Crossing the Rockies

One of the marvels of travel is the time dilation effect.   I left my home last Tuesday about 1 p.m., and returned Friday night around midnight.  Staying at home, those few days would have passed in the blink of an eye.  Returning, however, I was almost surprised that the seasons hadn't changed during my absence.  

I speak, of course, of my first-ever ride on the California Zephyr.  I flew to San Francisco on Tuesday, and stayed overnight at a hotel near the airport, a hotel selected largely because of its furnishing a free airport shuttle.  Up early Wednesday morning, back to the airport by shuttle, and caught a BART train from a station located inside the International Terminal.  For those keeping score, the fare was $9.65 plus another $3 for a rechargeable Clipper card (like Seattle's Orca) -- BART apparently doesn't sell individual paper tickets.

I got off downtown at the Montgomery Street station, and walked a couple of blocks to Amtrak's unimpressive bus stop, in front of a Chase Bank at 555 Mission Street.  I arrived over a half hour early, because of my extreme caution, and after having mentally gone over every detail in this series of moves to avoid any miscalculation.  Some folks would have simply taken a cab from the hotel, but they miss out on the sense of adventure.

The bus left promptly at 8 a.m., and carried me and fewer than ten other passengers across the Bay Bridge to the Amtrak station at Emeryville.  The day was beautiful, as was every day on the ensuing trip.  The view of San Francisco from the bridge was fit for a travel poster, glittering in the morning sun.

The train that awaited me was not long -- three sleeper cars, two coaches, a dining car and a lounge/café.  The diner -- as we were often reminded in the days to come -- was exclusively for sleeping car passengers.  The café provided take-out food and drinks for both classes.

I had a roomette, the same accommodation I've had on the Coast Starlight and the Empire Builder.  All of Amtrak's sleepers west of Chicago are identical in design.  I sleep very comfortably in roomettes, and always enjoy the experience.

The train left promptly at 9:10 a.m., with surprisingly few passengers.  We picked up considerably more, however, at various California stations, especially Sacramento.  Shortly past Sacramento, we began crossing the Sierras.  I had been looking forward to the views of the Rockies in Colorado, but had overlooked how impressive the Sierras might be from the train.  It began getting dark not long after leaving Reno, and was light again by the time we reached Helper, Utah.  

Amtrak's meal service has improved considerably, as I discovered at Christmas heading to Southern California.  The dinners especially -- the menu offers a choice of four Appetizers, four Main Courses, and three desserts.  Choice of drinks includes complimentary wine, beer, or limited mixed drinks.  The food is apparently cooked in the kitchen, below the dining area.  I ordered steak the second night, medium rare, and it was cooked to perfection.

Amtrak has abandoned its temporary pandemic practice of not mixing groups at tables.  But because of a rather small number of passengers on this run, I found myself with only one other person each meal.  Everyone I talked to at these meals expressed displeasure with the plans of the former Amtrak CEO to eliminate diners, and serve sleeper passengers only in their rooms.  We all agreed that the people you meet at meals is one of the more memorable parts of the trip.  Nevertheless, I have to admit that a surprisingly large number of sleeper passengers on this trip opted for room service, rather than come to the diner.  

Thursday was devoted to crossing Colorado, and climbing over the Rockies.  I got some spectacular photos, even though they were taken from a moving train with an older model iPhone.  We had a half hour stop in Denver, where I walked around the impressive station, a station that was hosting some sort of black tie reception while we were there.  (No, we weren't invited.)

I can't tell you much about Nebraska.  I woke up very briefly in Lincoln, and totally slept through a longer stop in Omaha.  By the time it was light, we had passed into Iowa.  As I wrote on Facebook, Iowa reminded me of parts of Western Washington -- the farm areas, not forests -- except for the fact that every pond, lake, stream, or river was solidly frozen over.  An impressively strange sight for a West Coast guy.

Finally, we streaked across northern Illinois, arriving in Chicago at 2:07 p.m. -- 43 minutes ahead of schedule.  Don't believe the claim that Amtrak is always late.

My flight home didn't leave O'Hare until 8:35 p.m., so I checked my bags -- free of charge to sleeper passengers -- and walked out into the Big City.  It was 25 degrees out, accentuated by a strong, chilling, Chicago wind.  I first walked a couple of blocks south to the nearest CTA station, at Clinton, to make sure I knew where to go when the time came.  I then walked across the Chicago River and down Adams Street --  a straight shot from Union Station to Chicago's art museum, the Art Institute of Chicago.  I stopped for a snack and a bit of warmth on my way, but was quite cold by the time I reached the museum.  Admission was $25, and I decided I didn't have enough time or energy to make it worthwhile.  But no fee was required to wander around the museum gift shop, which was almost a mini-museum in itself.  Last time I was there, in 2008, I bought a souvenir t-shirt, one that I still wear.  This time, I just looked.

Back to Union Station, picked up my bags, and caught the CTA to O'Hare at Clinton station (fare just $3 -- N.B. BART!).  Chicago's rapid transit is far older, obviously, than Seattle's light rail, but very serviceable.  It was gratifying to watch ourselves shoot past the stalled rush hour traffic on parallel I-90.

Plane left and arrived on time, and the great California Zephyr adventure is history.  A fairly inexpensive adventure, although I did lose my Kindle somewhere along the way.  It needed replacing, anyway.

Will I ever do a similar trip on another long-distance Amtrak route?  Need you even ask?
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Photo -- Rocky Mountains from train window.

Walking the walk

So there I was.  Out on a beautiful mid-February day.  Plants were sprouting, a few flowers were blooming, the smell of an early Spring was in the air.  And I was happy, walking through Seattle's Madrona neighborhood, mid-way through a 5.5-mile walk.

And then a voice boomed out:

Voice: "Hey, another guy who walks just like me!"

I turned my head and saw a guy standing beside his house.  He looked like he was nearing ninety, his wrinkled face grinning at me like a demented jack-o'-lantern.

Me:  "Hahaha."

Voice:  "Well, at least we're both still alive!"

Me:  "Yup."

Well, that brilliant conversational exchange ruined my walk.  My day.  Why, you perhaps ask?  The guy was some kind of nut, right?

The problem was that I'd already been worried about my walk, worried as recently as the first few minutes of today's walk.  My feet, clad in hiking shoes, kept slapping the sidewalk, making loud, embarrassing noises as I walked along.  I'd noticed that more and more recently.

But it hadn't occurred to me that it made me look like an old man.  Old to the extent that my walk caused this guy, himself well into advanced codgerdom, to embrace me as a brother.

When I got home, I turned to the internet for advice.  Advice on how to avoid attracting attention as I pounded the pavement.  I found all kinds of articles describing why people tend to "walk old" as they advance in years.  Often, the blame was placed on pathological sources -- for example, the well-known "Parkinson's walk," where the fellow walks bent over with his arms held stiffly at his side.  More frequently, the blame falls on poor muscle tone in the legs and abdomen.

I suppose the muscle tone in my legs isn't what it was at age 25, but it can't be bad.  I walk briskly five or sometimes six miles every day, part of the time climbing up fairly steep hills.  But, setting aside conflicting advice as to the cause of  "walking old," one result is a tendency to take shorter and shorter strides, and to take them more slowly.  These shorter strides seem to make the feet come down more flatly on the sidewalk, rather than striking heel first and then pushing off from the toe.

After dark, away from the prying and astonished eyes of my neighbors, I decided to experiment with my stride.  I was immediately aware that my stride did indeed seem to have gradually become shorter, which may explain why I was no longer passing as many fellow pedestrians as I had in the past.  So I consciously lengthened my stride.  I noticed that my steps seemed smoother, and that I was avoiding that embarrassing slapping noise.  I walked a mile, using my longer stride.  I felt more comfortable, and -- almost automatically -- I found myself walking faster.

Obviously, it's a mistake to adopt too long a stride -- you'll look clownish and grotesque.  But I felt comfortable with the longer stride I tried tonight, and I plan to consciously use it over the next few days and see how I feel.  I hope I'll look (and sound) better.  And a longer stride may have the added benefit of giving my muscles more exercise per mile walked.

Sibelius and more

The featured work at last night's Seattle Symphony was the Sibelius Symphony No. 1.  A well-known concert standard, but I don't think I'd ever heard it before, at least in a live performance rather than as simply background music on the radio.  

The work was composed in 1899, and -- to my ears, at least -- felt like a bridge between the late Nineteenth Century romantic work of composers like Brahms, Mahler, and Bruckner, and the far less obviously structured pieces of the Twentieth.  The symphony begins, strikingly, with a haunting clarinet solo, and large stretches of the piece are highly melodic.  Other parts, while not atonal, impressed me as loud and dramatic, with rapidly changing dynamics.  Pointing toward later works like those of Stravinsky.

The concert began with a contemporary work -- the composer was present, and took a bow at the conclusion -- entitled, in all caps, "TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY AND TODAY."  The composition was inspired by the composer's emotions during the pandemic lockdown.  It was more melodic and less anarchic than you might expect.  But its fifteen minutes felt -- again, to me -- much longer.  As with the pandemic, one longed for the end.

Yeah, that's me.  I know what I like, and I like what I know.

The wildest applause came for perhaps the most familiar piece, Rachmaninov's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini," and for the pianist Garrick Ohlsson.  Rachmaninov always demands a lot from the pianist, and Ohlsson delivered.  After concluding the pyrotechnics of the Rachmaninov, he wooed his audience with a gentle encore, Chopin's "Nocturne in E flat."  

Intermission and the Sibelius symphony followed the Rachmaninov, but as I left Benaroya Hall and walked to the light rail station, it was the basic Paganini theme that kept running through my head, and that I had trouble not humming out loud.

Large enthusiastic audience.  Once again, I was surprised at the number of young people in attendance -- singles, couples, and larger groups of high school and college aged attendees.  Also, a surprising number of younger children -- middle school and younger, accompanied by their parents.  An encouraging sign in the Seattle world of 2022.

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.  

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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.

Airport purgatory

Crowds flying home after Christmas, airline workforce decimated by a spike in Covid-19, and an airport unaccustomed to heavy snowfall and sub-freezing temperatures.  Stir these ingredients together, and you have an explanation for why I arrived back in Seattle over 51 hours later than originally scheduled.

My train ride from Seattle to Oxnard went off without a hitch.  I had an enjoyable couple of days with my brother and his wife at their coastal home in Oxnard.  We drove to his daughter's home in Glendale, about an hour to the south, where we celebrated a beautiful and merry Christmas.  

And then Sunday, December 26, arrived.  The date on which began the Great Snowfall of 2021 in the Pacific Northwest.  The date when more and more airline employees began phoning in ill from Covid-19.  The date and day of the week on which large numbers of holiday travelers were scheduled to travel from Los Angeles area airports -- including Burbank -- to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

My brother drove me -- innocent as a lamb -- to Burbank Airport at 10 a.m.  I always insist on arriving early for my flights, in this case for a flight scheduled to depart at 11:59 a.m.  Through the undeserved grace of Alaska Airlines, I had earlier been bumped up to First Class, and I was looking forward to a luxurious flight.  Almost immediately, however, we were advised of a half hour delay.  I thought nothing of it.  In holiday periods there is often a short delay because of the crowds.  

But one delay followed another.  

With all due respect, I should make you aware that Burbank airport has few forms of amusement for passengers awaiting flights.  Its Terminal B has one small, crowded café and a few stands selling snack food.  But finally, at about 3:30 p.m., we boarded our flight.  I settled into my First Class seat, and watched the pathetic coach class mobs file past me.  The doors were closed; we pushed back from the gate; the engines warmed up.

And continued warming up.  The crowds began squirming nervously.  Finally, after about a half hour on the tarmac, the pilot announced that Air Traffic Control in Seattle was refusing to authorize our departure from Burbank because Sea-Tac airport was closing for the day.  Disbelieving, we returned to the gate and deplaned.  A lengthy line formed at the gate desk.  Luckily, I was third in line.  They had an available seat on Tuesday -- was I interested?  I didn't try to negotiate for something better -- I grabbed it.  

I walked past the long line of my fellow passengers.  I recalled how long it had taken for the first three passengers to be processed.  But am I my brother's keeper?  I turned my thoughts to reserving two more nights at my Glendale motel.

After dropping me off, my brother had returned to Oxnard.  His daughter -- our hostess in Glendale -- was flying off with her daughter to Minneapolis.  It was just me and an inexpensive motel, situated in a mixed residential-commercial neighborhood.  The hours that followed while awaiting Tuesday's flight gave me a premonition of Purgatory -- not fun, not hellish, just long and gray and seemingly endless.  Starbucks got a lot of my food-consumption business, as did -- for one interesting dinner -- Carl's Jr. 

I returned to Burbank Airport on Tuesday at 11 a.m. -- my welcome at my motel having expired --  awaiting a flight at 1:40 p.m.  Same experience.  An additional series of delays, which -- as I posted with horror on Facebook -- seemed to be "déjà vu all over again."

We boarded, just as we had two days earlier.  We backed away from the gate.  We paused.  I held my breath.  Had I become a character out of "Groundhog Day"?  Another lengthy delay ensued, because Burbank's traffic control staff had gone home for the day, and we were being controlled from elsewhere.  But, in due time, we took off.

I was once more seated in First Class.  I drank wine and ate a small dish of salted nuts.  A complimentary cheese and fruit plate followed, with crackers and dark chocolates.  The flight was great, the service was impeccable, and the time passed swiftly.  I have no criticism of Alaska Airlines, which did everything possible for us passengers with the hand they'd been dealt.

We arrived in Seattle at about 8 p.m.  I had only to pick up my baggage and summon an Uber car. 

My baggage!  Well, some other time, folks.  This story has drifted on too long already.

Christmas carols

After a year's absence, thanks to Covid-19, it was a delight to be in the audience last night for "A Festival of Lessons & Carols," presented by the Northwest Boychoir, together with their teenage cousins, Vocalpoint! Seattle.

The performance was presented in St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral, to an audience carefully checked for proof of vaccination and the wearing of masks.  

This Christmas festival is performed (in normal times) annually, and is based on a similar service offered by King's College, Cambridge.¹  The boys file in from the rear of the cathedral in total silence.  They halt in the aisle, half way to the front.  Suddenly the cathedral is filled with the sound of a solo boy soprano, singing the haunting first verse to "Once in Royal David's City."  With the beginning of the second verse, the entire ensemble joins in, as they continue filing forward and take their places facing the audience.

Covid-19 still lurks, and there were some changes.  The boys (and girls in Vocalpoint) were all masked.  Their voices still soared, but the masks seemed to blur slightly the enunciation of the lyrics.  (Or maybe my hearing is just going bad!).  Also, the audience/congregation was not invited to join in the singing of well-known carols, as in past years, in order to limit viral spreading.  

As the program notes reminded us, the choir members were unable to practice singing together until last summer -- a year and a half during which each singer practiced alone, sitting in his bedroom, singing to his computer.  The quality has held up remarkably well.

As in past years, after singing four carols, nine young lectors from the two choirs read nine "lessons" -- scripture readings from the King James Version of the Old and New Testaments.  After each reading, the choirs sang one carol, and then a second popular seasonal carol (where the audience would ordinarily have joined in the singing).

The performance ended with an ethereal singing of "O Holy Night," and then "Joy to the World" as a recessional.

Despite the masks, the singing was beautiful and moving.  My only complaint -- and it's very subjective -- is that I could have done without the piano accompaniment during many of the carols.  It was unusually loud, and I would have preferred to hear the carols sung a capella.  An insignificant complaint.  Welcome back to live performances, boys (and girls).

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¹A YouTube recording of their inspiration: Service at the chapel of King's College Cambridge

South for Christmas

One week from this moment (5:48 p.m. PST), I will find myself about half an hour east of Eugene, Oregon.  I'll be climbing eastward across the Cascade mountains, aiming for Chemult, Oregon, where I expect to arrive at 8:13 p.m.

Aw, shucks! You guessed it!  I'll be once more traveling south by rail, en route to Oxnard, California, on Amtrak's Coast Starlight.  This will be my third trip on the Coast Starlight during 2021 -- some sort of new single-year record for me.  

I've discussed this route before.  Most extensively, and longingly, perhaps, in November 2017 when I was headed to Oxnard for Thanksgiving.  I'll just repeat that it's a train ride that lasts 34 hours, with two lunches, one breakfast, and two dinners on board.  Because I'll be traveling in a roomette, all the meals come free, including one alcoholic drink (wine, beer, cocktail) (second and third alcoholic drinks cost $7.50 each, which isn't bad for a restaurant).  

The dinner menu has been upgraded since the last time I traveled Amtrak, and now consists of a choice of appetizers (e.g., lobster crab cake), main course (e.g., grilled Atlantic salmon), and dessert (e.g., flourless chocolate torte).  I emphasize meals, because they are the main events of the day aboard a train.  Against a background activity of watching scenery, reading, snoozing, or chatting with other travelers in the lounge car.

But enough (can there ever be enough?) about the train.  I will spend a couple of days with my brother and his wife in Oxnard, walking the beach (in December!), and then drive with them to their daughter's home in Glendale for Christmas.  I'll fly home from Burbank on December 26.

Last year, as you may remember, I "celebrated" Christmas alone, in Covid-induced isolation (other than my two recently-acquired cats, of course), "feasting" on a turkey TV dinner.  Like Scrooge eating alone in his office, right?  This Christmas, I join the entire Bob Cratchit family for convivial family festivities.  (Probably no dancing, however.)  I'm eagerly looking forward to it.

But first -- I have some gift wrapping to take care of.    

Christmas cards

It's become an almost annual tradition on this blog.  My supposed farewell to the sending of Christmas cards.  

It began in 2008, when I observed how few people sent cards anymore, and how I hated to be the last person to abandon the custom.  Jumping ahead to 2016, my annual farewell was entitled "Happy whatever."  In 2018, "Dying custom."  In 2018, "Moribund."  And last year, the deceptively upbeat, "Just like the ones I used to know."

Who needs this annual downer?

This year?  Yes, I cheerfully admit I'm sending Christmas cards.  To the same folks I sent cards to last year.  About twenty, all in all.  Far fewer than my card lists of a decade or so ago, but at least the list -- this year -- isn't shrinking in size.  I bought twenty cards a few days ago.  I've now written my Christmas greetings on all but two of them.  My handwriting's getting bad, so -- if my message on the card is longer than a couple of paragraphs, I type it as a letter and enclose it in the card.

I bought Christmas stamps -- no more sticking plain old American flags on my Christmas card envelopes.  Two kinds of stamps, because the post office seemed to be running out of them-- one type secular, and the other an image of a religious painting.  I worry briefly about which person should get which, a concern my mother never had.  I use some nice looking return address stickers sent to me by a worthy charity -- even though I ignored the request for a donation.  

Starting this year, whether I receive a card from someone will no longer be a factor in deciding whether that person is worthy to be on my list.  In fact, although I'm using last year's list this year, starting next year I may actually add persons from earlier lists -- folks dropped for the silly reason that they didn't send me a card.

Yes, this is the new me, the new "true Christmas spirit" me.  No more eye for an eye.  No more measuring out my meager favors with an eye-dropper, applying exacting standards of worthiness on friends and acquaintances based on their reciprocation.

I don't mean that everyone I know gets a card.  Not even everyone I'm fond of.  I'm not a masochist, eager to spend my pre-Christmas days bent over a desk, quill and ink at hand.  Nor, on the other hand, do I propose to use a program that automatically churns out electronic cards to every address in my address book.  Amazon Customer Service won't be startled to receive an electronic card from yours truly.

But my decision of who gets a card that year, and who doesn't, will be wholly subjective.  There will be no algorithm that I can provide you.  I want to return to a perhaps-imaginary day when people sent cards to people because those were people they just felt like wishing a ... well ... an especially Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to all (card recipient or not) and a Happy New Year!  

On-campus living

Saturday, after dinner, I found myself walking in the dark across the University of Washington campus.  (During our current period of heavy rains, I've had to pick and choose the time of minimum rainfall each day to walk!)  My route took me past McMahon Hall -- the dormitory I lived in during my years of post-graduate work.  Although you might expect the dorm to be half-empty on a weekend evening, the window of virtually every room was lit up.  

It was a warm and cheerful sight, as I pushed my way along the dark and wet sidewalk, braving a slight drizzle.

And, as I've rhapsodized in earlier posts, I once more felt a strong nostalgia for my dormitory days.  And a bit sorry that -- although virtually everyone in my family has attended college -- I'm the only one, for various reasons, to have actually lived on campus.

Why?  One reason is that it's usually cheaper to find an off-campus apartment, or, if possible, to commute from home.  Another is that, at least until recently, few colleges have provided housing for married couples.  Also, many students, in my experience, come to college rather suspicious of association with the academic world -- at least full time association.  They are familiar with the high school routine of  putting in their hours at school each day, and then having the rest of the day free from school, free to enjoy on their own.  Even if many of those hours away from school have to be spent in studies and doing homework.

Perhaps the most persuasive argument in the minds of many students is a craving for independence: They're finally escaping the firm grip of their parents, and have no interest in accepting whatever other rules they feel may be imposed by university housing authorities.  

I found none of these arguments persuasive in my own case, but I understand how others feel.  And, in any event, my own university required all freshmen to live on campus.  Where, like the overwhelming majority of students at my school, I was happy to remain in the years that followed. 

Although I vaguely understand the desire to live off-campus, I think it's a mistake to decline that opportunity if you can afford to live in a dormitory.   You have an entire life after college to live privately in a house or apartment of your own, and on your own.  But you will find it difficult to ever find a group living experience again, once you leave the university.  And it's a valuable experience.

Although I hardly realized it at the time, I learned as much from the fellow students with whom I shared our common room and dining hall as I did from the lectures I attended and the books I read.  Of course, we shared our experiences with the courses and professors we had in common.  But even more important, I found myself sensing the enthusiasm that students with totally different interests from mine brought to their majors.  Many interests I have today came not from my own course work, but from rubbing shoulders with dorm mates.  (Specifically, just offhand, I think of a liking for certain forms of classical music, and an appreciation for the goals of formal landscape architecture.)

Learning comes not just from osmosis -- although formal course work sometimes consists primarily of that process.  Argument among students over issues as disparate as politics and religion, theories of history, the existence of space aliens, and the ideas advanced by various authors engaged in various forms of literature can force the student to reconsider his own opinions and assumptions -- reconsidering them in light of the success or failure of his own arguments.  The argumentative process can lead to ways of thinking that are far more permanent and sophisticated than does the mere studying for finals.

Dorms -- and by "dorms" I'm including throughout this essay fraternities and sororities and -- in my own undergraduate university -- a hybrid called "eating clubs" -- also provide purely social activities that strengthen the ties of friendship, friendships that encourage these more intellectual exchanges.  (I became a pretty fair bridge player and (I declare proudly) member of my house's bowling team!)

So, if any high school seniors bound for college next fall blunder upon this essay, let me repeat for emphasis:  If your individual situation, financial and otherwise, makes it at all possible for you to choose on-campus living -- DO IT!.  In whichever form most appeals to you.  Be one of those bright lights shining out into the darkness from McMahon Hall.

Years later, you'll be glad you did.

Leonardo da Vinci: Inventor

It had long since come to my attention that people of accomplishment rarely sat back and let things happen to them.  They went out and happened to things.  
--Leonardo da Vinci

Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) painted, of course, the Mona Lisa. He was one of the great painters of the late Italian Renaissance.  But he was also an inventor of incredible originality, often drawing up plans for devices that no one got around to implementing and trying out until centuries later.

And it is primarily his record as an inventor that is on display in a visiting exhibit now on display in Seattle's Museum of History and Industry (MOHAI), which I visited today.

Leonardo kept a record of his inventions primarily in long-hand written notes, notes illustrated by his own drawings, and notes kept on whatever scraps of paper happened to be at hand at the time.  After his death, these pages were later combined into bound volumes, called codices, which are now scattered among a number of major museums.  It was pages from these codices that are on exhibit at MOHAI.  His writings were impossible for me to read.  He not only wrote in a tiny script, in 16th century Italian, but, being left handed, he wrote backward from right to left.  

As far as I could tell from observation alone, he might as well have been writing in Saxon runes.

More impressive to the non-expert visitor than his codex pages are the physical exhibits.  Modern Italian craftsmen have built the devices that da Vinci envisioned in his notes.  Many of these are interactive exhibits, where we as museum attendees are invited to turn cranks, pull levers, and in these and other ways thus put into operation the devices ourselves.

Some of his inventions seem quite basic -- screw drives, various gear combinations. But many seem unbelievably prescient -- plans for helicopters, self-driven vehicles, air-supplied diving suits, and a large number of military weapons, weapons obviously designed to interest his patrons -- a steam-driven cannon, multiple-barrel rifle combinations, devices for scaling and breaching fortress walls, even a submarine.

One exhibit is a scale model of an ideal city, one that would avoid traffic congestion, disease, and pollution.  (I wasn't particularly impressed by the result, although I was impressed by Leonardo's desire to address these issues six hundred years ago.)

Leonardo da Vinci was obviously a genius, a more multi-faceted genius than we see often in history.  His energy and initiative were legendary.  It's sad that, at the end of his life, he considered himself a failure for not having achieved more with his many talents. 

Few of us would have felt so humble.

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Photo -- Three wheel vehicle powered by turning of hand crank.