The Coast Starlight to Portland, Just Riding the Rails.

Where to start?

A grandchild is a very special person. 

Hopefully one day new Granddaughter Grace will look back on our relationship with the same fondness I hold for my two grandfathers. Although I never knew Charles, my mother's father, I am his namesake. I think of him often and am thankful he was not called Hezekiah.

I did know my paternal Grandfather Jacob. He lived with us for several years and died when I was four or five. He was a very large man (or was it that I was small) who was not so much covered in skin as a pelt. Once after his shower I saw him coming out of the bathroom naked and am still traumatized. He spoke limited English and conversed in Russian or Yiddish. I don't remember much physical contact with Jacob. He always called me a pascunyack. As an adult I was told it meant pig.

Last Thursday evening I went to Portland to meet Grace.

I usually book a sleeper on the train. Yes, they are more expensive but they afford some privacy, a flat place to sleep and a much more comfortable journey. As this is the height of the summer season, prices are very high. The trip is only seventeen hours so I decided to travel coach.

Coach seats are very comfortable for six or eight hours then the foam padding compresses to the thickness of toilet tissue. At that point it feels like you're sitting on a wooden crate. The seats recline and have full leg and foot rests, however, aside from a two year old in the fetal position, a yoga master or contortionist no human being could possibly could find a comfortable sleeping position.

And if that in itself wasn't bad enough, when going alone you sit next to a complete stranger, which during the day may not be too bad but at night heaven forbid, you may fall asleep with your head on their shoulder, or worse, in their lap.

On the journey north the train left my home station at 10:25 p.m. 

I sat next to a middle aged gentleman on his way to a family wedding in Seattle. He had been on board since early morning and smelled like liver, onions and old spice. The fellow across the isle was wearing a tank top and had an over abundance of arm pit and back hair. Apparently he thought wearing flip flops on his dirty calloused claw like toe nailed feet was perfectly acceptable to the rest of the civilized world. By 11:30 p.m. I was sitting in the very cold lounge car contemplating my death.

I tried to nap sitting up. Occasionally I turned my attention to my Kindle and was able to concentrate enough to get through a few pages of Game of Thrones book 2. Around 3 a.m. thinking I may actually get some sleep I stretched out on the floor of the lounge car. With my face inches away from god knows what type and how much bacteria I rapidly abandoned that idea and position. Over the next three hours I watched the dark outside world and the clock waiting for sunrise.

I had now survived seven-and-one-half hours and only had eight-and-one-half hours to go.

Meals are included in the price of a sleeper and I did have the option of breakfast in the dining car but I was determined to stay within my station. Since I hadn't thought to pack a cooler with snacks like pork rinds and cheese whiz like most of my coach mates I went to the cafe' car for breakfast.  I had a few coffees, a hand full of doughnut holes, yogurt and a bag of cookies. Healthy eating is not synonymous with train travel.

The light of day brought a much appreciated view and feel to my situation. The country we traversed was beautiful. The sight of lush green forests, large bodies of water and distant snow covered mountains help divert my attention from my interminable captivity. After what only seemed like a week we arrived. I stepped off the train into the crisp Northwest Portland weather. It was 3 p.m. on Friday, it was 90 degrees. By the way, there is no such thing as global warming.

According to my map the Budget location where I reserved my car was a short walk so I shouldered my backpack, drank some water and set off for 333 N.W. Washington St. 

The area around the train station in Portland has a better looking group of people hanging around than most cities I've been in. Many had expensive looking piercings, colorful ink and exotic clothing. Although very diverse in appearance, the majority of them rolled and smoked their own cigarettes.

After an uneventful twenty-minute walk I arrived at the rental location only to discover I had mapped out the wrong address. After some confusion I deduced the address was actually 330 not 333 and the Budget counter was in the same store front as the Avis counter. Actually it was the same counter. Someone may want to put a freaking BUDGET sign in the window one of these days. I'm just saying is all. 

I entered the location and was greeted with, "We'll be right with you. Just need to go get a car for this last customer. Make yourself comfortable." There were two small plastic chairs against the wall so there was little chance of that; however, knowing I may be a while I sat down. 

Soon I was joined by a man who was dropping off his car. He told me about his pick-up a few days earlier. "It took three hours. Several other locations sold out and they had about a hundred people here." 

I may have been on a train for seventeen hours but three in a small hot car rental storefront with one hundred pissed off people is worse. He had suffered enough; I let him go ahead of me. Once he was done I completed my paperwork and with a "We're giving you an upgrade," I was taken out to meet my ride for the week end, a brand new red Ford Taurus.

The Taurus is a $36,000 car that I must admit is comfortable, good looking and fun to drive. The later and most important aspect of the vehicle I found somewhat difficult because I couldn't figure out how to start the fucking thing. I was sitting in this car in an underground parking structure in downtown Portland, Oregon in ninety degree weather and I had no ignition key. I had a nice fob with a half-dozen hieroglyphic symbols. One was open trunk or the Fantastic Rocking Horse sex position from the Karma Sutra. I could see how to lock and open the doors, set the alarm, sound the horn, turn on the lights but not start the engine. After ten minutes of panic I obviously did something right and the car roared to life.

The morning I returned the vehicle and after two days of driving it I noticed a laminated card on the fob with instructions for "How to Start the Car and How to Shut-Off the Car." After two days...I have tremendous powers of observation. By the way, should you find yourself in the same situation sometime in the future, step on the brake and push the button on the dash that says "START THE CAR."

Now that I had power I spent several minutes adjusting mirrors, seat belts and air conditioning. The Ford has heated and cooled seats so I set the temperature for 65 and let the breeze blow up my knickers. At this point I was still frazzled but I had a cool comfortable ass. I was intimidated by all the on-board technology and glad I brought my Garmin GPS. Not to mention my familiarity with it I didn't need to pay the $6 daily rental fee for theirs. Younger Daughter Rebecca, Son-in-Law Tim and Granddaughter Grace live just over seven miles out so I entered the address in Celeste (that's what we call her).

I was shocked to see I had a 530 mile drive ahead of me. Celeste thought she was still in Pittsburg, California and kept insisting I start from home. Maybe I would have been better off to spend the daily rental fee? After some difficultly I programmed her to begin in Portland and I soon had detailed driving instructions to the motel a mile from the kids place.

"Drive 500 feet and turn right.....then turn left."

At 5 p.m. on Friday I drove out of the parking structure into downtown rush hour traffic.

Tomorrow: my drive to the Marriott Fairfield Inn and first visit with Grace.