Finding Myself in... San Francisco
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 treatment. All that was missing was a cart to scoot me along. But walking is in my nature, so we hustled and we sweat, the beads on my face connecting to form rivulets down my neck.
Traveling by train is an oddly austere method of commuting. Perhaps from too many viewings of Harry Potter, I sometimes expect grand locomotives of bright colors and intricately riveted steel designs. But today's trains do not offer the grandeur of yesteryear. There is no smoke billowing down the track and engulfing you with that smokey coal scent. The cars are not adorned with velvety rich materials nor luxurious hand-carved wood accents, trains are now a middle-class means of travel. The average man rides these trains. I am that average man.
One of the biggest reasons for taking the train up to SF was that many claim it to be the most beautiful route in all the US. But that first leg - before you reach the water - is all of Middle-America. You do not leave the trash strewn bushes, or the tightly packed trailer parks, or the graffiti covered rocks, until about an hour into the trip. But then you are greeted by the refreshing waters of the ocean - the waves inviting you in for a dip - with the glass of the windows and the speed of the train denying you the reprieve.
The other reason for departing my comfortable lodgings in LA and packing my life into a few small bags, is that I needed change. There was a moment in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my phone to buzz with a text or call from simply anyone with a plan, that I realized I was no longer walking a path of my own. For years – even the past decade – I had relied on the comings and goings of others to fill my calendar and give purpose to my days. More than feeling I had lost my way, I felt detached from my life. I was merely a shadow, smushing myself into odd shapes so that I may attach to other people and follow them through journeys that did not belong to me.
After that first hour of gritty LA suburbs, the water came etching out of the trees to my left. The train nearly collided with the ocean, yet instead, they veered off together on a parallel course. The waves disappeared under the train, we got that close to the narrow beach. We continued to ebb and flow from the coast, making our way into rockier terrain. The mountains of Santa Barber came in from the right, standing goliaths watching over the crashing waves of the bay. Being sandwiched between them is more of a hug than an intimidation of the two behemoths that they are: land thrust into the heavens by the movements of the earth, and water reaching farther than the land even dares touch. Within a stretch of time the southern notes of California fell back and we began to climb the hills of the North. Palm trees faded out of the picture and were replaced by oaks and fields of electric-green wild-flowers that blanketed the rolling hills, which had been swapped out from the rigid, rocky crags of before. The water steadfast. Time and distance visually perceived.
A friend said to me once that his favorite part of train traveling was the perception of land traveled. So often you are stuck in a metal tube and a few hours later you are somewhere different than before. What lands did you have to traverse to get there? None. You soared through the sky, aloft in the clouds, your mind unable to perceive the great lengths it took. But on a train, you feel it chug along as it battles an uphill climb. You see the land, mile by mile, inch by inch, as you zip past only a dozen feet above it. The hours tell you that your journey is not one done so easily, there is effort put into transporting your body someplace. And all the better for it. I gazed in awe and felt the change in my body as I took in the breathtaking views, realizing a transition was happening. As the spring flowers bloomed along the trails of the train, I also bloomed into a new season of place, and being, and living.
But there are a few downsides to a form of travel that pits you against a group of strangers. For one, you are at their mercy. Who-knows-who may jump aboard, and you are treated to a show of unspeakable horrors: a drunken man barely making it down the narrow aisles; mental instabilities tipping over and spilling across the dining cart; dogs peeing on the stairs. Of course, these are meant for balance, because nowhere can there be too favorable of conditions. Humanity demands there must be someone there wrecking it for those of us who want peace and quiet.
Eventually, with night having blanketed over my section of the world, stealing away the view offered of San Francisco across the bay, I arrived in Oakland. A good friend of mine, a friend made while travelling in another country entirely, picked me up from the station and we slipped into the valley of Vallejo. The next morning, bright and early, we made the grand entrance into the city center by way of the Golden Gate bridge. As picturesque as one could hope, it emerged from behind a curving hill, low fog skimming over the top of the art-deco towers, and water whispering from the depths below. As many can attest, it is a doorway to new beginnings. The feeling that I had arrived swept over me, the worries of days prior were gone with the swiftly moving fog, and the sun shone through, making me a clean slate, ready to experience something new about myself, to challenge myself, to find myself in San Francisco.
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 treatment. All that was missing was a cart to scoot me along. But walking is in my nature, so we hustled and we sweat, the beads on my face connecting to form rivulets down my neck.
Traveling by train is an oddly austere method of commuting. Perhaps from too many viewings of Harry Potter, I sometimes expect grand locomotives of bright colors and intricately riveted steel designs. But today's trains do not offer the grandeur of yesteryear. There is no smoke billowing down the track and engulfing you with that smokey coal scent. The cars are not adorned with velvety rich materials nor luxurious hand-carved wood accents, trains are now a middle-class means of travel. The average man rides these trains. I am that average man.
One of the biggest reasons for taking the train up to SF was that many claim it to be the most beautiful route in all the US. But that first leg - before you reach the water - is all of Middle-America. You do not leave the trash strewn bushes, or the tightly packed trailer parks, or the graffiti covered rocks, until about an hour into the trip. But then you are greeted by the refreshing waters of the ocean - the waves inviting you in for a dip - with the glass of the windows and the speed of the train denying you the reprieve.
The other reason for departing my comfortable lodgings in LA and packing my life into a few small bags, is that I needed change. There was a moment in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my phone to buzz with a text or call from simply anyone with a plan, that I realized I was no longer walking a path of my own. For years – even the past decade – I had relied on the comings and goings of others to fill my calendar and give purpose to my days. More than feeling I had lost my way, I felt detached from my life. I was merely a shadow, smushing myself into odd shapes so that I may attach to other people and follow them through journeys that did not belong to me.
After that first hour of gritty LA suburbs, the water came etching out of the trees to my left. The train nearly collided with the ocean, yet instead, they veered off together on a parallel course. The waves disappeared under the train, we got that close to the narrow beach. We continued to ebb and flow from the coast, making our way into rockier terrain. The mountains of Santa Barber came in from the right, standing goliaths watching over the crashing waves of the bay. Being sandwiched between them is more of a hug than an intimidation of the two behemoths that they are: land thrust into the heavens by the movements of the earth, and water reaching farther than the land even dares touch. Within a stretch of time the southern notes of California fell back and we began to climb the hills of the North. Palm trees faded out of the picture and were replaced by oaks and fields of electric-green wild-flowers that blanketed the rolling hills, which had been swapped out from the rigid, rocky crags of before. The water steadfast. Time and distance visually perceived.
A friend said to me once that his favorite part of train traveling was the perception of land traveled. So often you are stuck in a metal tube and a few hours later you are somewhere different than before. What lands did you have to traverse to get there? None. You soared through the sky, aloft in the clouds, your mind unable to perceive the great lengths it took. But on a train, you feel it chug along as it battles an uphill climb. You see the land, mile by mile, inch by inch, as you zip past only a dozen feet above it. The hours tell you that your journey is not one done so easily, there is effort put into transporting your body someplace. And all the better for it. I gazed in awe and felt the change in my body as I took in the breathtaking views, realizing a transition was happening. As the spring flowers bloomed along the trails of the train, I also bloomed into a new season of place, and being, and living.
But there are a few downsides to a form of travel that pits you against a group of strangers. For one, you are at their mercy. Who-knows-who may jump aboard, and you are treated to a show of unspeakable horrors: a drunken man barely making it down the narrow aisles; mental instabilities tipping over and spilling across the dining cart; dogs peeing on the stairs. Of course, these are meant for balance, because nowhere can there be too favorable of conditions. Humanity demands there must be someone there wrecking it for those of us who want peace and quiet.
Eventually, with night having blanketed over my section of the world, stealing away the view offered of San Francisco across the bay, I arrived in Oakland. A good friend of mine, a friend made while travelling in another country entirely, picked me up from the station and we slipped into the valley of Vallejo. The next morning, bright and early, we made the grand entrance into the city center by way of the Golden Gate bridge. As picturesque as one could hope, it emerged from behind a curving hill, low fog skimming over the top of the art-deco towers, and water whispering from the depths below. As many can attest, it is a doorway to new beginnings. The feeling that I had arrived swept over me, the worries of days prior were gone with the swiftly moving fog, and the sun shone through, making me a clean slate, ready to experience something new about myself, to challenge myself, to find myself in San Francisco.
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