Moments of Transition

5 March 2001, No Train
(Los Angeles, CA, mile 473)

The Coast Starlight pulled into Los Angeles's Union Station at about eight AM, some nine and a half hours after its intended arrival time. The Sunset Limited, the train I was supposed to have connected with, left some eight and a half hours ago and was already somewhere in Arizona.

My only hope of catching up to it would be if Amtrak could wrangle a plane to fly me (and similarly-fated passengers) to El Paso, Texas, where we could catch the Sunset Limited back west (for me) or east (for them). If that couldn't be arranged, Amtrak was willing to, at their expense, put us up in a hotel in downtown Los Angeles.

So, naturally, I wanted to be first in line at the customer service counter. Towing my bag behind me, I stalked down the runway at a good clip, pulling up in front of the Information Desk before several other people. It wasn't even staffed when we got there, but the sight of half a dozen annoyed travellers through their glass door summoned a representative quickly enough, especially as the group grew in dribs and drabs as more people filtered through.

They had reservations for me at the hotel; I informed them I'd like to fly to El Paso like the eastbound people. That was noted; I sat down and waited for more people to arrive. I figured that, as we were dealing with a bureaucracy, getting there first would make me better able to win in a first-come, first-served situation, as any spare plane tickets were likely to engender. Moreover, I knew at least one fellow who was heading to Louisiana and wouldn't fly; it made his ears bleed. So, if there were a plane, I stood a good chance of getting on it as long as I didn't overly vex the desk staff.

I waited. Some had more pressing concerns than mine, like the couple who had pending hotel reservations. One lady started asking around to see if there was enough interest to rent a large car and drop it off in, say, Dallas (I said I was, if the plane didn't come through, and if they were willing to drop me off in Deming). Even if the plane failed, though, and I were left here for two days until the next trip of the Sunset Limited, I had a card in the hole.

One of the really great things about the Internet is that, with a little social savvy, one can quickly develop a network of friends and acquaintances just about anywhere. Unlike a lot of other groups that do this, most of this crew lived and died by cell phones and being connected. I actually did have a couple in LA: Dave Lieberman (Zaphod on the IRC Undernet's #userfriendly) and Tim Doughty, who I knew from several heathen e-mail lists. I didn't have a phone number for Tim... but on Dave I had everything. The crapshoot with Dave is that he spent several days a month working up in San Francisco, and the way my luck was going, that's where he'd be today. Fearing there would be no plane, I had sent mail to his phone about an hour ago, just outside the Simi Valley station:

				Guess where I am?

And another, a few minutes later:

				I'm about an hour
				N of LA Union Sta.
				I bet you're in
				SF this week.

(Hey, cell phones have narrow screens)

The phone company would hold those messages in the air until Dave woke up and powered on his phone, so I had a good chance of catching him before he left for work. Meanwhile, the line of stranded passengers grew longer while I loitered in the waiting area. When people stopped joining it, I re-joined at the end, and made my way to the front.

"Say," I asked companionably, "what're the chances of me getting on that plane and to El Paso by three?"

The first clerk had been joined by a supervisor to help handle the mob, and the clerk demurred, "We're checking on that right now. If you'd just have a seat..."

The supervisor shook her head, cutting in, "No, there's no plane. We can't get you there in time; we checked early this morning. You'll have to go to the hotel."

I turned back to the clerk, "Oh. Well, could you please book me straight through to Lake City, then, and upgrade that first night to a sleeper?" I made it clear from my tone that I had every intention of ensuring that Amtrak paid for that night's upgrade.

The clerk nodded and took the tickets for LAX to Deming and Deming to Lake City. I'll have to pick up the new ones Tuesday night on my way to the train.

As you may already have surmised from the top of this page, that was pretty much that. I had managed to get Gamlingan and Gefjon's number in the course of all this, and called them to let them know I couldn't make it, and I was walking back to the waiting area when my phone rang -- it was Dave.

Ah! My luck was coming in again! Not only was he in town this week, but he was also working from home much of the day, and would be more than happy to rescue me from Union Station! Huzzah! I told him that they'd be bussing me to the Kawada Hotel, so he should try and meet me there; that way, I wouldn't miss any directions or pronouncements from Amtrak before they put us on the bus.

Y'know, if I were one to believe in signs and portents (and I am), I'd reckon I was supposed to stay in LA awhile. Fine and dandy; I pulled out my Palm while waiting for the bus and dropped a line to Tim Doughty, asking if we could get together for dinner. I'd just finished when the bus arrived to take us to the hotel.

If you're ever stuck in Los Angeles, I wouldn't loited anywhere near Union Station. Train stations in big cities are rarely in nice parts of town, and when it's next to the courthouse, that never improves matters.

Soon, we arrived at the Kawada Hotel, and I checked into a room to wait for Dave. I did take a picture:

I have never seen a hotel room that bloody narrow. The hotel caters mainly to Asian guests, who tend to require less personal space than we hoggish Americans, so mainly I was just happy it wasn't a human coin locker like the ones in cyberpunk novels (and, I hear, actually in Japan). You're seeing just about all of it; there's a dresser and TV to the right of where I was standing, a small sink and refrigerator, and a bathroom with toilet and shower stall. It was pretty wee.

I had just enough time to shower before Dave arrived -- believe me, I took it. I'd also had about one hour of sleep, but Dave had a spare bed. Ahhhh...

Dave Lieberman lives in a cozy two-bedroom apartment in nearby Santa Monica. I have a picture of him, too, along with his lovely fiancée, Linnea:

We stopped at a deli, picked up sandwiches, then we came home, ate and I slept about five hours while Dave dealt with what little he actually had to visit the office for that day. Now, he'd called Linnea to tell him there was someone in the spare bed, but her phone had run out of batteries. So, about two, I heard a voice.

"Hello?"

I cracked one bleary eye open. Without my admittedly thick glasses, the world was a cheery watercolour blur, but I made out a humanoid shape at the end of the bed. My ears work great: the voice was definitely female. Marshalling all the mental capacity I could muster, I replied,

"Mngh?"

"Christy?"

"Nope. My name is Lorrie."

And with that brilliantly intellectual exchange, I rolled back over. If I know I'm in reasonably safe surroundings, I've never been an easy waker. Contrariwise, I woke up every time the train stopped when I was trying to sleep in coach the night before. I figured, fuzzily, that Linnea would work it out, or ask Dave, and in any case this wasn't a threatening situation.

By the next time I woke up enough to consider pairing self-awareness with my consciousness, it was after five and Dave had come home and explained why there was a strange woman in the guest bed. I re-dressed, brushed my teeth, and checked my e-mail. Tim Doughty had replied -- it so happened he also had the day off (hmmm... an backup omen in case the first one failed?), and left a number. I dialed up up, to find out that while I'd been sleeping he'd been asked to accompany a friend's high school choir, so alas we couldn't get together for dinner. Damn. After that, I ambled into the living room, where we socialized for awhile, then walked to the grocery store.

I can hear you now, Confused Reader! You are asking me, "But you're in Los Angeles! Isn't walking, like, prohibited by law? We've seen L.A. Story, we've heard that song, you know, 'Walking in L.A.?' So you really mean 'you walked to the garage,' right? Right??"

No, we walked all the way to the grocery store. This may well be a sign of the End Times -- or just that by the time we found parking, we'd've been back at the house anyway; it was only three blocks.

Besides. We were in Santa Monica. LA proper was at least half a mile away. If such a split hair will calm you, pray have one. Take two, they're small.

After the store, we actually did drive to dinner at a sushi bar, to be met by several of Dave and Linnea's friends. I introduced myself, and so did they (alas, as promised, I have forgotten all their names). Conversation flowed around me, and I listened; the normal conversation of friends being social, all very involved in their own circle and activities.

While welcomed, I was not part of that. It was an odd feeling, and it was this more than anything else that convinced me I wasn't at home anymore. A moment of transition; a moment of feeling transitory. Tomorrow I would be gone, an interesting footnote of a large woman who ordered the tempura. They would remain. I would have touched their story, and moved on.

It was an odd feeling. I got to reflect on it for most of the meal. I do not say they were impolite, snobs, or rude: they were none of these. I simply had no context for a conversation dealing with raves, who did what and spoke which language when drunk, and a bunch of people I'd likely never meet. I simply smiled, enjoyed excellently prepared food, and let the stream of their joined consciousness pass over and through me.

I did get to preach about the wonders of my rail pass for a few minutes, though. They thought it might be neat to take over part of a car and hold a rave in it. I helpfully suggested that there was a childrens' play room on the lower level of one of the coach cars on the Coast Starlight, something they likely do elsewhere in the fleet. Then conversation turned back to them, and I watched and listened, contemplating the slightly dissociative feeling this feeling of my temporary nature in their lives had given me.

I kept touching on that feeling briefly as we picked up my things at the Kawada, and then an after-dinner drink in the nearby pan-Asian suburb of Alhambra. We had 'boba,' iced tea with condensed milk with several large tapioca balls in the bottom. You need an extra-wide straw to drink it, as you're supposed to suck up the balls as you drink. We drank, and walked through Alhambra, as the rain had lifted for now. When we returned to the car and drove home, I took advantage of being momentarily stationary and washed yesterday's clothes: once I was on the Sunset Limited tomorrow, I'd be without a washing machine for three days; why go into it with dirty clothes?

While waiting for my laundry, I posted an account of yesterday's trip on the Coast Starlight, and fell asleep. Tomorrow, I'd still be at Dave's, but that evening promised the return of the Sunset Limited, and I was eager to be off and away from Los Angeles, barreling east through the night and towards the meat of the trip, which would start with my father in Florida.

Damn. I've totally missed my mother's birthday, which was today. Oops.