Train Ride

I’m on the train from Seattle to Eugene, Oregon, where I will spend the night before riding my bike to Bend for a five-day yoga workshop with Manju Jois, who is the son of Pattabhi Jois, the guru of the type of yoga I practice, Ashtanga.

It’s not so bad, although this last hour of about six is getting a bit long. I much prefer it to driving, in any case.

What I like best about this Amtrak Cascades route is that I can hop on my bike at home, put it entirely assembled in the baggage car of the train, retrieve it at my destination and cycle to the hotel where I’m staying for the night. This seems terribly civilized and makes me feel as if I’m in Europe, except that I can understand the intercom announcements—and the beer I’ve been drinking en route is Budweiser.

We’re stopped now is a place called Albany; it looks pleasant enough, if a bit mall-like. I’m always reminded when I see a place like this that people live everywhere; there’s probably not a modern dance troupe or bubble tea café anywhere for miles and yet the place is thriving.

Right now, there’s a guy a few rows ahead of me whose iPod is so loud I can hear his music pounding through his eardrums. He’s listening to something that sounds like silverware clattering around in a clothes dryer. Once again the truism obtains: the worse the music, the louder it’s played.

Amtrak appeals to the older traveler. For instance, I saw a beautifully dressed woman in her sixties who bought a split of wine to drink by herself in the lounge car; I found that both pretty cool and somewhat pathetic. Across the aisle from me was a man who was at least eighty; he brought his own lunch; surprisingly it was sesame noodles.

Then there are the old grouchy people—like me, tormented by some youngster’s “music.”