I've noticed, while writing this journal, that my thoughts are being framed in an increasingly narrative style. Oh, I've described myself and my surroundings in the third person in my running interior commentary for quite some years, now, to varying degrees, but never before had I done so wondering what my audience might think. Fascinating, Captain.
The waiter from the dining car not only stopped by my sleeping compartment on the way to the crew's quarters, but paid me special attention this morning, as well. I'm only left to gather that nobody tips on these East Coast runs, so tipping well stands out twice as tall. I tipped a couple bucks at breakfast, too. None for my attendant, though, on this leg -- he wasn't nearly so helpful and cheery, nor had he finished making up my room when I got back to it.
I awoke around six this morning, probably because I'm in a starboard compartment, which on a northward run means an eye full of sunshine when she rolls over the horizon. Still, I was again decently rested. I'd decided to give the Viewliner's upper bunk a whirl because it had a window (Superliner upper bunks have no window access, a gross oversight). It's a couple inches narrower than the top bunk, but what's odder is that it's not rectangular: it's shaped like a manila file folder, with a tab sticking out on the side furthest from the sink, probably so you can pee and ascent and not clunk your head.
Oatmeal for breakfast, with a bowl of fruit. The waiter who liked me set an unordered (but not unwelcome) glass of milk beside the ordered orange juice, as well as a biscuit. Unfortunately, they didn't have any of the usual oatmeal fixings (brown sugar and raisins I'd appreciate, at the very least), so it was a little bland.
I packed my backpack with the things I'd needed overnight, and waited for us to pull into Union Station. Unfortunately, it looked like Washington is another metropolitan area that hasn't accepted GSM into its life (or at least not Cingular's GSM), so I was lacking in cell phone coverage. The Palm worked, though, and train stations have nothing if not a plentitude of pay phones, any of which could be convinced to work in my favour.
I'd been noticing the climactic shift since I awoke, as usual, and the seasons had rolled back as I knew they must: Florida's endless summer phased into Northern Virginia's late winter, with green-brown lawns and barren branches replacing Spanish moss and bright-blooming wisteria.
The train pulled into Union Station essentially on time as I pulled my pack onto my back and strolled onto the platform. I found the weather brisk, but not overly chilly -- in the high fifties, surely -- as I rode the escalator into the station proper. I appear to still have my 'train legs:' whenever I'm still for a moment, my brain tries to convince me we're swaying, or perhaps moving. A bit disconcerting, but it leaves in a few hours.
Mike had extolled the virtues of the newly renovated Union Station last night, and I was expecting newly refurbished Federal architecture -- which I suppose there was, only they'd put quite a few stores into the honeycombed hallways, and girded the ceilings with bright aluminum scaffolding-style pipes instead of whatever had been there before.
Why is it the current fashion to turn mass transit hubs into malls? All airports have had their share of noxiously overpriced bars and kitschy gift shops, but Union Station was showing the same franchising binge I'd noticed in the new Denver airport and the recently-rebuilt Jacksonville one. I don't mind the franchised restaurants much, and the Tie Rack almost makes sense, but... the Body Shop? I need scented soaps on a train or plane why? Shrugging at this, I scanned the waiting area adjacent to my gate for people holding up appropriate signs, or who looked like they were waiting for someone -- and found no-one.
There were, however, a predictable rack of payphones, and after retreiving my baggage from the adjacent carousel, I used one and phoned home. Mike wondered how the new station looked.
"Um. Like a huge mall. Looks like an airport now, really."
He extolled the virtues for a few minutes. The Washington Station is on Amtrak's busiest routes, the Northeast Corridor, and also serves as a hub for the Metro -- an urban, typically elevated heavy rail system that's just like the BART, and MARC, the Maryland medium-haul commuter rail system. It's busy, and Mike's from nearby Frederick, so he was proud of the renovations.
After hanging up with Mike, I rang Manny's cell phone to determine where my ride was! It turned out that her husband, Andy, had been late departing, and would be there shortly -- in the meantime, I should wait in au bon pain, a deli franchise specializing in sandwiches on crusty French bread and an East Coast fixture. Frankly, I wish she'd had me wait in the bookstore across the way, but we'd've been hours late getting out, so it's probably just as well.
Andy eventually found me, and we drove to Manny's house, the Land of Confusion. Manny and Andy have two adorable sons, and two of the other expected guests had already arrived and were helping prepare food. Within two minutes, in which Manny only attempted to shoo me from the kitchen, er, well, twice, I was washing and separating broccoli in a brave foray into usefulness. This was mostly a Vingolf Fellowship affair, from a New Jersey based kindred, and I was an excuse to meet together and eat well. Strangely and surprisingly, it was here on the East Coast where they'd been hiding all the Asatru vegans -- I counted three vegans among Vingolf's six members, and the menu was skewed accordingly: a salad of apples, dried cranberries, and walnuts, a rye-grain couscous-like dish, chili made with several kinds of beans, a bow tie pasta salad, and the only concession to the omnivores in the audience: a chicken, cheese, broccoli and rice casserole, topped with a mushroom sauce.
There was another geek at the party, and he was even of the same type I was, so we burbled happily about computer things for a lot of the afternoon. After the bulk of the eating had been done, there was a general excursion to the park adjacent to Manny's backyard so we could ride the swings and seesaws.
I was one of the first outside to do this (it'd warmed up to near-sixty), and one of the last back inside afterward. When I re-entered the living room to take up conversation again, there was a large woman on the couch, who I gaily dismissed from everyone's treatment of her as being another invited guest, possibly from one of the other local kindreds -- Gladsheim and Raven Kindred South had both been invited, and one from each were in attendance.
Unfortunately, it was only Manny's housemate, who had no idea what these people were around for; she'd only been invited to help eat leftovers! Once talk turned to heavily Heathen topics, she politely took her leave, and I could deliver my message.
Diana had charged me with two minor tasks: one, to meet the Tampa kindred that'd just asked to join the Troth, which bombed due to all the members being out of town, and the other to extend an invitation on her behalf to the general Mid-Atlantic heathen community for her to hold a seiðr workshop in that general area. It was this latter I opened for discussion once the room was quieted down.
What I'm pretty sure Our Munificient and Fearless Leader didn't know was that I'd never attended the full-blown workshop before, although I'd certainly been exposed to her methods and techniques over the years. That made it difficult to answer even the most basic questions ("Does she charge?" "How long will this take?" "How many people can we invite?"). A local eclectic coven was interested in attending, from reports, and even with the occasional ego-related issue, drawing enough people wasn't a big deal... keeping them away might be, though.
Well, Diana'd gotten me into this mess, the least she could do was get me out of it. I asked to use Manny's phone and dialed Greyhaven, where the phone was answered by Ariel, Diana's four-year-old granddaughter. Erm, oops. Ariel did the right thing, though, and I handed the phone to Manny once Diana was on the line, where all questions were suitably answered (plane fare plus expenses, two days, and a variable number of people, for the curious).
Hey, she even reads these humble pages...
Once we'd hung up with Diana, plans proceeded apace, with the likely venue being Rutgers Uniiversity, where the rooms could be had for free under the auspices of their pagan student organization. Attendance was pegged to potentially be as high as forty, if one factored in all interested parties, and the target registration fee was estimated to be twenty to twenty-five dollars. When it could be held, be it late October or next March, would be dependent primarily upon the lead time required to wrest the rooms from Rutgers. Frankly, the assembled Vingolfers were shocked at having so much time to prepare, as one week or even five minutes has been known to be closer to the norm. After some discussion of east coast versus west coast styles and techniques, the party started to break into clumps, and the New Jersey people had to get on the road home.
Once they'd all left, I started to tinker with Manny's setup. You see, the favourite way for shell users to connect to their accounts on my server is via SSH, the Secure Shell, which employs public-key cryptography to ensure that traffic is kept secure from prying eyes. The protocol came in two versions, and I had recently cut off all access to people using the older version, which was proving to have more holes on a monthly basis.
Manny's account that she used to access my server and work on her sites only had an SSH 1 client installed, not SSH 2. Due to the increasingly bloated nature of today's software, even in source code, I had trouble installing either of the two available SSH packages on that account. I may have to re-enable SSH 1 use if I can't get this worked out, which would vex me greatly.
Throughout this epic struggle, there was a lot of 'hurry up and wait' time, which I spent chatting with my hosts and playing with their sons. The other houseguest came back, too, and we got acquainted while I continued the battle. In fact, later on, I got a picture of him:
Here's the older son, Douglas, dandled on his father's lap:
We'll have shots of Manny and the younger son, Gordon, in tomorrow's installment. Update: Actually, no, we won't, I forgot to take any of him or of Manny.
I am getting sleepy... sleeeeeeepy. Time to crawl into a bed that doesn't move. Good night!
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