Yep, time for another travelling day on the tour. We'd had a late night last night (especially me, reading and all), so really there wasn't much to do but wake up (slowly), pack up the whole travelling show (I've gotten strangely in practice), and head to the train station to get there at a reasonable time
Chicago has the most reasonable and complete public transit system, at least in the city proper, of any city I've seen or lived in -- with the possible exception of Manhattan. Trains run often and late, deliver you within a couple blocks of most sights, attractions, homes, and jobs, and, in a move which will fill my husband Mike with unutterable glee, all the streets are straight, as has been so since the Great Fire.
A case in point: there's an L station about a block and a half from Jhary and Tiffany's house. Take the brown line (the purple and red also stop there) into the Loop, a squared-off racetrack of L lines that rings downtown, get off at Quincy/Wells, and you're just across the river from Union Station. It doesn't hurt that train stations can be built right into downtown areas, whereas airports need space, but there are L lines directly to each airport that run all night -- a distinct improvement over even New York, which offers direct rail service to none of its airports. Moreover, Chicago has adopted little plastic fare cards with magnetic stripes all across their system, much like BART tickets, only not as prone to rain damage.
Katie and John opted to accompany me to the train: Jhary and Tiffany both had school-related things to attend to today. After a blessedly uneventful train ride, we entered Union Station and had a bite of lunch.
The train left on time, with me on it. This train was of the Superliner fleet, the Empire Builder, bound for Portland or Seattle: it splits in Spokane. I've become quite learned in the ways of these cars in the past few weeks, and used that to break the ice with a charming family travelling with me in coach.
Dinner, however, presented its own quandaries.
Parties of one are always seated at whatever empty seat is available; there isn't enough room to give us all separate tables. It happened, then, that I was seated next to a charming old duffer, and we both ordered the catfish for dinner. The gentleman on my left asked if there were tartar sauce.
The server looked sheepish, "I'm afraid not, sir."
He was lucky I was sitting next to him (and wanted tartar sauce). "Do you have any mayonnnaise?"
The server nodded, "Well, sure."
"Pickle relish?" The more food-savvy of you already know where this is headed.
"Er, well, no--" I shook my head.
"Isn't that the café car attendant on his meal break, there? Could you ask if he has pickle relish? He probably does; I know they serve hot dogs over there.
"Oh," the server said blankly, and he walked to where the café car attendant was sitting, returning quickly with the answer: "Yes."
I beamed, "Great!" Hell, this bit of condiment hacking was the closest I was going to get to actually cooking anything this trip; I should make the most of it. For, as most cooks know, tartar sauce is obtained merely by mixing a bit of mayonnaise with some sweet pickle relish, perhaps with a ddash of lemon juice.
I got up from my seat, the server offering as I left to bring up some mayonnaise and something to mix things in. I knew the café car had mayonnaise regardless, but it'd make the server feel better. I weaved my way back along the gently bouncing train to the café car, and quickly returned with booty, which I combined with the mayonnaise packets in a coffee cup, then augmented with a squirt from one of the lemon wedges that came alongside my iced tea. There.
"Ta da!" I presented the coffee cup to the older gentleman with a flourish. "Tartar sauce à la Lorrie." He laughed, and we ate -- the fish was, as always, well-prepared and went well with the improvised tartar sauce. In return, he charged a dessert to his sleeper compartment -- and gave it to me.
Later in that meal, I peered out the window at the landscape. "We must be in Minnesota," I mused, "The snow's pretty thick on the ground out there."
Another of my dinner companions, this one a college boy, looked concerned, "Uh oh. Really? I, uh... I didn't pack a jacket." Oops.
We pulled into the Twin Cities around ten-thirty that night, approximately on time. I gathered my things about me.
The Saint Paul train station only has to accomodate two trains daily: one Empire Builder in each direction. It's not much to look at, but it's at least staffed and enclosed. Apparently, the Twin Cities don't enjoy much in the way of a mass transit system. Just inside the station, a man called my name. "Lorrie?"
It was Chris, aka Isaac of RetroMUD, accompanied by his girlfriend Dani (Glasya). John (Zandar) was waiting back at the house, along with an assortment of cats.
I'd had time to notice one other thing between the train and the station: it's freezing out there! In Chicago the afternoon before, I'd actually been able to unpack my windbreaker and wear that around town, as temperatures were around fifty. Here, though, it was less than half that.
In proper Minnesotan form, my hosts scoffed at my observations, "It's lovely spring weather. Got all the way up to twenty-five today!" Thanks, guys.
Chris and Dani have a washer and dryer actually in their condo, so I didn't need to dig into my trove of quarters to do the laundry that desparately needed doing. I started a load, cycled it once, and went to bed.
Tomorrow, there'd be a bit of sightseeing... but not to the usual places people ask for in the Cities.
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