(Portland, Amtrak “Empire Builder”, Montana, Saint Paul -Minneapolis)
Sunday, 6pm:
I was defeated by the heavy Portland “drizzle”.
It has twice the volume of, say, Melbourne drizzle, but with an incremental cold that creeps from wet shoulders and feet and effectively settles on camera lenses so that a shot of an oncoming headlight floods any photo with spidery, spilt-milk palette of oily swirls of marbled light. I retired, beaten, to “The Original Dinerant” on Oak to be moderately entertained by the menu while waiting for refills of ordinary but warmish coffee to unchill the bones.
About half of the menu card is diner food: the rest is cutesy Portland progressiveness: first female mayor, cycling and transit culture, first female police officer, environmentalism, quirky memorials and street art, and regular rain (although Pensacola gets more each year, allegedly). Nothing about Portland’s interesting racial history, though. As a hipsterish diner, even the condiments tray is proudly described by provenance, from organic ketchup to “AARDVARK HARBINERO HOT SAUCE”. Outside and across the road, the block of sodden food trucks was doing slow business to the dripping cyclists and runners in the unforgiving rain.
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CNN’s latest promotional advertising:
“ This is an apple.
Some people may try to tell you it’s a banana.
Banana. Banana. Banana.
But it’s still an apple.
CNN: Facts First.”
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Monday - 4pm:
On the light rail to Portland Union in the hope that Amtrak springs no more nasty surprises on the “Empire Builder” to St Paul. In the (business class/sleeping car passengers’) Metropolitan Lounge, the Complimentary Newspapers are full of graphic coverage of yesterday’s “Cascades” crash.
The Welcome On Board:
“Amtrak is family friendly, so please don’t sit in seats marked for families or groups... or pairs if you are travelling alone... Given the season and our family friendliness we ask for no profanity....”
So, if not “profane”, I guess that the remaining option is “sacred”? I think not.
In the sleeping car, James, our elegantly precise attendant greets us all personally with sincere handshakes and deep, concise drawl, and is significantly more personable: just goes to show what differences there are if one does not “travel in coach”.
Tuesday - 7.40am: Libby, Montana.
Heavy snow on the station and a cheery announcement that we are over 90 minutes late “due to overnight issues”. Breakfast with a grandmother from Honduras (returning from Seattle to New Orleans by train from a reunion with an old friend she’s not seen for 38 years) and a couple from Portland: “Oh, you’re in luck,” as the cheery wife produces a fistful of photos: “Here are my grandchildren... and this is my son. When my daughter stared dating, he used to interview the boy in the front room and write his name on a shell casing, empty though, and say: ‘You are dating my SISTER!’ “
Through “the second longest railroad tunnel in North America” into the grey dawn of snow covered mountain forests.
Havre:
More than 2 hours late after a very slow wander through the spectacular Glacier National Park, complete with electrified avalanche warning fences, massive snow sheds and high bridges over narrow streams though drifting snow and distant, round, clouded peaks.
On the platform, beyond the monster restored steam engine, and 60”s brick-block station, “Hands Across the Border” friendship with Canada memorial, and “ICE” dispensers, sat a lone euphonium player, pumping out “We Three Kings” for anyone who made the trudge to the Chicago end of the platform.
Wednesday 5pm:
Our dinner tickets had been distributed and I was tapping away on this post in the lounge car. A dreadlocked young couple was gently wrangling a toddler who preferred the squirms to a nice sleep. Mum started force feeding the child with white bread spread with something called ‘Vegenaise’:
“You know what? Amtrak food is the worst public food I have ever eaten in public. You know what? I’d rather eat at Macdonalds. You know what? They even make you sit with other people. Even foreigners. You know what? I didn’t know what to talk to them about. You know what? These seeds you bought, Honey... They were out of date in July 2017!”
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My Amtrak dining car sitting was for 7.15pm.
I was forced to sit with foreigners: retired Canadian academic geographers along with a sexual assault counsellor from Montana travelling home to Chicago for Christmas. Her job is dependent on a Federal grant signed off by Trump. Go figure. The table service was grumpily slow; food passable, company very politically incorrect: we had a hilarious night on rather too much merlot. The tables around us seemed to clear quickly.
(My next Amtrak journey will be in “coach”: possibly - silently - profane, given some of the other potential fellow passengers.... The people-watching is endlessly, deeply fascinating.)
So now I’m in St Paul-Minneapolis, planning to follow in the (freezing) footsteps of F Scott Fitzgerald as well as those of the railroad robber baron James J Hill who built the Great Northern Railroad to Seattle and established shipping lines to the Orient. He’s the “Empire Builder” who gave his name to last night’s train. There’s also a Frank Gehry Gallery at Minnesota University which intrigues... and a 1968 Exhibition at the local museum.
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The “Welcome” sign at St Paul Union Station:
“No Smoking within 25 feet of Building.
Pet Relief Area Located Section D”
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It’s been a bit of a cultural melange, today, as the transit ticket machine offered me choices of Spanish,Hmong and Somali by which to order a Day Pass.
After wandering Minneapolis, I’ve just sought dinner in the “Hunan Garden” bar across from my cosy, varnished 1920’s pub (yoga classes available in the spectacular lobby: it used to be the University Club and the quietly academic wood-panelled atmosphere remains... “Athletic Club and lap swimming on 5th floor, Sir”).
The Hunan Garden was “out of orange beef”, so I could have any meat I preferred as long as it was pork, according to the blowsy but very enthusiastic waitress who kept plying me with a rather good Californian Pinot Grigio.
Once the TV was turned down (“A Charlie Brown Christmas”) the grey-ponytailed Chinese owner introduced the floor show to the largely 60’s-plus black and Hispanic crowd: a terrific skinny Filipino guitarist who did a great Barry White impression under the Chinese lanterns and red dragon banners and neon beer brands. As I left, he’d moved on to “Mustang Sally” with a large (in all senses of the word) conga-lining family - think: black ‘Kath and Kim’ with brown tights, muffin tops and leopard skin “everything else” with under-the-weather-bloke hangers-on - staggering enthusiastically around the horseshoe bar.
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The other adjacent “food” offering was a burger bar with bold print on page 1 of the menu:
“DEEP FRIED CHEESECAKE $4.99
(This was a public service message brought to you before salads)”
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During tonight’s meal (at some point during the transition of the skinny Filipino guy from Barry White to Carlos Santana: equally excellent) I was approached by a black guy and asked if I could recommend places to stay in Minneapolis. When I said I wasn’t a local, his response was: “But you LOOK American!”
So soon?
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