By rail to Chicago

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders.

In this blog's near-infancy -- on July 15, 2008, in a post entitled "Riding the Rails" -- I described a forthcoming railroad adventure. With a wedding on Mohegan Island, Maine, as my ultimate destination, I would be riding Amtrak for three days, from Seattle to Boston. 

Today,  I can announce that in a couple of weeks, I'll be riding Amtrak on a shorter, but to me novel, route -- from San Francisco to Chicago.

Why am I going to Chicago?  I'm afraid this is another one of my "train trips to nowhere" experiences.  Where I take a ride on a train just for the sake of riding on the train, not as a way to reach a destination.  The curious kind of jaunt that I've discussed several times on this blog, each of them on the Coast Starlight, traveling up and down the Pacific coast.

I've traveled twice to Chicago by train -- once as a teenager, on Great Northern's "Empire Builder," and then, on that Boston trip in 2008, on what was by then Amtrak's "Empire Builder."  Same route, both times, through Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and into Illinois.  I also returned from Chicago to Portland, after my teenaged visit with a friend, on Union Pacific's "City of Portland."  Through Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Idaho, and Oregon.  The UP route also clipped, barely, the northeast corner of Colorado, for decades my only justification for including Colorado in my list of visited states.

But this year's trip will be a new route, on the "California Zephyr."  From California, through Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa, and Illinois.  Actually, the latter part of the route appears to follow the same tracks as those I traveled on the "City of Portland," especially between Omaha and Chicago.  Between those cities, the "City of Portland" traveled on tracks owned by the Chicago and Northwestern (C&NW) railroad.  

My exposure to Colorado will be considerably more substantial this time, a highlight of the trip.  We'll cross the middle of the state, over the Rockies, with a stop in Denver.

I plan to fly to San  Francisco the afternoon of February 15 and stay at an airport hotel.  I'll take BART the next morning to downtown, meeting an Amtrak-chartered bus that takes passengers across the Bay to Emeryville where the train awaits.  The "California Zephyr" is scheduled to arrive at Chicago's Union Station around 3 p.m., on February 18, from where I'll take the CTA to O'Hare airport   My plane home to Seattle departs at 8:30 p.m.

That last connection will be a little iffy.  Amtrak often is totally on time.  Sometimes, however, their trains -- especially long distance trains -- can be hours late for no apparent (to passengers) reason.  If it appears that I'm going to miss my flight, I'll have to make some quick changes in my schedule.  Fortunately, with an iPhone I can do that while still hours from Chicago, hopefully lining up a hotel room as well as a change in flight.

I'm looking forward to the whole trip -- the majesty of the Rockies, the emptiness  of the Plains, the excitement of arrival in what Carl Sandburg flatteringly called "Hog Butcher for the World."  Well, it has gentrified a bit since those days.  

I'll give a report of my journey's high and low points after my return.

Iranian trip canceled

Thinking well is wise; planning well, wiser; but doing well is the wisest and best of all.

--Persian saying

I thought well; I planned well; ... but, through no fault of my own, I end up doing nothing at all.

I speak, of course, of my two-week trip to Iran, a trip long-planned for May.  I've published two blog articles in which I spoke glowingly of my earlier Iranian trip in 2011, and in which I looked forward eagerly to a repeat visit in May 2022.  The trip was originally planned for last October.  As I noted last summer, because of both my trip to Lake Como with relatives and the disruptions caused by the Covid virus, I decided to postpone my departure until October 2022.

But I was impatient.  I checked with the organizers in November, and decided to move the date up to May, even though at that time there was only one other person signed up for that date.  The trip required a minimum of six participants.

That was the still the status of the trip this week.  Just me and some unknown kindred soul, looking forward wistfully to travel in May.

And then today -- I receive the Notice of Cancellation.  My deposit will be refunded.  Fortunately, I had taken the company's advice and refrained from making air bookings until they were confident that the trip would run.  Now, barely three months before departure, they gave up hope.

I hope that Covid-19 was responsible for the lack of interest.  Not fear of the Iranian government, or a feeling that Iran is a backward and uninteresting nation.  Based on my visit in 2011, I can attest that the country is beautiful and crammed with historical interest.  The people -- at least the many people my group encountered -- are friendly, relaxed, and possessed of great senses of humor.  

The people seemed more "American" in personality than those in most of Europe. 

The government?  Immigration control was careful and meticulous, but if you've gone through British immigration you won't be critical.  Once inside the country, we were no more troubled by officialdom than we would have been inside most other countries.  The government did require that we be accompanied during group activities by an Iranian guide.  Our guide was well educated, relaxed, and funny.  We learned far more from him than we did from our American guide.  While he wasn't anti-governmental in his stated opinions , he rolled his eyes as instinctively as we do in America when confronted by seemingly irrational governmental policies or regulations.

My 2011 trip was an amazing experience.  I've been looking forward to repeating it, repeating it in many respects but as part of a much smaller group than the 35 college alumni I traveled with at that time.  Unfortunately, a group of two was much too much smaller.

I look forward to giving the trip another try in the not too distant future.  Persia/Iran has been around for millennia.  It isn't going away anytime soon.  

------------------------------

Photo:  Kidding around with local Iranians in Isfahan.

Lisiecki recital

Together with attendees composing virtually a full house at Benaroya Hall's 2,500-seat auditorium, I was dazzled last night by the piano virtuosity and sensitivity of Jan Lisiecki,

It wasn't my first acquaintance with Mr. Lisiecki.  About a decade ago, I attended a recital by the pianist, then 16 years old, in Meany Hall on the UW campus (as had, I learned last night, the couple sitting next to me).  The Meany Hall recital was a more informal appearance, in which he had introduced each piece with a little discussion of what he was about to play, and of his approach to the music.  I remember little of what he told us, but I remember vividly how impressed I was that a boy in his mid-teens could speak to a large audience with such relaxed confidence, humor, and erudition.

Lisiecki last night was more formal -- in both dress and bearing -- and less boyishly enthusiastic.  More mature now, his playing of an all-Chopin program was magnificent.

For his program, he had selected eleven of Chopin's 21 nocturnes, and alternated them with twelve of Chopin's 27 études.  The nocturnes were, of course, quite familiar -- slow, quiet, dreamlike, but in Lisiecki's interpretation surprisingly dramatic at times in their dynamics.  On the other hand, I was unfamiliar with any of the ètudes, a form of music that has been traditionally written as a means for the musician to practice his technique, short pieces replete with technically difficult tempos and fingering.  I understand, however, that Chopin's ètudes are frequently considered concert material.  They are extremely fast and extremely loud.  For me, it was difficult to see how Lisiecki's fingers could move as fast as they did up and down the keyboard -- and then, with hardly a break, slide into the next tenderly played nocturne.

Lisiecki received standing ovations at both the intermission and the end of the recital.  He played as an encore a short piece by the Polish composer, patriot, and former prime minister Jan Paderewski.  It was an appropriate selection after a Chopin recital by a pianist himself of Polish ancestry.

I was impressed by the size of the Benaroya Hall audience -- all of whom were required to show proof of Covid vaccination and to be wearing masks.  Unlike the Symphony's regular season performances, a surprising number of the audience members were young, under the age of 30.

Like the rest of the audience, I was deeply moved by Chopin's music, and Lisiecki's playing.  I also found it encouraging to spend a couple of hours surrounded by a couple thousand deeply attentive and enthusiastic fellow audience members.

Expired license tabs

I see more and more cars on Seattle streets with expired license tabs.  This has been especially true since the beginning of the pandemic -- as though motorists have concluded that if they don't use their car as often, they shouldn't have to pay to keep the license current.  But it was an increasing problem even before 2020.

Yes, I know.  I sound petty.  And if I weren't a curious observer of car licenses -- both in-state and out-of-state -- I probably wouldn't even be writing this diatribe.  But it bugs me, just as does watching my fellow citizens abuse the "honor system" for payment of light rail transit fares.

My ire was provoked this morning by a Seattle Times article announcing that police officers would no longer stop a car merely because its license bore expired tabs.  The police chief is concerned that such stops offer opportunities for "negative interactions" between the police and the stopped driver, and that the penalties for such violations fall disproportionately on those least able to pay.  

“These violations do not have a direct connection to the safety of other individuals on the roads, paths, or sidewalks,” the police chief observed.  The offender can still be ticketed for an expired license if stopped for another ticketable offense.

Now, look.  I'm all in favor of more equitable laws.  I would gladly support elimination of fares for everybody on light rail.  Rail rapid transit is a service that helps everyone, including those who drive cars on the less crowded highways which result.  It could be, and probably should be, paid for by the city and county entirely out of general funds and property taxes, rather than subsidized partly from user's fares.

Similarly, if annual auto licensing fees and taxes are unduly burdensome for those least able to pay, then they could be abolished as a source of government income.  Income must come from somewhere, of course.  In the absence of a state income tax, it would have to come from increases in the sales tax and the real property taxes (which, for rental properties, are in part passed on to renters in higher rents).

But I find it unfair and hardly conducive to respect for law that we, in effect, allow some citizens to opt out light-heartedly from paying annual auto taxes and light rail fares, while depending on the good citizenship of everyone else to pay for streets, highways, and rail service.  In effect, in the absence of any compulsion to pay taxes and fares, we who nevertheless pay these charges are in fact making a voluntary charitable contribution to the city and county.

If they were so designated, I would  -- as a good citizen with the means to pay -- still pay the taxes and fares.  But I would at least be able to write them off as charitable contributions on my federal income taxes. 

Timeless watch

"At the tone, it’s eight o’clock, Bulova Watch Time."

Those words represent the first ever radio advertisement, the first commercial, from the year 1926.  Decades later, many radio stations still used similar language, with a tip of the hat to Bulova, to announce the time at the top of the hour.  The days were past when you had to read the time from a large clock with a swinging pendulum.   Now you could wear your own "clock" on your own wrist.

I've never owned a Bulova.  My first watch was a Mickey Mouse watch, with a red plastic wrist band.   A lot of those watches flooded the market, mainly for kids.  Even now you can get a used, running, 1950s MM watch for only $75 on e-Bay.

I had other subsequent watches, but the next one I remember well was given to me by my father when I was in high school.   It had a gold case and a gold wristband.   It had belonged to my grandfather, and then to my dad; each of their names had been engraved on the back with the dates each had received it as a gift.  I wore that watch through college.   I wish I still had it, or even could remember what happened to it.  It was a true heirloom.

All these watches had to be wound once a day.  I did so every night while getting ready for bed.   It was a habit as automatic as brushing my teeth and setting the alarm.  American ingenuity later developed "self-winding" watches; I never had one myself.  But at some point, I acquired my first digital watch.   A watch that needed no nightly attention, a watch that needed only to have its battery replaced every 18 months or two years.

Again, I don't know when I acquired my first digital watch, but I recall my most memorable one.   It was a Kenneth Cole, with a relatively small face and a narrow wristband -- perfect for my thin wrists.   It was given to me by my young nephew Denny as a birthday present in about 2000.  It was a beautiful, understated watch, and reminded me daily of Denny's generosity and good taste.   I wore it for over twenty years, until it finally gave up the ghost.

I replaced it about a year ago with a Fossil watch with a black face that I purchased on Amazon. That watch stopped running about six months after I bought it, after a period of erratic functioning. The battery may simply have given out, but I didn't try replacing it -- it was too large for my wrist, and a bit too glitzy for my taste.

I returned to Amazon last week, and ordered a very basic, very inexpensive Timex. Despite its low price (about $35), it had a slew of excellent reviews, and I recalled having a Timex at some point in my childhood.   It arrived by mail yesterday.  Its face size was much more proportional to my wrist, and the face was less attention-drawing.  Not quite as perfect as the Kenneth Cole from Denny, but I was quite pleased.

And thus surprised when it stopped running about 18 hours after it had arrived and had been strapped on my wrist.  Unlike the Fossil, I'm giving this Timex another chance.  I took it to a jewelry store today, and was promised a new battery by Saturday.  (Their watch expert was out of town.)  For a mere $25.   Yes, for about 71 percent of the purchase price of the watch, a watch that I assumed came with a fully charged battery.

I'll be happy to wear it when I receive it back, charged up and running, on Saturday.   I'm not happy with Amazon, or with the company it represented in the sale.   I left a scathing criticism and "one star" rating on their product page, and a tearful complaint on my Facebook page.

That'll show 'em!  You don't mess around with this dude, boy.  I'd demand $25 for a new battery, plus general damages for my pain and suffering, and emotional scarring.   But I just don't have the time. (Hahaha, get it?)

If it still doesn't work after a new battery is installed, I may buy that Mickey Mouse watch.  As a statement, as well as a watch.

Lonesome goose

My heart knows what the wild goose knows
And I must go where the wild goose goes.

--Wade Hemsworth

Canada geese are everywhere.  Especially in Seattle, and especially around the University of Washington.  The large lawns of the campus invite continual grazing, and the geese have learned to ignore the careless moving legs of students hurrying by.

Geese mate for life, and they graze in large flocks.  I've never seen a solitary Canada goose.  Until today.

I walked toward the campus, just across Walla Walla Road from the university's football stadium.  And there, in front of me, was a Canada goose.  A single goose.  He was pacing back and forth, as though he had lost something.  To my anthropomorphic eyes, he himself looked lost.  

He stood on the edge of the sidewalk as I approached.  He ignored me.  He was clearly habituated to human company.  But he seemed worried.  He looked like a goose who had lost his family.  His flock.  Or like a child wandering about a parking lot, on the verge of tears, seeking his parents.  As I say, I tend to anthropomorphize.

As I walked over the Montlake Boulevard footbridge, onto the campus proper, I saw the flock right in front of me.  Less than a city block from my solitary and worried friend.  They were doing what Canada geese do at this time of year.  Grazing, like a herd of cattle.  I looked back.  The lost goose was still where I left him.  He appeared about to cross Walla Walla, heading toward the stadium.  If he were to fly twenty feet or so into the air, he could look down and easily see his friends and relatives chowing down.  

He didn't fly.  But I continued my walk.  I proceeded to University Village, had coffee and a snack, and eventually -- some two hours later -- returned the way I'd come.  

The goose was exactly where I had left him.  But no longer pacing.  He had lowered himself to the ground, and was hiding his head under his wing.  His eyes peeped out at me.  He looked tired.  He looked lonely.  He looked miserable.  I approached him.  His response was that of a homeless beggar who has given up hope that anyone will help him -- he didn't move, he merely stared.

I took his photo.  Taking a photo felt like something a dense American tourist might do in Calcutta, catching sight of a starving but photogenic child. 

Unlike a beggar, the goose couldn't use money.  Nor could I show him the location of his family.  I had the urge to pick him up and carry him across the footbridge, but I wasn't totally insane.  The temperature was in the mid-40s.  He wasn't going to freeze.  But what was he going to do?  I looked back, just before walking out of sight.  He hadn't moved.

What does a Canada goose -- a gregarious animal -- do when separated from his flock?  The flock eats together, they fly together, they migrate together.  One goose must be the Chief Goose, and the rest followers.  What does a follower do when he has no leader?

I wondered if I dared return to the scene tomorrow.  Would I see the pitiful corpse of a dead goose lying in the grass?  I forwarded my photo to my Facebook page (of course I did!), with a despairing comment about the "routine cruelty of Mother Nature."

When I got home, a quick Google search relieved my anxiety to some extent.  One writer, who clearly knew her geese, wrote:

Geese are monogamous, which means they have only one mate and stay loyal to that mate. If the mate dies, the other is left alone and will eventually find a new mate, but it often takes a while. Also, perhaps like some humans, some geese may tend to be more introverted. I’ve seen perfectly healthy geese that choose to be alone. It doesn’t always mean something is wrong with them. Usually geese are found in groups, but it’s not super uncommon to see a lone goose.

Thank God, I thought.  This goose may simply be a loner, not unlike myself.  Rather than eat with the crowd, he was merely getting his bearings before spending a quiet evening at the library.

I'm not convinced.  I can't rule out that all was well, and that he was simply relaxing before going about his business.  But his aimless pacing, his dull-eyed glaze, seemed to reveal a goose who was not just wandering, upstairs, downstairs and in his lady's chamber, but in circles of growing despair.

The whole incident raised the question of "theodicy" in my mind, the issue that brought Charles Darwin to a religious crisis: How can a loving God -- even if "natural selection" is a necessary tool to enable evolution -- permit natural selection to operate in a way that creates so much seemingly unnecessary suffering?

This poor Canada goose -- who by now may well be sitting back, having a smoke with his buddies, and laughing at how he managed to get himself lost for a couple of hours -- is not the most compelling example of the cruelty of Mother Nature that so bothered Darwin.  

But he did bring the disturbing issue to mind.