she plopped herself into the empty seat and introduced herself. Within minutes were talking like friends, joking and teasing one another with the kind of instant bond I’ve seen happen between kindergarteners. She and I hung out for the rest of the 24 hour ride – she even defended my seat from a completely innocent old lady who’d been assigned to my spot. Once again, I left the train ride with a new number in my phone.

(The last number I’d left with had come from the Minneapolis-Seattle ride, and belonged to a stripper from North Dakota who was going try and make it in the big city. While riding down California, I got an ecstatic text message from her: “I GOT A JOB!”)

Also on this ride was the woman who was seven months pregnant and could smell the gum another passenger was unwrapping six rows away. She and I hung out in the snack car talking about babies and how the medical establishment treats women’s bodies – as unpredictable, dangerous entities that require constant monitoring and intervention. She admitted to being something of a hypochondriac, otherwise she’d totally have her baby at home. As it was, she was moving to Los Angeles to live with her boyfriend and his family, who she “cared about” but didn’t love. “But,” she added, “I love my baby more than I don’t love my boyfriend, and I want Daniel to grow up with the kind of tight, loving family that I never had. Hence, Los Angeles.” She’s half-Jamaican, half-Greek, and raised Jewish (!!) Neither of her parents were Jewish but decided it was a good religion to raise kids with. Go figure. My seatmate’s got some Yiddishkeit in her too.

I’m reminded of Abby’s song wherever you go, there’s always someone Jewish….

There’s also a Mormon Elder on the train, looking like he’s fresh out of missionary boot camp. He looks at me when I come down the aisle in my socks, Birkenstocks, long skirt, Rogue River sweatshirt and flyaway hair as though he’s thinking it’s not even worth it to try to save me.

This time, I remember to eat more. My seatmate brought hummus, pita chips and carrot sticks and insisted on feeding me much the way I insisted on feeding my seatmate en route from Minneapolis. Karma, I guess.

Night comes, and my seatmate asks if she can lean on me while we sleep, since I have the window. Twenty minutes later, I wake up because my arm is numb – her head is in my lap, and she’s clamped onto my forearm like a koala bear. I spend the rest of the night sleeping in half hour shifts, her sleepy body following mine with every twist and turn. But it’s worth it to be up at 5:30 in the morning, to watch the sun come over California’s corn and baby cows, calling C in Puerto Rico to hear about her triumphs and her troubles as the sky turns into a full blown sunrise rainbow.