Keeper of the Dam

     The sweat beaded on my forehead, collecting on my nose and cheeks; the temperature was an unseasonable 95 degrees in LA, and I was in black jeans, my long-forgotten boots, a blue chambray button-up, and my trusted red cardigan. With me I trolleyed along all my worldly possessions, packed just so because of the ungodly outfit I layered on (did I forget to mention the undershirt and jean jacket?). With rideshares on the fritz and traditional LA traffic putting on an early morning show, I was running late to my train up to San Francisco. One large suitcase, a backpack, a duffel, one folding bicycle, and a matching bag; I was overflowing with unnecessary items for my month-long trip.      Arriving at the train station, only a bit hassled by that point, I was greeted by an overtly charming woman who chauffeured me down the tracks, helping to push my luggage and hand deliver me to the train. For someone arriving late, I felt like I was receiving first-class ...