Day 1

Saturday, April 10, 1993

We are now on the train! But first I will share a few of the forethoughts that I had about the trip. While sitting in the station I felt the same about the upcoming trip as I do about the upcoming turn of the century: it is in the future, and all things in the future hold the same feeling for me. They are yet to come and require no serious consideration until they arrive.

Even now, while actually on the train, I am concentrating on the present only and very little on the future and anything in it. That, I suppose, is the way I have become. Of course I see a great deal of dispassion in that way of thinking, but know not how to solve it. Maybe I will have to work on it and weed out the good from the bad of that policy.

Also I have no excitement about the trip, more of that disturbing trend of dispassion I have been noticing in my life recently!

Ah, the desert. Most of my prejudices against the desert stem from images of heat and voids of sand. Even deserts are subject to stereotypes. And, I am one who buys into these stereotypes. But these deserts, Nevadan deserts, differ. They are, although hot, filled almost to capacity with vegetation. Granted, they are mostly shrubs and “weeds”, but still they are unlike the stereotype. I feel no hatred towards this desert right now. Of course, that may be due to the low temperatures, yet still the situation exists.

But, as unsure as I am about my feelings towards the desert, I am equally sure about my love for the forest. And one of the few parts of the train ride I am looking forward to is the ride through the Rockies tomorrow.

We are now heading due north. Odd.

It is now half past eight and utterly dark outside. Inside the train is light enough for all practical purposes, but the windows are black mirrors, showing only occasional hints of transparency when an outside light comes into view, a solitary reminder that there is a world outside the train after all.

The proprietor of the downstairs cafe has been having some mindless fun with a little Easter egg game. She currently has the entire train searching for a purple egg with “Happy Easter” written on it. She has a five-dollar incentive for any lucky soul.

Dad’s in one of his huffy depressions again. It seems as though he is eternally dissatisfied, this time with the conditions of our accommodations. He is now jealous of the other coach cars and their darkened silence. It does seem that we are in a car which is not supposed to house passengers as their reserved seats, but that is irrelevant. What is important is that he cannot be satisfied with our car the way it is. Of course, I am reminded of my hypocrisy in the fact that I get annoyed if everything does not work out exactly for me. I suppose this is the same type of situation for him.

Now that we have gotten the lights turned off, I find a certain peace in the darkness, the steady hum of the air conditioning, the passing of orange-lit industrial buildings, and I find I am content. This serene state of mind is one that I cannot find easily anymore, and it is the reason I left my problems at home. Only by leaving my troubles behind can I find the peace of mind to have such moments. No worrying, no thinking, just pure living and savoring the present. That is what I came to find on this vacation, and that is just what I have found. May the next three weeks be prolific with that feeling.

Good night, moon.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Saturday, April 10, 1993

Day 2

Sunday, April 11, 1993

Half past two in the morning, and I am without sleep. That is to say, I have no desire for sleep within me. I value my consciousness, and my physical need for sleep is minimal, so I stay awake.

I was earlier watching the moonlight dance upon an expanse of water in the Bonneville Flats. Again my contentment arose as I was captured in the ballet and thrust to a place of no worries. There was no world other than the light coming from that lake.

Again I am mesmerized, letting five minutes pass as nothing while the light continues its ritual.

I have been watching cars pass by on the highway and I wonder what their business is in the desolation of Bonneville at this hour. Perhaps travel, most likely commerce for the big trucks. But what of the others? I know we are here now due to timetables and schedules, but why would the driver of an automobile choose this time for travel? And the cars are quite abundant. It is not one errant driver, but rather a whole fleet, driven by personal motives to this spot, unaware of the contemplation made in a passing train.

Our train is slowing and peace has fallen. The usual squeaks, rattles, and shudders have been done away with in favor of a gentle rocking and the air conditioner’s hum. We are not stopped but slowed, enjoying the route, at a leisurely pace without the jolts and jitters. And now we have stopped.

There is a small puddle off the one side, and it barely catches the moon’s reflection. On the other side a fellow train shot by, the cause for our halt, but the puddle remained oblivious. And we have started again, returning to the jolts and jitters, and still the puddle remains oblivious. The puddle will pass one day, either evaporated or assimilated into a larger puddle, but it will always remain in my memory exactly as it appeared tonight. Odd how the mind is the greatest tool of preservation.

These factories that we pass, invisible save for their lights, outlined in orange, stand as things of mystery along our path, giving us no hint at their purpose but remaining silent while we pass by. By whom were they built? For what? Why here? All questions with answers, very definite ones, that will never reach my ears.

Another factory we just passed, this one more revealingly lit. The actual building could be seen, not merely the outline. Why the difference? I know not.

Salt Lake City is now in view. The place where our car will be removed and taken from us. This car has served me well these past hours; I will be saddened to leave it behind while we voyage on towards the Rockies.

The lake itself can hardly be seen in the darkness. But its effects were just seen in the Morton Salt factory we passed (no outline lights).

I believe we have slowed again. Peace has once again arisen. Cars on the highway are now surpassing us in speed. We are proceeding at leisure for no discernable reason.

Another train is passing, but it cannot be the cause of our pace because we are still moving. And now we stop, after the other train is past. And just as silently we start up again. Oddities all.

The moon is behind clouds as the industrial lights of Salt Lake City approach. Its emergence shows no new scene, just the arrival of the place where we will be riven of our “home” and senselessly transplanted. It is a tragedy, yet cannot be argued or avoided. And so it will come.

I suppose now that these were not the lights I saw beckoning, for we have passed them by without a moment’s thought. And now approaching is another hidden factory, quite expansive this one is.

The lights in the car are back on, defacing the night and also, I believe, signaling the arrival of Salt Lake City, although it is not yet in sight.

We have just been informed of our imminent departure from this car. I shall miss it.

The pre-dawn hours coming out of Salt Lake City. We did lose our car, but I have found a suitable replacement in the new batch we picked up. The sky is getting brighter over Mount Timpanogos as we rumble southward; soon the sun will come up and it will be Easter Sunday. Before the day is through the Rockies will have come and gone and we will be in the Great Plains.

I feel surprisingly good in spite of the fact that I have only had about two hours sleep. My weariness is next to none and my head is as clear as ever. It seems that thinking, and writing, have rejuvenated me already and that the vacation is even now working its magic.

The car I am in is about five behind the rest of the family, and they were all asleep when I left. I can only hope they do not panic when they discover my absence.

Our last car had a slight squeal on the roof, but this one has an open door and is accompanied by all the sounds of the car connectors. In addition, neither of the lights at my seat will shut off. But, it’s not crowded.

We are passing more factories now, and it’s that perfect time of the day where the outline lights are still on but it is bright enough out to actually see the structure, the two conflict, each taking the magic from the other.

Sunrise, 7:40am. It’s hard to believe that this day has only just now begun.

My need for sleep is catching up with me now. It is a quarter to ten, but it feels like late afternoon.

One Negro employee is trying to teach another how to speak jive. It is quite a unique experience.

Back to my weariness. It is expressing itself in several five to ten minute naps, which can become quite annoying after a time. Other than my lack of sleep, a probable cause for them may be the landscape. We are traveling through a desert now, and the vegetation is the same color as the sand. My dislike for deserts is returning.

We are slowing again. I don’t really want to stop in the desert, I want to go as fast as possible and get it done with. But still we slow.

We are stopped. Stopped to let the freight train of the ages pass us. Stopped in the center of desolation with a few mesas being the only things of interest. We have started moving again but the horizon holds no sign of relief from the desolation. Ah, do the Rockies call to me, and oh how I grieve that they cannot be answered sooner. Well, no matter. Soon they will come.

A town! A clamor of life in the wilderness. It soothes my eyes to see trees finally.

There was a fairly certain dirt road cut across the land a while back. It seemed well traveled, leading me to think about who could live out here that would have need of such a road, even once a week. Who is it? Why is the road so well worn? I saw a road like that along the Truckee River, but it led to a deserted mobile home. This road led nowhere. This trip is full of mysteries.

I just finished a hearty meal. I say hearty because it gave me heartburn. I’ve had chest pains for the last twenty minutes thanks to the train’s pepperoni pizza.

I believe we are now in the foothills of the Rockies. I say this because there are green trees everywhere. And the sky is overcast. The Colorado River, very narrow at this point, has a muddy green twinge to it and all the dirt is red. Quite colorful, actually.

The scenery is not yet quite as beautiful or exquisite as the Canadian Rockies, but I have high hopes.

It is now a quarter to two in Glenwood Springs and ahead of us lies a canyon into which the river, the highway, and our path vanish. Out of the canyon is coming a group of kayakers, and into it goes our train.

The canyon lasted for about fifteen minutes, fairly scenic, but for the last hour we have been traveling through the Pinenuts. It is quite disappointing, actually. These hills are the spitting image of the Pinenut Mountains, from the sagebrush to the pinion pine.

Also disturbing is that my object of intrigue is getting off at Denver. She is seated one car back, third seat from the rear on the right hand side of the train. She has straight black hair and a face that would win no contests, but still there is the intrigue. I know not from where it stems, but she is the girl whom my attentions are most focused on. And soon she will be gone. Remember her so she is not lost forever!

But, later on, she was a source of contentment for me. Traveling through a particularly steep and deep and picturesque canyon. I took a seat in the observation car with a full view of both the scenery and her. And I was content. Nothing existed except that moment. And I had time to study her specifics.

She is young, fourteen or fifteen. I said she would win no contests, but that does not mean I find no beauty in her. I find a paradoxical beauty; beauty without beauty. How is that possible? I don’t know. But it exists, so I will not dispute it. But in only four hours, she will live only in my memory. And I do not know her name nor her voice. And so by all accounts, it shall stay.

Now the surroundings are no longer even the Pinenuts. The hillsides here are covered with grasses, mostly dead. Only the tops of the peaks have trees. It looks rather like Gold Rush Country with snow. Where are the Rockies?

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Sunday, April 11, 1993

Day 3

Monday, April 12, 1993

It turns out those were the Rockies. That canyon was the highlight of the voyage yesterday, and not just because of her. That was the best part of the Rockies. Disappointing.

But, it’s a new morning and we have a trainful of new people to get familiar with before four o’clock today. But, we are now in the Great Plains, specifically Nebraska. Although the skies are overcast the wide-open spaces still feel uncomfortable to me. I want to feel cramped in and cozy! Not out in the middle of everything and nothing.

I haven’t found anybody to take her place yet. (Her being the girl of intrigue) But, it’s surprising how hard I have been looking for one. It seems to me that I am not satisfied with a trip unless I find an attractive girl to focus on. Everywhere I go, I search until I find one, and then I am content. Why is that?

Perhaps it is a side effect of my search for beauty. Perhaps it has become a desire for beauty, where I cannot be happy until I find it. Or it may be that I like plotting and planning, and in these cases I can plot and plan how to introduce myself to this girl.

I was just recently reminded of how unreal this trip seems to me. We’re in Iowa right now. Iowa! Yet it does not seem like it. Logically, I know my physical self is in Iowa. But my mind doesn’t function that way. I am where I am. It doesn’t matter where it is on a map, or in relation to other places, because it is where I am. Later I will be somewhere else, but still it will be where I am. Even the fact that I’m on a train I take for granted, because it is where I am. There is something wrong with that thinking. It reeks of dispassion, yet I do not know how to change or alter it. I should live for the moment, but I should enjoy it for what it is, not how it relates to me. That is the way to put the passion in; embrace things for what they are. Iowa. Home to Captain Kirk. Heart of the Great Plains. Corn and wheat.

Look at the farms. Study them. Think of what they stand for. What they represent. An honest day’s work. Earning your living. Up at dawn, raising animals so you yourself can eat them. It’s a way of life. It’s Iowa.

That’s the way to look at it. Put (classical) passion and romance into your trip. Actually look for true happiness and feel those intense emotions while the moment lasts. Appreciate the train, the people, the cars, the personality of the doors, the dining car steward. The passenger whose friend is married to one of the employees, and they didn’t know until today. Take these things, love them and embrace them before they become memories. Take opportunities as they come and run with them, squeezing every drop of happiness and then hold them as memories. Do it! Find the passion!

Dispassion! Why am I filled with so much? We are about to cross the Mississippi River. Yet I feel no excitement, no apprehension, no passion! Why? What have I become, so Vulcan-like in suppressing emotion? Help me! Change me! Fix me now! Appreciate the present, damn you! Live for it.

I have to cross a river now.

This train is so long now that we have to stop twice at each station! Once for the front and once for the rear. We have six coaches and three sleeper cars. And, from what I have seen, most of them are full. But, we are now only a few hours out of Chicago. When we get there, we have to get acquainted with an entirely new train and set of passengers.

We are now in the town where popcorn was invented. And, I don’t even remember its name due to my dispassion.

I now see out the window that its name is Galesburg, Illinois. They have plenty of room for crowing corn around here.

Illinois looks surprisingly like Northern California and the Sacramento River delta. Smog on the horizon, yellow grass, orange sunlight, you’d think that’s where we were. But still, it is Illinois, that cannot be denied.

Illinois is a damn lot of nothing. Especially this time of year, when everything should be planted. But nobody has turned their fields. They are full of weeds and dead stalks from last year’s harvest. Desolation in what should be a fertile cornucopia. Life from death, year after year. Cycling through forever. And from it comes sustenance for the very creatures whose numbers threaten areas like this. Unwittingly helping the enemy thrive. Tragic and ironic both at the same time. So goes the world.

Walking through the train, I find that it is most absent of life. Nearly everybody is involved in thought, music, or sleep. Some even can juggle the last two at once. There is very little conversation being thrown around and even less activity. Basically, our entire train is in an afternoon stupor.

I have found a few attractive girls, but none worth focusing on for longer than they are in my field of vision. The next car down smells like sour antiseptic, the dining car smells like artificial flavoring and ammonia, and the car farther down probably still smells like leather.

Most everybody is near-comatose, and I can suppose the landscape is a prime cause. The desolation is relentless. It knows no boundaries. Even the disappointing heart of the Rockies is preferable to this. The towns are beginning to run together, water tower following water tower more closely, but in between the yellow death and flat horizon persists. Every field is identical to the last, carefully planted rows of dead dry twigs. This is why they are called “Plains”.

It’s now much later, and we are on a different train — the Lakeshore Limited. Chicago was quite a dirty city — “Industrial Revulsion” I call it. But now we are on our new train, and I don’t like it. I miss the Superliners. I miss Boris the dining car steward and knowing that each car had its own personality. But mostly I miss the design and layout of the Superliners. I in my dispassion did not embrace it and now I only have memories to anguish over. The loss of the California Zephyr has also drummed up the memory of the canyon yesterday. Yesterday was the best day on the train, but as usual I did not embrace it. “You don’t know what you have until you lose it,” they say. Well, I want to know what I have when I have it. But, my dispassion stands in the way.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Monday, April 12, 1993

Day 4

Tuesday, April 13, 1993

The days just seem to be zipping by now. Already it is Tuesday, four hours out of New York. Our car on this new train is not bad, but there is nothing to encourage wandering around. The other train was receptive to wandering; this one stares at you like a zombie with every step you take.

We just saw the RCA dog, en grande, atop a building in Albany. All except Tom, that is. He didn’t see it until we crossed the Hudson River. We are now at Albany, and hopefully I can mail a postcard to my friends here. In all of Chicago I didn’t find one mailbox!

Union Station in Chicago was quite an experience. We wound our way around corridor after corridor, and there were still places we didn’t see. And the smoke! Diesel smoke everywhere, filling all the passages and even the Great Hall was smog-filled. And then the train platforms themselves, with their orange lights and expanses of concrete. It was an atmosphere quite contrary to classical railroad images, yet in its own way it had a special charm. I’m looking forward to going back there and rejoining the California Zephyr, although at that time our trip will be almost over.

There was a man at our station at Albany who was a taxi driver. I could tell because he kept shouting for passengers. “Taxi! Anybody want a taxi?” After a while he got a passenger, led him outside, and came right back in shouting for more passengers. Maybe he wasn’t a driver at all, but a taxi agent who was hired by individual drivers to find passengers. Who knows?

All the trees here in upstate New York seem to be seasonal. This makes the landscape quite bleak because none of the trees have grown back their leaves yet. So all the surroundings look dead, much like Illinois only on a greater scale. There are a few evergreens, but it mostly is tree skeletons around here.

Life on this train, although restricted to only one car, seems more full than it did on the other. From my seat on the aisle I can see a cute four-year-old girl singing “Bingo” rather repetitiously. I can remember in second grade some girl was proud of her skill to be able to sing that entire song from start to finish. It seemed like a big deal back then. Now it just gets monotonous. It’s funny how age can affect attitudes. Why is that? Perhaps it is just a tradition of peer pressure, which is passed down year after year that changes our attitudes, and not the passage of time. How can we “outgrow ”something if we are not influenced against it? It seems like a conspiracy to me, one that cannot be stopped.

As we get closer to New York (forty minutes now) I can begin to see the smog on the horizon. It’s not as bad as L.A. yet, but I think it’s getting close. Maybe in half an hour the sunlight will be even more brown than it already is.

New York, New York. We have arrived. Penn Station was a bit different than Union Station, having white lights and being more crowded.

And then we went into the city and it was just as I expected. Crowded, busy, full of taxi cabs and closed in. But Brooklyn is different from what I expected. I expected high-walled, narrow streets with wall-to-wall brownstones. I expected in to feel closed in, just like the city. But what I found was something without comparison. Brooklyn is Brooklyn, and nowhere else. It has no equal.

During a drive around the area, I found the Brooklyn I had been looking for. It is (the part I saw) down by Eighth Avenue and I believe is what is called Park Slope. That is my Brooklyn, the Brooklyn I was looking for and have now found.

But also there are many other areas of Brooklyn, each with its own individual style and flavor. The Belt Parkway, after putting up with California freeways, actually seemed like quite tame driving. The streets, on the other hand, were the rough part. Double parking, New York drivers, and blaring horns added up to quite an experience. But I enjoyed it. After only a few hours in Brooklyn I am looking forward to spending the entire week here. Even a whole month I might enjoy. But, as they say, “I wouldn’t want to live here.”

The lifestyle out here is so different from back West. As Tony was saying, it’s the vertical living lifestyle that really can be found nowhere else in the country. Here, a house is thirty feet wide, and four stories tall. There is a stoop out front, a basement, a piddly little back yard, and that’s all. As I said, just the novelty of it could last me a month. I have no desires yet for open spaces, no aversion to the cramped conditions, no claustrophobia from this apartment or neighborhood, and I foresee none during our visit. It’s a nice change of pace, a vacation from the quiet freedom of Johnson Lane. But, these feelings of novelty are only temporary. After a few months this lifestyle would grow rank. So, I will enjoy the next week here and just revel in any imaginative fantasies I may have about life here. Then I will move on. But, we have a whole week to look forward to. So, bring it on!

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Tuesday, April 13, 1993

Day 5

Wednesday, April 14, 1993

Ah, Brooklyn. I am writing this entry at night, after wandering around the city all day. Visiting Dad’s old neighborhood, and talking with the neighbors especially, reminded how I would like to live in communities like that, where everybody on the block knows your name and a simple greeting could become an hour-long conversation, where hospitality was almost a contest of who could have the most neighbors over for dinner. Having everything you needed close by and living your entire life without having to go more than five miles from home. Every shopkeeper would know your name, and you could go into any restaurant and order “the usual”. Paper boys, milkmen, bus drivers, on a first name basis with all of them and knowing their schedule so you could be out to greet them. A full day would be comprised of sitting on the porch and talking with your next door neighbor who was also your best friend and probably your barber. It didn’t matter what you talked about – weather, news, bullcrap – it wasn’t important what you discussed. It was only important that you discussed it.

That is the small town dream I have always had. It doesn’t matter how else my life turns out, but that is one thing I want to find. If I could find that the rest of my happiness would fall into place around it. And yet I found it in the center of the largest city in America. Odd.

But still Brooklyn is unique. It has no equal anywhere. Even through all its different neighborhoods there is no other city you can point to and say, “That’s just like Brooklyn”. Even the separate areas are unmatched. Look down any street in Brooklyn and you can tell it’s Brooklyn. It just can’t be anyplace else. No place in Orange County looks like Fourth Avenue. Or Eighty-Sixth Street. Or the corner of Eighteenth and Seventy-Fifth. Nowhere! It’s unique! It doesn’t remind me of anyplace. The sky is like Southern California’s, but looking out over the streets and houses I am reminded of nowhere else from my travels. It is Brooklyn. The end. Nothing else can be said. “What is Brooklyn like?” I will be asked. And the only answer I will be able to give is “It was like Brooklyn”. Because it has no comparison. It cannot be mistaken for anywhere else in the world.

But walking down Eighteenth Avenue was overwhelming. With the endless rows of shops, most of them smaller than our garage. And none of them, it seemed, wanting for patronage. Owning a business here seems to be as common as owning a house; there’s one on every street, and if ownership is no longer preferable there are always hundreds of prospective buyers.

Well, it is now quite late, so I believe I will quit. Tomorrow, lower Manhattan!

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Wednesday, April 14, 1993

Day 6

Thursday, April 15, 1993

Tax day! And where else did we spend this day of financial hell but in the capital of financial hell, Manhattan.

I actually felt comfortable in the city. I didn’t feel out of place in New York like I did in other cities, but I felt as though my ancestry was welling up inside of me and I felt as though I belonged here. I think that, with a different beginning in life, I could have made a perfect New Yorker. Even now I feel that with a little practice I could almost fit in. And on Sunday we are going to the Village, spending time with liberals and seeing, to some degree, what that lifestyle is like.

But anyway, we cannot concentrate on the future but on the present. Or, in this case, the recent past. The day in Manhattan.

We started on the subway, which is completely different from what I expected. It was just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill train. A few screwballs floating around, but no graffiti, no trash, very little dirt, actually as pleasant as a train can get when it’s careening through darkened tunnels filled with dispassionate businessmen and ordinary dregs.

I have more to write about, but I just can’t get it out. So, I will have to stop and hope it is remembered.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Thursday, April 15, 1993

Day 7

Friday, April 16, 1993

I have no time now! It is midnight, and this is the first chance I have had to write. I had all the time I wanted on the train, and now, when it’s important...

Well, anyway, I guess I can still write without bothering with specifics. Today we went to Coney Island, amidst the filth and grunge. Oh, the dirt was unimaginable. And the gathered masses were not exactly the best I have ever been around. I was filled with wonder and disgust. But, I was glad when we returned on the subway later that we only had to cross the platform and didn’t have to go down to the street.

But Coney Island was odd in that it seemed to be filled with prime beachfront property. A house on the Atlantic, miles of beach, proximity to New York, sounds like anybody’s dream. Yet, Coney Island is run down, empty lots, accompanied by near-slum conditions in the apartment houses nearby. Such filth at such a place does nothing more than show you how different New York society is from California, especially in the area of real estate.

We spent the rest of the time visiting with friends and relatives. Aunt Pat and them and the Sepe clan. I wish I could write more, but I believe I could use some sleep right now. Good night.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Friday, April 16, 1993

Day 8

Saturday, April 17, 1993

We are sitting in a deli on 60th Street, eating pizza. We are across the street from F.A.O. Schwartz and right at the corner of Central Park.

We have been walking around midtown Manhattan, and I have been enjoying it. But we are about to leave, though, so I will have to close up for now.

We’re now in Eddie’s Cafe, a back place on a back road in Greenwich Village. It’s a nice place, with complementary popcorn, but I have yet to try the food. Vegetable soup and chicken tenders.

This place is full of college students. Liberals. I use that term derogatively, but it’s all a joke. I haven’t decided if I am liberal or conservative yet, so I can’t make any judgments. But still, liberals are an easy target.

The street this place is on is full of little eateries, cafes, and delis. And over the stores are five or six stories of apartments, most of them with lights on. But, it’s only a quarter past nine, and time to eat!

The food at Eddie’s was marvelous. This is a place that I would gladly return to. Good food, and lots of it, is what the name Eddie’s means to me now. I can see why this place is full, even now at ten at night. The college kids — that’s just a side effect of it being located in the Village. I think this restaurant could be popular just about anywhere you put it. As for the rest of the Village, we will leave that to tomorrow.

Home at last. Well, not home, but a reasonable facsimile. Home away from home, it might be called; home of a friend, mi casa es su casa. And so we are home.

Spending the day in midtown Manhattan made me realize that the imagination is often deceiving. We ran into many famous “landmarks” and found that their appearance in real life was much different than the images that I have created from various influences. So now, my impressions and thoughts of these “landmarks” are forever altered. This trip has been a learning experience in finding out what New York is really like. My misconceptions have now been shattered, hopefully with positive results. But now New York has lost all its magic and mystery, the undiscovered country has now been discovered. The intrigue has gone out of Manhattan, and it has been reduced to the ranks of other cities I have visited.

But still I find that I don’t dislike New York, and for a city it is actually quite pleasant. I wouldn’t mind living here (in Brooklyn) for two or three months, but after that I think it would reach my limits of endurance. But like I said, this lifestyle, the small town life, is quite appealing to me. And what bitter irony that I should find it in “The fourth largest city in the U.S.” But, it’s only a vacation.

I have been sticking to my vow fairly well, of ignoring my problems at home, and I find it to be so relaxing. In fact, when I return home I may not want to pick them back up again, but rather choose to leave them lying and let them work themselves out.

But, it is now time for idle time in that I must sleep and be well rested for tomorrow. See you then!

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Saturday, April 17, 1993

Day 9

Sunday, April 18, 1993

I now realize that after spending a week in New York that I don’t want to leave! Even the draw of Disney World is not enough to hamper my reluctance to step on that train tomorrow. Perhaps it may be the usual country boy lured in by the big lights, but I really don’t think so. I have visited other cities, and I have no desire to stay. I have lived in Southern California, and I don’t want to go back. But New York seems different. It seems like a city I could really be comfortable in. It must be the New York blood in me. I am even considering moving here for a summer, living with Maureen and Cosmo and perhaps getting a job at one of the Wendy’s in Manhattan. It would be a nice change, spending three months in this atmosphere, taking the subway every day, knowing all the local eateries, and just being a New Yorker. I think that would be a great thing for me to do, in perhaps two or three years. We’ll see!

But more about today. The Village was not at all what I had expected, so all my conceptions of that are shot to hell. But, we spent an interesting stretch of time wandering around Chinatown and Little Italy. In Little Italy (which is exactly what the name implies) I purchased a new chapeau (note the French), one which will be brought out only on special occasions. It was a bit of an impulse, and I am rather proud of it.

And also today we did, as a group, something rather spontaneous yet impressive. We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. A week ago I was in Denver. Never then did I guess that I would walk across one of the most famous and oft-photographed bridges in America. The only feat comparable to this would be transversing the Golden Gate Bridge. To see the Brooklyn Bridge in person was impressive enough, but walking it — words escape me to describe it.

But the most enthralling part of New York is that fact that I feel at home here. Even here, at Tony’s apartment, I feel as comfortable and settled as I do in my own room. (There was something in my eye just now, so I took a brief pause. Where was I?) I guess I’m just a traveler. I feel most at home away from home. But also it might have to do with New York’s basic appeal to me. I always need something to do, and in New York there’s always something to do. They don’t call it the city that never sleeps for nothing.

Also it just occurred to me that I may be attracted to New York because of how different it was from what I expected. I still have my fantasy New York, the one I created from all my various sources of what New York is like. And I find its difference from the real thing to be shocking. But it is (for once) the real thing I am in love with, and not the fantasy image.

But, regardless of what I may say, I am still too much rooted in the forests to be able to survive in New York for long stretches of time. Spending the summer here would be all I could take; any more and permanent damage might be suffered. But, more importantly, I don’t think I could stay happy here for longer than that. And a loss of happiness always denotes a need for a change. So, two months at a time I could be a New Yorker. But not much more than that.

I just noticed again how much of a contest it is here, and everywhere, to pay for food. Sometimes the competition to pick up the check almost turns into a fistfight. Every meal that we have been to with someone else here has developed into an argument when the time came to pay. Whoever had the fastest reflexes, or was the most agile, or had the stars in their favor got the check first, and the other went off in a huff. The underlying forces behind that I understand, but cannot fully explain.

I finally get time to write and I can find nothing to write about. Odd.

I can’t help but think how disappointing and empty life back home will be after this vacation. I’m gone from it a week and I miss nothing of it. It’s surprising to find that no matter how sentimental and attached I seem to be to certain things, I can leave my home and my life, all my problems, all that matters to me, my interests, my desires, all of it I can leave behind effortlessly and completely, based only on the faith that I will return in three weeks. Perhaps my vagabond instincts are greater than I ever knew.

Well, the next few days seem as though they will be a time of rest, what with the train and all. It could be considered insurance and protection against burn-out, although I feel like I could go on like this forever. But a little rest will be much appreciated, and I think I will begin now. Good night.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Sunday, April 18, 1993

Day 10

Monday, April 19, 1993

Ah, smell the New Jersey air. Nice and fresh, isn’t it? And look at the brown sunlight coming down. It makes me glad to be inside a train, hurtling along at fifty or sixty miles an hour.

New Jersey, at least the parts we have passed though, seems awfully run down. Backyard trash, leaning buildings, industrial squalor, smog-filled horizons, weed-infested fields, rusted cars; it is living up to all my expectations.

And upon crossing the river into Pennsylvania all that filth slacked off and we are now traveling through cleaner areas. But the smog remains.

The neighborhood we are passing seems to be middle class, half-acre lots with two or three story houses. And off in the background rises industrial smokestacks. This is a place I don’t think I could live in.

The industrial sections of Philadelphia are just as bad as those in New Jersey, I now see as we pass by. Rust, weeds, condemned buildings, the whole nine meters. And every apartment has clothes on the line. But, I don’t know what it is like on the other side of the tracks.

We just crossed a river, so I can’t compare the two sides.

There are huge groups of people boarding here in Philadelphia. I wonder what’s happening to cause such a mass migration out of the city of brotherly love? After ten minutes people are still coming on. And the line is still about a dozen people long. All together, I would guess that nearly a hundred people got on the train here. It makes me wonder what’s wrong with Philadelphia.

We’re moving at last, after about fifteen minutes of boarding. Utter madness.

I am currently engaging in a beautiful piece of train fare — “Pierce Super-Chik’n” It is a revolting array of chicken parts and soggy breading microwaved to perfection and “Frozen For Your Protection”. But the flavor, although moist, is surprisingly good. Equally surprising is that artificial flavoring is not included, although they have thrown in a bit of MSG. All together a wondrous meal.

Maryland is nice. There are so many more trees here and so much less filth. But the smog remains.

I find now that I am glad to be on the road. As much as I love New York, I also do love traveling. Being able to look out the window one minute and see something completely different than you did the last, always on the move, always continuing forward yet constantly enjoying where you are, all this I love. I am the perfect traveler, and I fully intend to continue that practice throughout my entire life.

I am about to try one of Tony Sepe’s store-bought chocolate chip cookies. He bought them for us, so we felt obligated to take them on the train. So, I’ll try one.

It’s horrible! I would only eat another one if my life was in danger, and I am reluctant to even finish this one. I would rather eat tree moss.

Baltimore has taken the concept of vertical living and terribly perverted it. Run-down, uniform houses, all in a row and all the same. Thoroughly disgusting and revolting.

I believe we are now passing by a lumber farm — a place where trees are grown for the sole purpose of cutting them down for lumber. It’s sort of like cattle farms, and slaughterhouses. It’s all the same.

Our train is stopped and the electric keeps going out. We’re about twenty minutes out of Washington D.C. and our lights are incessantly popping on and off. We’re moving again, but I trust that as much as I do the illumination’s integrity. And I’m getting hungry. I think I’ll eat now.

Earlier it was happy hour in the lounge. Anybody who stayed happy for the whole hour got a free cup of ice.

It’s now late at night (nine or ten) and I want to go to sleep. But, not because I am tired, rather because there is nothing else to do. Is that justified? When the situation arises that no action or thought is available to be done, is unconsciousness the only recourse? Has that situation even been reached? Or am I just trying to avoid (the “B” word, and a very unsettling thought) boredom? Am I so fearful of having to admit that I’m bored that I would rather lose consciousness than face it? Perhaps. Boredom is one thing I wish to stay away from, and admitting to it would be like admitting that I am a boring person. And I do not want that to happen, so instead I sleep, giving up my precious consciousness to avoid the dreaded fate which would otherwise await. Justified? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But that is one of the complexities which makes life so enjoyable. Maybe soon I will sleep. But still I am reluctant.

Actually, I think I will sleep now. Good night.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Monday, April 19, 1993

Day 11

Tuesday, April 20, 1993

After a maniacal half-hour wait for the bathroom to be freed, I have finally taken it upon my self to look at the scenery.

We are traveling through the swamps of Georgia; actually the forests, but everything down here can be called a swamp. And now it seems to be both swamp and forest rolled into one, so there you have it.

The greenery here is profuse, but all the trees are thin and very unmighty looking. And really, there’s not that much else to see. Except fog. And an occasional gravel pit.

Ah! A town! And a slowing train. Perhaps that means we get to stop again. We stopped once last night at Richmond, and they turned the air conditioning off. It was just like Salt Lake City: dark, still, rank, the only sound being regular interval snoring, by two people who were not in sync. It was hot, annoying, and such a mess that if I could have gotten my hands on the throat of the person responsible I would have ended up in jail. And the ten-minute stop there turned into half an hour, only aggravating the problem. And me tying to sleep besides. I was glad to leave Richmond.

I just had another intriguing meal: Amtrak’s own breakfast sandwich. It was an almost gourmet blend of a stiff, chewy bagel, liquid cheese, compressed ham, and something which can only be described as an “egg patty”. I bought the last one in the cafeteria, with the heartfelt thanks of all the passengers. They proclaimed me a hero and paraded up and down the aisles with me on their shoulders. I think this is my greatest humanitarian act yet.

A greatly endowed odor has permeated our train car. I do not wish to describe it for fear of figuring out what it is.

We should be arriving in Jacksonville soon, with an hour-long stop. That should give me plenty of time to find a mailbox and send a third postcard home. We’re now in Florida, getting closer to our goal.

We are traveling quite slowly through Florida. I don’t know why. We are in more forest/swampland, taking our sweet time in getting south. But wait! We are gradually increasing speed, but still are nowhere near normal operating mode. No cause can be found.

Nearly all this land we have been passing is covered with tree farms. There are varying stands of varying trees of varying ages across all the various fields.

David Koresh’s compound in Waco Texas just burned down. So you can use that event as a frame of reference for when in history this trip was taking place.

We are still in Jacksonville, for an hour now (an hour behind schedule). We are still tying to get our engine hooked up so we can get on the road.

Another foray into the wonderful world of Amtrak food. This time: the “Hot Dog Sandwich,” or boneless sirloins as the cafe attendant called them. Here again it has good flavor, yet the bun is a bit moist (microwaved to perfection). This is my second hot dog from Amtrak, and odds are it won’t be my last.

This train is constantly blowing its whistle. I am beginning to get concerned as to the significance of this incessant act. But, we are an hour behind schedule, so perhaps the driver is a bit anxious. Who knows.

Florida is all forest! It is very sparse, very thin, but it is also very much forest. Not even swampland, just forest. But as I said, a very thin and light forest. It is not the most attractive I have ever seen, but is still nice to look at.

Sunny Florida is now overcast.

We are now only about half an hour away from the Orlando station. I am becoming quite used to this train, just as I did the California Zephyr. The only difference is that I have been stationary for most of this trip, content with the train’s movement and needing none of my own. The view out the window has been mostly forested, but just now we have entered Winter Park (odd name – it brings up pictures of snow in Florida), a community which seems awfully like Orange County. Only with more trees. And more pink paint.

We’re now in the motel after a bit of traveling around the Disney Empire. We visited four of their hotels, all with their positive and negative aspects. But tomorrow I will have more Disney impressions.

Traveling through Orlando, I noticed its remarkable similarity to Southern California. The fact that it’s in Orange County is just the beginning. There are several El Toro-style neighborhoods, lots of residential trees, the same orange sun, similar traffic, mini malls (although not many), and wide sprawling parkways reminiscent of Irvine. But that last thing is one part of the obvious “Disneyfication” of Orlando. The downtown sections of the city looked as though they were not like those of other cities; they looked actually more like the innards of the Disney resort. The park and the city do seem to be blending into one.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Tuesday, April 20, 1993

Day 12

Wednesday, April 21, 1993

Today’s business — Epcot Center. What I expected and what I received were nearly opposites. But, considering I had few expectations, that is what should be expected.

What surprised me the most about Epcot was the crowds (or lack of). Compared to a usual Disney day the park was empty! The longest wait we had for a ride was maybe five minutes. No more. At Disneyland I would be overjoyed with a five-minute wait. But, all day was the same.

My favorite part of the park was the Journey Into Imagination, for obvious reasons. And the Image Works that followed contained exhibits which could occupy me for hours.

But it is getting late. I must away to bed.

Good night!

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Wednesday, April 21, 1993

Day 13

Thursday, April 22, 1993

Our excursion for today was the Disney-MGM Studios. It was quite an interesting day, although it was probably the least “Disney” of all the parks. But yet it was still enjoyable and a very pleasant day.

Star Tours was not exactly what I remembered, but I was still able to have fun. Although it seems that on Star Tours half the fun is located on the queuing area. Travel information, C3PO and R2D2 chattering back and forth, the repair droid; all of it is an elaborate show which is greatly missed out on when there are no crowds.

The animation studio I found interesting, but since I was already familiar with the process there was no education in the presentation. Watching the procedure only reminded me how tedious the whole process is. A fact that I am also familiar with. We also saw storyboards for “The Lion King”. They say that only thirteen minutes of it are being made in Florida.

The backstage and studio tour was disappointing. All the behind-the-scenes glances we got were through glass viewing areas, and not very thorough or revealing.

I think that yet again it is bedtime. Tomorrow we go to the Magic Kingdom, the third and last of the parks.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Thursday, April 22, 1993

Day 14

Friday, April 23, 1993

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Friday, April 23, 1993

Day 15

Saturday, April 24, 1993

I missed a day! Last night was such a late night, with the Magic Kingdom closing at midnight and a weariness which a full day had brought on me. And even now it is eleven o’clock at night, and our time at Disney is past. And unfortunately, this is going to be another short entry.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Saturday, April 24, 1993

Day 16

Sunday, April 25, 1993

I apologize for writing so little at Disney World. We had a lot of late nights. We are now on our way to Kennedy Space Center, so I have time to write during the day.

I see again how green Florida is. Thick forests (probably swamps) surround us on either side of the roadway. But there are no mountains. I learned the other day that Space Mountain is the third highest mountain in Florida. That’s disgusting. The highest point in the state is three hundred feet. That’s even more disgusting.

We have had this car for five days, and just now hit the half-tank mark. This Pontiac Sunbird gets excellent gas mileage. Of course, we have only been driving it to Disney and back. But no matter. A tank of gas lasting a week and a half is still pretty good.

It’s amazing how riled up and excited the tourists get about alligators around here. It’s no wonder places like Gatorland are so common in this area. At the slightest mention of the presence of one of those beasts, everyone works themselves into a frenzy in anticipation of catching a glimpse. You’d think Christ had returned with all the fuss, but it’s just an alligator.

We just visited Kennedy Space Center, which is where all the business with the alligators took place. People were more excited about seeing a gator on the side of the road than the Space Shuttle on its launching pad.
And I, in my dispassion, found little excitement in either.

We just passed a billboard for another alligator exhibit. We passed the place and it is a gift shop, called Danny’s, which is just about as tourist-friendly as possible. What is the big draw in alligators?

It’s half past five already! Criminentlies, how the day flies by and here we are on a heavily vegetated spit of land in the Atlantic, at least an hour from the motel. And still we press on.

I have just had a unique experience in waste removal. The toilet I just made use of came complete with a spring-loaded seat and — yes — a slot machine handle tastefully converted to a flusher. Now every pull can be a winner! Hopefully it has a 0% payback rate.

We are now driving down the beach in our rental car. I’m being sent out to videotape the family passing by.

This has been a comforting day. After constant Disney for more than half a week, it is physically pleasant to sit for hours on end. But of course, we have a several thousand mile train ride during which we will do nothing else. So we might want to save it until then.

Our laundry situation is getting desperate. We only have underwear for tomorrow — after that we’re on our own. So we have called out the heavy artillery. We have resorted to spending our precious bathroom time looking through the Yellow Pages. Desperate times call for desperate acts. War is hell.

On a lighter note we visit another park tomorrow. But this time we are shying away from Disney and steering our wandering stars towards Universal Studios. The glitz and glamour of Hollywood, once again hideously perverted for the sake of the tourist trade! Ah, Florida. My heart weeps for thee. Thou hast more gift shops than residential homes, more tourist-friendly t-shirts than stars in the heavens. Oh, you bleed from the heart and cry in pain, and all who answer the call seek to increase the wound. Crimes, horror; ah, the pain grows with each new sunrise.

On a lighter note we still have a week of vacation to go. I believe it is Tuesday that we get on the train, a three-part voyage which will take us to Washington, D.C., and finally to Chicago for a bittersweet reunion with my Superliners. It will be nice to see them again, but they are the chariots which return us to Reno and my life. The horrible life I tried to leave behind. The horrible life I did leave behind. And the horrible life I dread returning to. That is where my Superliners will take me. The agony and the ecstasy. Eat your cake and get it thrown in your face too.

Happy dreams!

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Sunday, April 25, 1993

Day 17

Monday, April 26, 1993

There was a highway sign that read simply “Remove accident vehicles from traffic lanes.” What an inspiring, upbeat, friendly public service announcement.

Universal Studios is much better than Disney-MGM. There are more rides, more room, and just an all together more pleasant experience.

But it’s late, and I must close up shop. Until tomorrow, then.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Monday, April 26, 1993

Day 19

Wednesday, April 28, 1993

Another day without writing! What has become of me? Actually, I think I was in somewhat of a neutral mood, and also there are space considerations. Look how much room there is left in the book. Five days on the train, and I have to condense it into twenty-two pages. So I guess I didn’t feel like taking up any precious space yesterday.

The train comes in at noon, and then we’re off. Two more trains — one being the Cailfornia Zephyr — will take us back and drop us off Sunday morning. But, before that we have a great stretch of travel ahead of us. All by train.

The train which we are now on. Yes, our journey has begun again, the great trek north and west. The return to all I happily left behind, and all I regretfully come back to. Troubles, problems, worries, and I only hope I can manage them as well as in the past.

Out the window the greenery is once again overwhelming. So much of it. Thick, rich forests, yet without mountains. It seems empty and meaningless. All this gone to waste. The train is too bumpy to write.

The train left Jacksonville at a quarter to five. We were supposed to have left at four o’clock. So now we are roughly an hour and a half behind schedule. And this is still the bumpiest train so far. We need the self-centering Z-2000.

I am now indulging in the latest of gourmet masterpieces: a work of art entitled, “The Better Pizza”. I wouldn’t want to meet the pizza this is better than. The sauce has no taste! Whatsoever! I taste crust, I taste cheese (mediocre if anything) but I taste no sauce. I see it, it’s there, but it does not register on my taste buds.

We just discovered a label on the pizza box saying it passed USDA inspection. That label was conveniently and mysteriously covered over on our boxes.

Right now, well into Georgia, we are at the point where we should have been at the time we left Jacksonville. We can now see exactly how far behind we are. And to think — it was only ten minutes late at Orlando.

Walking through this train is a horror and an ordeal. Especially since I had the misfortune to attempt it during the rush to dinner. The hallways in the sleeping cars (all four of them) are roughly two feet wide, and everybody is going in both directions at once.

I can’t see why anyone would want a sleeper car. To be stuck in a small, rank, solitary room... and pay extra for it! Madness. At least in coach there are plenty of people (hopefully interesting) around to keep yourself occupied with. In a private room you spend all your time with you. Frightening.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Wednesday, April 28, 1993

Day 20

Thursday, April 29, 1993

Is it now afternoon, on the train again after a day in Washington, D.C. And I forgot to bring the book, just like a complete idiot. Well, I now have the rest of the night to write.

Washington was aswarm with youths! Literally hundreds — perhaps thousands — of them were filling and spilling the museums. But, my dispassion didn’t even allow me to get excited at the National Archives or the Air and Space Museum. I must find an antidote to this dispassion!

The setting sun is casting itself brown on the paper.

Have I changed over this vacation? As the sun begins to set more and more in the direction of our travel, denoting a return to the West, I think back to what personal growth I had expected at the beginning of the trip. How many of them did I accomplish? How different am I now than on page one of this journal? Did anything really happen to me on this vacation? Did three weeks of carefree enjoyment and self-contemplation truly have a profound impact on my life? Truthfully, I don’t think so. I still hope to improve, but it will take more work! A few seeds may have been planted but none have come to fruition or even sprout. My toil is not yet done.

We are traveling through I believe West Virginia, and again the landscape is replete with greenery. But here the trees are sparse and the ground has more grasses and tiny shrubs. And the forest stretches on forever, vanishing into a swath of green. I just noticed that we are traveling at a relatively slow pace right now. A reason cannot be found because our tracks are fairly straight and there are no towns to be seen. There is a rusted train yard here, but that should not make us slow. Such are the mysteries of train travel, a lifestyle which I will soon be leaving. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go home.

Sunset in the Appalachians. They are more rolling hills than actual mountains, at least by Western standards.

Ah, the West. I have now begun to look forward to some aspects of our destination. The Sierra, the warm starry nights, Jasper, all these are parts of what secures my happiness back home. And now that we are headed into the sunset, it holds promise of those things. Things from which escape was nice but now return is necessary.

Firemen are our friends. We have been sitting in one spot for fifteen/twenty minutes now, waiting for a group of firemen to finish their operations and kindly remove their hose from our track. But these firemen, in their satanic wisdom, are leaving it right there. I suggest we continue on and cause “extreme damage” (as quoted by the Chief of on-board services) to their hoses.

The firemen let us go, and we have been proceeding for quite a while. It is almost ten o’clock now, time to rest up so I can meet the California Zephyr and my Superliners at three thirty tomorrow. We then begin the last leg of our monumental journey.

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Thursday, April 29, 1993

Day 21

Friday, April 30, 1993

An Indiana morning in fog. Visibility, a quarter mile at most. Although I was never any good at judging distances, so it’s probably less.

Today we are scheduled to take Chicago by storm. And then we pick up my Superliners and the California Zephyr. And the day after tomorrow we pull into Reno and are home by noon.

This train, the Capitol Limited, is a nice one. The scenery is nice along with just the feel of the train itself. Not like the Lakeshore Limited, where the only time I enjoyed myself was while having lunch along the banks of the Hudson.

I believe I have found some of my passion! It is contained within the California Zephyr. Crossing the Rockies by Superliner that second day of the trip was one of the best. And so shall, I hope, tomorrow. I am actually excited about rejoining the Zephyr. Perhaps will it be the same crew, with the Chief of on-board services and the French dining car steward who could pass for Boris Karloff any day of the week? I hope so. End the trip as well as it started. I need my Zephyr.

The fog has retreated now. It has moved back to a strategic location of perhaps a half mile and there it stays, lurking, teasing, enticing us. We are always surrounded, yet it lets us press on, into other dangers perhaps far more terrible. So we continue because we are at the mercy of the fog and have no choice.

And it has advanced! Closing in now to a hundred yards, threatening to squeeze the very life out of us. Continual movement is our only hope now.

I am now in the domed observation can and I am content. The view is reminiscent of the Superliners and the air conditioning is on. The fog has again retreated, and I am content.

We are sitting in Chicago during a stopover. An hour from now the California Zephyr will pull out of Chicago’s Union Station, with me on board. I’m actually experiencing glorious anticipation again! Ah, the wonder.

The triumphant return of the Superliners! (mild fanfare) We have secured a seat on the California Zephyr (second coach, not first) and I am just basking in the joy. It’s my Zephyr all right, but the cars and people are different. But no matter. I’m on the California Zephyr! I intend to celebrate with lunch in the dining car, traveling through the Rockies. Here’s to a good trip!

I didn’t care much for Chicago. All the observations I made from the train (see Day 3) proved true during our stopover there. I rate it as poor and best skipped. A pity it has to be associated with the California Zephyr. Shameful.

This Zephyr has a different crew than the last one. Our dining car steward is different, and a woman is running the cafe. But, I suppose I didn’t expect everything to be the same.

This train does have slight differences. On a recent exploratory trip I went back as far as the car behind the smoker (the leather car on the other Zephyr). Visually and in design the cars are the same. But their population and atmosphere are different. There are many more elderly people on this train, and it sure isn’t the other one. But I think that we are going to get along just fine.

Nobody can shut up about David Koresh. He’s on every newspaper, the cover of Newsweek and Time, tabloids, television; the guy’s more famous dead than alive. I say now that it’s over, forget about it and find something else to latch onto.

Well, the time has come for sleep. Say goodnight!

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Friday, April 30, 1993

Day 22

Saturday, May 01, 1993

The dawn of a new month, overcast, finds us somewhere in Colorado following two bands of steel westward.

Last night I saw an opportunity for a new experience, and I took it. I watched a movie in the lounge car while traveling through Illinois and Iowa, not to mention the Mississippi River we crossed over. So, I’ve watched an in-trip movie on a train.

Today is the day of our trek into the Rockies. And then tomorrow we “de-train” in the Biggest Little City in the World — Reno Nevada. So, that gives us a little over twenty-four hours left to our trip, and I intend to enjoy it to the fullest.

We should be coming into Denver within the hour. But we’re running late so it might be more like two hours. Anyway, I was thinking about the possibility of my interest from last time reboarding the train in the same town she got off at. But, I know how absurd that is, so I am not putting any great hope in that happening.

I gave the train another thorough examination, and still there are no gals my age around. Oh well, we still have Denver in which to take on passengers.

We are pulling out of Denver, ice cream resting comfortably in my stomach. I see some mountains ahead of us; they look to be rather rocky. We picked up a compliment of mostly adults in Denver.

I am supposed to be in the lounge car right now, but it is full. So I enter the Rockies in my coach seat. No matter.

I notice the same faults in the Rocky Mountains now as I did on the last trip. There are too many rolling hills and open meadows, not very rocky. It might be that they send the trains through a tame area, bypassing (or going under) the heart of the Rockies. Or it may be that the Rockies are like this; not worth the trouble of the trip.

Our Chief of on-board services looks familiar. Whether we have had him before or somebody who looks like him is on movies or television. But he does seem familiar. Maybe I’ve just seen him so much around the train that he just seems familiar. But it seems as though he was on one of our trains before.

We have a freak on the train! The person is in their early teens, gender unknown. It is adorned with a wide Mohawk and wears black leather and chains. It has several earrings, including one in the lip and one in the eyebrow. It is traveling alone and carries a pack as big as it is. All in all a strange person who is best observed from a distance. Do not feed or make eye contact.

No sign of my former object of intrigue. I guess it was only a one-day trip with her. I suppose I really didn’t expect to see her, but it would have been interesting and perhaps even an initiator for conversation between us. Just imagine — two trains, three weeks apart, and for two people to coincidentally ride them both! Just picture it. But, it was not to be. Our paths crossed once, and then split for eternity.

It is almost time for lunch. I had my first lunch on the vacation in the California Zephyr’s dining car, and so shall I have my last lunch on the vacation in the same place. So when the call is made I will go and I will enjoy, and I will realize that our grand adventure is nearing its end.

Nearing, but not arrived. We still have about twenty-three hours (counting the time change) until our de-training in Reno tomorrow morning. I know I will not want to get off but I have no choice. Real life is waiting for my return to grab me and pull me back in. And I will go willingly, but not without a tear for the vacation that is lost.

We are entering the canyon wherein I found my contentment last time. It retains its beauty without her presence, but I cannot help to think back to that day three weeks ago.

I just had my lunch, good as ever. And I met some people from Pittsburgh who are going to Las Vegas for the first time. They were remarking on the Rockies exactly the opposite from how I was. They sang its praises, which is no surprise since they’re from Pennsylvania. But if only they could see the Sierra. Or the Cascades. Oh, how their wonder would swell up within them until they had no choice but to dismiss the Rockies as puny mockeries as I do. And even the Canadian Rockies would cause them to adjust their thinking and see these mountains as what they really are; famous and beautiful yet no match for competition.

The term “muddy Colorado” is not often heard. Yet here it is. The Southwest’s mightiest river, brown under a blue sky. What vile sources create such a monster? And what wholesome cleaning does it undergo to bring out its luster at later times in its course?

Now the Colorado seems to have begun its cleansing and the parts of it where the sky is reflected are almost blue. Note I say almost. Its muddy complexion has not yet vanished, but it is losing ground to reflections in certain, calmer, areas.

We have now come back into the Pinenuts, which I believe are the transition from the Rockies to the Utah deserts. Luckily I believe that the sun will have set before we reach any tremendous desert activity. If not I can always sleep, resting up for the arduous week ahead of me.

This journal was supposed to be not only a chronicle of the trip but also a chronicle of me. That is why I wrote it in secret code. So I could talk freely about things. So I could be assured that only I could read it, and therefore I could open up more. It is an accurate record of my thoughts during these happy times, two months before graduation yet only the beginning of my life. It is done to preserve myself for my future self, so looking back I can see how foolish or wise I used to be. And also it is to help me in the present sort through and better understand what I am feeling and why. It is the same reason that I keep a journal at home of day-to-day feelings. It is for the benefit of present and future, and thanks to the code it can be as personal as I wish it. It is my legacy, left by the present self who is passing, for the future self who is developing. It is better than any picture or video. This is me. This is who I am, who I never was and will never be again.

My seat is broken. If you lean on it it goes all the way back. If not, it comes all the way up; there is no in-between. Varying degrees of pressure will set it at varying angles, but nothing short of rust will get it to stay there. Damned contraption.

Ah, mild excitement on the train. Some loony missed his stop and decided (in his infinite wisdom) to jump out the door and walk back. Well, he was stayed from his purpose by the ever-obedient Amtrak employees, and subsequently carted off by the Glenwood Springs sheriff. His plan was good in theory, but I think that at the speed the train was traveling it would have fallen apart on him. His is a case of poor planning.

We are now (a while ago, actually), leaving the Rockies and entering the Utah deserts. They are the same ones that caused me so much upset last time. This time, thankfully, we are passing through most of them at night. The only good I can remember coming of the desert last time is that it was where I developed my interest in the unknown passenger.

A note: my mind has not been constantly engrossed with this girl throughout the entire trip or the entire day. But traveling through these areas brings her to mind, being the only girl that I can still remember. She also reminds me of the importance of taking opportunities as they come and not relying on the elusive second chance. I might have missed out on making a friend in Denver.

I just had dinner, also in the dining car. Amtrak food is filling, if you can find something good, but the steward is a bit slow in collecting payment. It takes longer to pay for your food than it does to eat it. But the chicken kiev was surprisingly good. Likewise with the mashed potatoes and the dinner rolls (salad is basically the same anywhere you go). All of it was quite delicious and an all together good meal, at ten dollars a head.

The sun is setting over the western frontier. Actually it has another hour to go, but eventually it will set and when it does it will be over the western frontier.

Later — the sun is about to set, and, just as I said, it is over the western frontier. The last sunset of the trip.

I have been content sitting here listening to the conversations of my fellow shipmates. I can’t remember, nor do I want to remember, what they have been talking about, but it is all intriguing enough to occupy me for these late hours of the night.

The movie for tonight will be “Sneakers”. That is why I am sitting here writing instead of watching the movie. I don’t want to see that movie, so I won’t watch it.

The sun has set. And dark is rapidly descending. Actually dark is descending even more rapidly because they have turned off the lights in our car. Why they would do such a thing at so early an hour (eight o’clock) I cannot know. It gets earlier and earlier every night. But, since this is the last night of the trip, it shouldn’t be a bother anyway.

It’s late at night, all is dark. The only existence is what is inside the train car; all else is black. Our last night on vacation, spending it on a train in a seat that is broken.

Returning home is always a bittersweet time. The end of vacation, a cease to the wandering, no new horizons every day, just back to the same drudgery. The daily routine must be relearned and reprogrammed so that we can trudge through our empty lives without giving it much thought. Reentering the rat race is a necessary evil, as is waking up at six AM and trying to get enough sleep in one night to carry you through the next day. Vacation is carefree. Vacation has none of these worries. On vacation you can wake up just in time to see the sights and let the maid do all the housekeeping. Vacations are beautiful. If only all life could be a vacation.

But everyday life has its own advantages, too. Confidence in knowing what the next day will hold, the comfort of sleeping in a familiar bed; seeing your friends every day in the same places and knowing they will be where you expect them to be.

Yes, as beautiful as vacation may be, normal life is just as beautiful. If played correctly it can be full of as many twists, turns, excitement and glorious tribulations as the wildest vacation.

But, the key part is to play it right. That is what I am trying to do. To learn on vacation things which can better my own life. And soon comes the testing grounds...

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Saturday, May 01, 1993

Day 23

Sunday, May 02, 1993

We are now two and a half hours behind schedule, adrift in the sands of Nevada. How this dire circumstance arose I am not sure. I was asleep. But to lose two hours between last night and today must have required a large bit of incompetence on the part of a large group of people. What happened in Salt Lake City to so hamper our progress? Whatever it was, I am glad I slept through it.

Also, last night the dining car ran out of water. So, they couldn’t do the dishes when they should have. They had to do them this morning, which delayed breakfast for an hour. Everybody had to go back and wait in the lounge car, and they were going in as I was coming out.

There are several British people on board this train. I think they’re all together, but I can’t quite be sure because they’re scattered all over the place. But, the Desert Wind has left us so everyone on board is from two coaches and a sleeper.

The five people in front of us can’t keep their mouths shut, so we now know more about them that anyone should. Tim, the Wild Bill Cody look-alike from California, who fortunately has been able to distance himself from the rest. Richard, the ten-year-old kid with a pregnant thirteen-year-old sister. His grandmother (actually his step-grandmother, the other two having been murdered) Debbie, who is forty years old and has raised four kids without giving birth to any of them. And then the other grandmother/grandson team, they boy named Matt but Grandma’s name unknown. Grandma listens to the Ventures on her Walkman while walking, so now Debbie wants to get one for her and Richard. But Richard wants to listen to rap. Grandma likes the Ventures because she knows one of the members. He is now joined with a Japanese group and they (Grandma and Matt) went to see them in concert and wanted the video footage to be shown in the lounge car. Matt is going back to Japan, and when he does he will be known as a famous record collector. I know more about them all, but I will spare you.

We haven’t been able to make up any time. At Lovelock we were still two and a half hours late. At this rate we will get to Reno at half past noon, which is the same time the dining car opens for lunch.

Actually, we were supposed to be in Reno at the time we reached Lovelock. And so now we have only about two more hours left to our vacation.

Now I am actually anxious to get home. As far as I am concerned, the vacation is already over. But we have two more hours of this desert remaining. I don’t see the highway anywhere around here, but I am sure we are following its same general route, along the Humboldt River and by the sinks. Off to the right of the train we are passing salt flats, which are extending over to the left side as well. But, I have found the highway off to the far right. Actually, there are two roads off to the right. One was the highway, and the other, which the train tracks just crossed, was a forlorn and out of the way two-lane road. And the only traffic on that road had to stop for the train. What luck!

This land is so desolate. We are in an enormous valley, filled with sand and sagebrush. How I long for the Sierra. How I want to be among the pines of Woods Lake, at the base of Mushroom Falls in Pleasant Valley. I want to be out of this accursed desert, away from the expanses, into close spaces. I believe that is why I liked New York City; it was compact. So are forests. So are caves. So were my favorite parts of Disney World. Close, crowded, comfortable. Every one. That is why I don’t like the desert or the Yacht and Beach Club or the Rocky Mountains. They are too open. Too expansive. I have the opposite of claustrophobia: hatred of open spaces. I like small, crowded areas. I like mountains, not valleys. Forests, not deserts. I like details, not emptiness, and that is why my tastes are so varied, because they need only fit that one criteria.

I am now on the last page of my chronicle. I had doubts that I would reach the end, or that I wouldn’t run out of space. But in all it has come to the end perfectly with a minimum of planning.

In all, this has been my favorite vacation so far. And, it couldn’t have come at a better time for letting me take a break from all my worries. It allowed me to step back and rest, allowing my embryonic self time and room for more concentrated development. And it helped to prevent, or postpone, the burnout my frenzied activity was certainly leading up to. In addition to all that, it was just great fun every step of the way.

I do hope that my self-development has been fueled and assisted by this brief sabbatical. And this next week will be the testing ground.

And so now the return to real life has come. It is a time I have been dreading for the past three weeks, but now as it arrives I am looking forward to it. All my problems I can face with a new vigor, backed by the immortal words of Dreamfinder. “A dream can be a dream come true.”

So I go into the wilderness, facing new and greater challenges. My only dreams are for an enchanted life, and my only hopes for true happiness.

THE (bitter) END

Posted by Scott Schrantz on Sunday, May 02, 1993