Life Is a Series of Small Disasters--Some Beneficial

Life is a Series of Small Disasters--Some Beneficial

"Life is a series of small disasters, some beneficial." That's a saying I came up with, but you can quote me if you'd like....

My recent train trip to Vancouver serves as an example. Whenever you travel, there is stress. No matter how much you plan (and there's rarely any such thing as over-planning), stuff goes wrong. If you can't handle the stress of travel, you may not be able to survive the speed bumps in life's road.

For example, when Harold and I went to get on the bus at the Santa Fe depot in San Diego, the lift didn't work. Here I was, bouncing up and down the side of a bus on a rickety platform, gazing through the door at the saucer-wide eyes of a huge black man sitting in the seat across from me. "It's going to be a long fall and a short trip" I told him.

Finally, we got on the bus and rode to LA's Union Station. The bus driver dropped us off at a sidewalk across the street from the station, in downtown Los Angeles, where Harold and I hardly ever go. Then we had to scrabble with our luggage in tow, find an elevator, figure out which floor the train depot resided on, and find our train.

The interesting thing about Union Station is that unlike an airport, there is no clear direction about where to go or what to do to catch your train. At airports, you know if you're on a Southwest flight to take the hallway to the Southwest terminal, or if Delta, to head to Delta's terminal. At the train station, it's ALL Amtrak! There is no "there" there--just people milling around, mostly rushing off to some unknown destination, or dazedly staring into space.

We asked for help at the Information Booth, but other than telling us to "head down the hallway," the data-giver wasn't very helpful. As Harold wandered aimlessly trying to locate the ramp to our train, I found two Amtrak ticket agents seated at card tables near the hallway. One of them was very friendly and responded to my questions with clear answers. Yay! We were almost on our way. If I had panicked, or shrunken confusedly into my shell, we might never have caught Train 14 to Seattle.

Finally, when boarding is announced, the crowd sprints in unison toward the ramp for the train, which is down an immense hallway. We took Ramp 10, which had an A and a B side. Which were we? A or B? Well, I figured the best way to find out was to just choose an arbitrary side and start climbing.

At the top, there were two trains next to tracks. No sign points to "Train 14." So I just went up to people in line and polled them. "Excuse me ma'am, is this Train 14?" A gray-haired lady with pearl glasses looked quizzically down at her own tickets, then glanced at me, then back to the train and smiled shyly. "Why, yes I hope so," she said.

A few more people down the line, and I figured out we were indeed on the right track (literally), and found a conductor who pointed us "way down there" to a sleeper car. The first sleeper car I rolled up to had no ramp. I asked the attendant, who cheerfully told me "it's the next one."

Now, the thing about Amtrak trains is, they are HUGE. You literally cannot see one end of the train from the other. So I just went in the direction the attendant pointed to, till I saw a heavy-set Hispanic woman standing beside a ramp and an open hatch. "Is this the handicapped-accessible sleeper car?" I pleaded?

"Yes it is," smiled the attendant. "My name is Olga, and I'm your attendant. Just go on in and head to the right." With a shove from Harold, I got the chair propelled up the rather steep metal ramp and up into the train.

"Whew!" We made it at last, I thought to myself, as Harold and I settled into our room, which incidentally was smaller than most walk-in closets in a modern suburban McMansion.

-- More on the trip later

David