Somerville, Mass. - A decent hour according to my body clock

Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois.


Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Massachusetts.


Tomorrow,  Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine.


You may notice my trip is not done yet. But I did make it across the continent, so suck it.


Thank you for reading. If you haven't yet, start at the beginning.

Not Quite Boston - 8:41 PM Wednesday

So very close. I don't know how close, because we were delayed for a while by cows on the track (or something) a while back. 

When I boarded in Chicago, the first attendant I talked to told me, with urgency, to go past everyone to the very front of the train. The way he said made me think this was some insider info wherein the front of the train had the best seats and he was only telling me about this wonderland. Accordingly, I went to the front car where about ten people were already smattered among the seats. Then a woman came and told us these seats were being blocked off for people they'd pick up along the way, so I went back two cars to actually quite nicer seats. Then this same woman told me this was the car for people going to Buffalo (though considering the fact they were surprisingly upbeat). She let me stay, though. And sure enough, this morning the car emptied in Buffalo. Somewhere between Buffalo and Albany it repopulated, to the point where I was pretty sure one of these times there wouldn't be enough double seats for everyone, and somebody was probably going to sit the non-threatening me. But that never happened, and again the car slowly emptied. And now there are maybe a dozen of us. 

It's dark out again, though unlike North Dakota it's clear we're we're going through civilization this time. We just passed a Panera Bread. I hate Panera Bread. Panara Bread isn't a restaurant, it's a place for people who drive Volvos to meet people who drive Subarus. 

They have a few Panaras out west. Some things you can't escape, even by traveling however many miles I've traveled. In some ways, western civilization has become homogenous. This makes it pretty easy to up and move 3,000 miles away, but pretty strange to actually travel those 3,000 miles. Panera Bread sucks. Why is it everywhere? 

But it's not all the same. The west coast is not the east coast. This seeming homogeny just requires us to think a little harder about what makes us unique in the big, wide world. I think it's better this way. This way, I don't tell people about the strange fast food of Maine, where you order fries and they ask if you'd like a burger with that. This way, I have to rack my brain a little. And then I tell people how my town acts out the Walk to Bethlehem every year, with a live baby. Like Panara Bread, the Walk to Bethlehem is weird, sort of dumb, and you can't imagine it being real until you see it. But unlike Panara Bread, it ain't catching on. Things like that are significant differences. They're interesting; they matter. When I'm more optimistic, I think that for easy shit like soup, the western world does it all the same way. Uniformity is just easier sometimes for soup. But it's in the details that we keep our culture. It's in the stuff that ain't catching on. Oregon's got theirs, Maine's got theirs. I certainly haven't seen a lack of novelty in my travels. 

Massachusetts - 5:58 PM Wednesday

Just saw three cars with Massachusetts plates in a row. That's probably because we're in Pitsfield, Mass. I know I've heard of Pitsfield, but I can't place it mentally. Better than Whitefish, Montana though. Nothing against Whitefish, but Pitsfield definitely feels closer. 

East of Albany, New York - 5:09 PM Wednesday

Three days ago I hadn't quite left PDX yet, but I was making one of what was eventually three trips from my dorm to where my travel buddy's cousin was picking us up. Keep in mind three days ago it was 2:12 PM, not 5:12, because of the magic of time zones. My friend texted me while I was cooking myself some ramen noodles that there was a picnic happening, and since graduation was earlier I figured it was one of those, the college pulls out all the stops and throws a bitchin' picnic, picnics. 

Instead it was a few friends of mine out on the lawn with a couple sandwiches. I felt bad, because I was really disappointed in the lack of awesome food. But to them it probably just looked like I was disappointed in them, which wasn't the case at all. They did have day-old Fred Meyer cake. 

That cake is probably headed back west right now in the septic tanks of the Empire Builder. Do you have any idea what it's like to use train toilets for three days? It becomes normal. Normal! And not bothering to change clothes, and getting strange looks from commuters as I brush my teeth in the morning? I've stopped shaving. Fun fact, I'm getting blonde stubble. 

I shouldn't complain. I've had two seats to myself for the last six hours. I found a David Cross audiobook on my iPod which I never purchased. Tonight I'm sleeping in a bed.  

It's official: I'm in retrospection mode. Not quite four hours till I roll in to (I always want to say land) Boston. That's like 1/20th of my trip remaining, 5%. It's over. I'm done. I'm glad as hell I did it, but I'm also tired as hell. 

Still Rolling out of Buffalo - Moments later

And why do girls get to wear sweat pants? The girl next to me last night from Chicago wore sweat pants, and pulled it off. She just looked like she wanted to be comfortable. When I wear sweat pants, I look unemployed. No, worse than that. Unemployable. Why can't I be comfortable? 

For the last three days, I've been wearing black pants, a blue-and-white stripped button-up shirt, with a plain white T underneath that. I'm fairly comfortable, but I also presentable. Train-presentable, at least. At about 16 I decided I wanted to dress respectively. I thought it would be easy. It hasn't been. I don't want to jump ahead of myself, but I believe right before I left Lewis & Clark I may have had a major breakthrough. 

See, the thing is my wardrobe is in a state of flux between boy and man. And I dress myself consistently half asleep, which means if something is in my closet, I will eventually wear it. Even if I hate it. Like this shirt I got at a Foreigner concert I worked when I was like 15. Foreigner, as you may or may not know, was a big rock band some undetermined number of years ago. They had some hits, I even still have probably five of their tracks on my iPod (And I guess it's just the woman in you that briiings out the man in meee) but I don't like them(I know I can't help myself, sooomething something something). Or rather, I don't like that I still kind of sort of (and if feeeels like the fiiirst time) like them (it feeels like the very first time). Sometimes. But I don't intend to advertise to the world that I like them through my apparel. If I told people everything about me through what I wear, nobody would read my micro-blog. I'm not one of those ironic T-shirt guys either, and even if I was this particular shirt is long sleeved, and I don't like long sleeve Ts, and even if I did this Foreigner one is a little big. So right there, four reasons why I don't like this shirt. But as long as I own it, I'll wear it.

Can you guess what I did? It rhymes with Lie ruminated fit moo hilarity. 

I donated it to charity! 

Listen close. Do you hear that? It's the ecstatic cheer of a poor, fashionless, proud Foreigner-loving man who just found a new favorite shirt. God it feels good to give. 

By the way, those song lyrics in parentheses represent "Feels like the First Time" coming back to me as I thought about Foreigner. That song is everything I love and hate about the band. Want a good laugh? I just now realized the song is about sex. Don't ask me what I thought it was about. I didn't think that hard in middle school. 

Rolling out of Buffalo, NY - Wednesday 9:19 EST

I wonder how big a lake has to be before you can't see across it. It's similar to that point where water is too deep to touch bottom: any bigger, or any deeper, makes little difference. On a map the Great Lakes look bigish, but certainly not Great. But they are. They're mini-oceans. I've realized my train is called the Lake Shore Limited first because it tracks the shore of the Great Lakes, and second because leg room is limited. I think the Great Lakes are what keep the midwest from reverting to incest and Rush Limbaugh. They've got their own little oceans tucked away. 

I'm rolling out of Buffalo, and for the first time this trip I have two seats to myself. Having a travel companion, like I did through Chicago, is one thing. Having a stranger to your left is something else. Especially trying to sleep. 

My problem is I don't look threatening. My first hint of this came in adolescence, when I realized my unique charm within the demographic of women with daughters around my age did not extend to girls around my age. Further proof came when, cashiering one summer, an older woman literally reached across the checkout counter and tousled my hair mid-order. If you think there is even a 0.01% chance that a cashier you annoy may gruesomely kill you and cut off your skin, you do not tousle the hair. Clearly this woman found me quite docile. Last summer around one third of New York's 2.7 million seasonal tourists handed me their cameras asking for a group photo--in anywhere from broken to incredibly-formal english. And finally, every time I'm on a bus, a subway, or a plane and seats begin to fill up, I'm the first guy people choose to sit next to. 

So it was last night, when despite my jacket covering the aisle seat, a young woman asked if it was taken. I paused before I answered, hoping I suppose she would just disappear if I didn't say anything. But she didn't. And the seat was in fact available.

If you can believe it, I actually tried to look unapproachable. I didn't do anything too blatant, rather I just sort of pinched in my eyebrows and looked straight ahead--I was going for "dumb person working on basic math." I should've muttered bible verses. 

East of Chicago - 10:45 PM

The Lakeshore Limited - or whatever this train is called - isn't as nice as the Empire Builder. Window seats, however, are much nicer than aisles. And it's only 24 hours untill I roll into Boston. 

So I'd like to come back to Chicago. My friend assures me there's more to it than the three blocks between the Amtrak station and the commuter train hub. The three blocks I saw were nice, though. In fact, my limited impression of the city is quite favorable. It's funny how you can get a feel for a place almost instantly. I fell in love with New York walking across it with luggage (and a prayer) on a 95 degree Memorial Weekend Sunday. After driving around Seattle for a while, I only knew it wasn't for me once my feet hit the pavement. Chicago's a proper city. You can just tell. Any city that would object and then ironically own the label of "Second City" to New York has to have something going for it. 

In Chicago I was approached by three men asking for change. That doesn't happen much at my small, liberal arts college. I had with me a grocery bag of too much damn food, but I shooed them all off. Now, most panhandlers won't take unpackaged food. Though I could have given them something sealed. This is besides the point, though, because I wasn't thinking about what they would or wouldn't take when I was shooing them off. I was thinking, don't give an inch. Don't smile, don't make eye contact. Do not be cruel. But do not be kind. You are young, you don't have much money generally, but you have a decent amount on you; you weigh 145 pounds. Do not lead this guy on. You can't help him. 

A little food wouldn't have hurt him, either. Last summer in New York I never had anything on me. In one memorable instance after explaining how I hadn't had lunch a homeless man offered me chips. Pretty quick I learned that once you engage them, it's hard to disengage. Keeping your distance is smart, but it's still hard.

Chicago outside the Amtrak gate - 8:45 PM

A man sitting one buffer seat away from me pours a beer into one of those large, convenience store Big Gulp cups. He attempted to sit down, take out the beer, open the cup and pour, all in one fluid motion. The jostled beer visibly and audibly fizzes as he opens it. He starts back when it first pops, but then continues as if to say things could have--in fact, probably have--gone worse. He gets beer on his hands, and a bit spills out onto the brown bag. Instantly, the whole corner smells like beer. Everybody notices but nobody moves. It is what it is. He knows we know, but he doesn't hang his head about it. He doesn't pretend nothing happened, either. Later he asks me for the time. Turns out his watch is a few minutes fast. He laughs at the small kids bickering. He checks his ticket about four times. 

Suddenly, I find the 15 year-old with the Beiber cut across from me smooching the neck of his considerably taller and slightly larger girlfriend as she giggles more distracting than the man. That is what it is, too. 

But seriously. Even Beiber dropped the Beiber cut. 

Chicago - 6:40 Tuesday May 8th

I love how medium drinks always cost about 10 cents more than smalls. So essentially, when you buy a small drink you do so out of spite. I got a medium coffee here at Corner Bakery Cafe. Traveling across the country is no time for spite. 

My friend from London met us at the gate (is it still a gate if it's a train?) and we caught up as my travel buddy and I waited for our checked luggage, and then more as we walked to the commuter train hub three blocks away. The delay meant we could only chat for around a half hour, but it was nice to see him. It's unsettling to see a familiar face in a strange place. It's like, I just spent two days on a train. And now you're telling me it's a small world? 

I have too much damn food. I didn't want to run out, first of all. And second of all I didn't account for needing less food when all I do is sit around all day. As a result I've eaten maybe a third of my food, and the trip's past halfway done. Still better than the other way around, though. 

Wisconsin, Just Outside Milkwalkee - Tuesday 3:23 PM

The cute girl has given up on Dostoyevsky. She's tried to take a nap, but now is just looking out the window. If I had more energy, or knew anything interesting about Dostoyevsky, I'd chat with her. Instead I'll just keep plugging away at The Last Dickens. There are 10 salesmen taking the train as part of a team bulding exercise. They're making cute videos featuring a large otter head which one places on one's shoulders, and then looks out the mouth of. The train's going to be a half hour late or so, and they're getting a little stressed. A guy just got off the phone with the Chicago Mariott, trying to arrange a shuttle to meet them at the train station. I bet the Mariott doesn't get that phone call every day.

It's a slow day on the Empire Builder. Nobody said this was going to be easy. I'm still going to meet my friend who's been in London in Chicago, though we won't have long because of the delay. I was a little worried, but then I remembered who I was dealing with. Low stress friends are where it's at. It'll be good to see him, even if only for 10 minutes. 

Minnesota! Somewhere past Minneapolis - 9:13 AM Central Time Tuesday May 8th

It's amazing how one night of less-than-great sleep can completely change one's enthusiasm for train travel. I think the frustrating part about not getting a good night's sleep on a train is that it's not like you're doing anything. You're literally sitting around 24 hours a day. I've got one more night on the train. I think I'll manage. 

My travel buddy is still sleeping. He's a graceful sleeper. Downright adorable. 

North Flipping Dakota, not quite Fargo - 11:30 PM Monday May 7th

As promised (to myself), something creative:


100 Word Fiction:

"Getting Past Terminal"

"Well, all we can do now is pray. Pray for Erica’s victims, pray for their families, pray for all this senseless destruction to stop.” 

On “Erica” his ears perked, and his stomach dropped. He took a violent intake of a breath. No, he thought, It can’t be. Was our breakup so devastating? He leaned in, but commotion reigned. Tried to pull his entire row of Terminal chairs closer, closer to that distant flatscreen.

“ And as if this wasn’t enough, the good people of Florida now turn their attention to tropical storm Franklin.” 

Oh, he thought. That makes more sense. 

"Victory"

You know Quiet Study really is a tough concept. I should say something. Hey, I don’t see why just because you can’t study, I can’t study. Yes. I'll say that. 

“um, excuse me. yeah i’m really sorry but maybe if you’re 

gonna talk could you… oh! thanks so much! sorry, again.” 

What we have here is failure to communicate. There’s some people who just don’t read signs saying Quiet Study - Please Refrain from Conversation. So, you get what we got here two minutes ago. Which is the way they wants it. Well, they gets it. 

Oh, you magnificent motherfucker. 

Just East of the "Geographical Center of North America" 10:30 ish

Also, I feel young. I feel around 20.

Do you have any idea how long you can go on a college campus without feeling young? I've spent the last few weeks having a mid-college career crisis, since I'm officially halfway done. I've been watching freshman finish up their first year, and felt like a geezer. And I've watched seniors graduate like skydivers watch the guy two spots ahead take the jump. The more college becomes a strange, wonderful, temporary home, the larger life looms beyond it. But then I get on this train, and suddenly it hits me: I am a young man. I don't have to be anything else. I can ride trains, people watch, flirt. I can drink too much, run too far, talk too fast, sleep too little--and wake up the next day feeling around 75%. And these epiphanies reminds me of something: I'm pretty good at being a young man. That's easy to forget. 

Last summer was the first time I can remember feeling palpably young. Growing up you're always around people your own age, comparing your accomplishments to theirs. I still remember being the first kindergardener to finish all the books in "the red box"(despite the name, it was really more of a long bin). I was six years old but I sure as hell didn't feel young. I felt accomplished, I felt like a winner. Clearly I didn't see the emerging trends within kindergarden, otherwise I would have picked up a skateboard or something, but my point is this: I went my entire youth without feeling young. And it was easy! I only felt young in New York because I was young. Incredibly, remarkably so. I was doing comedy alongside people a whole generation older than me, many twice, a few three times my age. And I had an edge - I was young! I had energy, I had perspective. I could flirt with 17 year olds (hypothetically). It changed my perspective on everything. Even after I left the city and went back to college, I still remembered that I was young. I made more mistakes, pushed myself harder; I had fun. But eventually you forget, unless you're reminded. This train has reminded me. 

I am a young man in America. 

"The Geographical Center of North America" quoth the sign, aka Somewhere in North Dakota - Monday 9:43 PM

For the smattering of civilization one sees passing through North Dakota, I have to say I expected to see less. Looking out the dark window, I'd say every couple minutes you'll see a lonely light drift by. We've even passed a few towns. 

North Dakota isn't much to look at after the twilight hours. At least that chronic regret my camera is in my checked bag has finally gone away. And it's not quite ten but the lounge car has about cleared out. I took an hour long nap earlier today, so I won't try to go to bed until at least midnight. I'm hoping we'll get to Fargo before then, so I can get an (ironic) breath of fresh air with the smokers. I've been on this train for 20 hours straight, but around 30 hours since I left Portland. The monotony isn't really getting to me, though. There are plenty of people to look at, when it's not dark you can blow hours just staring out at America. 

A woman I met commented how you meet such interesting people on trains. I disagree. I've met a little north of half a dozen people on this train, and they haven't been that interesting. Nearly everyone is either unemployed and looking for greener pastures, retired and traveling, or getting from point A to point B without a deadline or with a budget. These people aren't that interesting. But what they are is friendly. It's just standard procedure that on trains, we talk to one another. We introduce ourselves to strangers. An older woman asked a young man if his ringtone had a name. She was hard of hearing, and though she always missed her own tone, she was catching his every time. A bunch of unemployed blue collar types chat about how de-railings happen surprisingly often--and remain utterly undisturbed. The lesson of trains isn't how interesting everybody around you is. It's how interesting we can all become if we just say hello every now and again.

It just occurred to me that being the geographical center of the continent must mean you're pretty damn far from the ocean. I had my toes in the Pacific on Friday. That's not even a long weekend ago. And Wednesday night I'll roll into Boston. Trains are still really fucking fast. 

And I am (with the help of questionable logic) past  halfway. I've crossed the geographical center and I'm headed east. In all actuality, I'm more like 1/3 of the way there. I left Portland just over a day ago, and I'll hit Boston in just under two. I can't believe it, but I almost wish it could last longer. Spending the whole day just reading, sleeping, gazing at the landscape--and then watching a movie when all that gets old. It's a nice way to spend a day. 

Probably Still Montana - 8:00 PM Monday May 7th

I packed the wrong reading material for this trip. I grabbed Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest, a collection of short stories by Katherine Mansfield. I grabbed The Last Dickens by Matthew Pearl, because if I don't read that on a three day train ride I never will, and I have my Collected Poems by Philip Larkin. I'm not sure about Matthew Pearl, but the rest are Brits. And Pearl is writing on Dickens, who is as English as the Queen. I should be reading Jack Keroac and Walt Whitman. I've never read Keroac, but I've heard he's best when you're young. Michael Moore was my Jack Keroac. I watched all his movies when I was in high school, even the bad ones. I thought he was a genius and a godsend. Then a couple years later after the recession he came out with Capitalism: A Love Story and it was just bad. Hard to watch, biased as all hell, angrier than it was biased. Oddly enough, that sentence there could describe my adolescence. Maybe that's why I liked him so much. 

I don't have much packing room for this trip, both because I had to bring enough food for myself and because I can't check a bag from Chicago to Boston. As such, I only brought books I really wanted to either read or have for the summer. Pearl's The Last Dickens was purchased for my Charles Dickens class, but got cut. The Mansfield collection was an impulse buy because it was this delightful pocket-sized paperback and included "Feuille d'Album"--one of my favorite pieces of writing ever, and I didn't own it. I brought Larkin along because I feel naked without Larkin, and four months is too long to be apart. And finally Wilde was included because I kind of sort of want to put on The Importance of Being Earnest at my school. I don't have the time, or the expertise, but basically I just really love the play. 

Still prairie. Also cows, lots of cows. The road sign says we're in Hinsdale, for what that's worth. We're smack dab in the middle of America. And we'll be here for a while. 

It is 8:18, I should make myself a sandwich. I need to eat up my turkey cold cuts before they go bad from the lack of cold. They certainly don't make it easy, train travel. There's a little cafe and a sit down car where you can get $15 dollar frozen dinners, but other than that you're on your own. If you were stupid, you'd be in trouble. Luckily I'm not stupid. I went shopping before I got on board. I bought two things of Fred Meyer Chips Ahoy knock offs, two 8 oz things of cheddar cheese, almost a pound of turkey, two loaves of bread and a thing of english muffins, a tin of almonds, a box of granola, and some honey. I like honey. It can go on english muffins, in granola, and that's about it. Probably my least practical purchase, but I like honey. All told it cost $40 dollars. If it feeds me for the four days I'm on the road (counting saturday before I left) it'll be a good investment. Of course that doesn't count the Doritos and Twix bars I bought stoned in Spokane. It pained me to break the budget, but when in Rome you do as the Romans do, and when you're stoned in Spokane you buy junk food. If I wasn't hungry before, I am now after writing about food. It's eatin' time. 

Still Montana - 7:13 PM Monday May 7th

I woke up this morning around 10:30 according to my cell phone, but turns out that's because we switched time zones. On a plane, you don't change your watch until you land, and then you do it all at once. That doesn't feel appropriate for a train. We're far too close to the land--nor are we moving fast enough. One hour at a time is how I'm doing it. This means that my trip of 80 odd hours is really three hours shorter. Score! 

The prairie showed up overnight. Literally. I didn't expect to be seeing much in the way of scenery right off the bat yesterday, my friends from Seattle have given me a healthy apprehension towards eastern Washington. It may be a rural, backwards, boring country, but it is a beautiful country. I think I said this, but it's like Maine with bigger mountains. 

Today we hit the prairie. And the thing people forget about prairie is, there' s a lot of it. Looking out on it by train has a hypnotic power. The occasional farmhouse. Mountains in the distance. Not like mountains back home, not a mountain range, but literally about three very large mountains in the distance. The occasional lone farmhouse. Trucks, a van and a camper in the yard. The smattering of grain houses. We pass a dirt road that lies straight as a razor, as far as the eye can see. We pass it at a 90 degree angle. We're probably headed just about due east right now.  

A woman talks of traveling to Washington, seeing the White House. An older woman tells her not to go to the senate building, "unless you want to get sick." The first woman qualifies, she wants to see the White House, not necessarily anybody in it.

I think what I'm only now realizing is that people really believe Washington's corrupt. And not in the things are far from perfect way, but in the something must be done way. And regardless of whether they're a majority or not, at least 45% of people out there truly don't care for Barack Obama. Obama probably doesn't need to win this lounge car to win the White House. I don't even think Amtrak gets electoral college votes. Truth is, these people I'm listening to probably didn't vote for Obama the first time, and Obama didn't need them. I'm riding through Montana. Every four years Montana votes republican for president, and the world keeps spinning. These people I'm eves dropping on certainly aren't bad people. These values voters. These red blooded Americans. Obama's father was from Kenya. He never saw the mountains of Washington, or the prairie of Montana. He never slept through Idaho. The President of the United States is the president of this. The President of three day train rides from sea to shining sea. The President of 1st street and 3rd avenue. The President of America. And when Obama won the country without winning Montana, without a word from these ridged values voters, they lost. In a sense they lost more than the election. They lost their country, they lost the democracy when the majority of Americans wanted a foreigner--foreigner in the best, and utmost American sense--in the White House. 

The value voters can have Montana. There's certainly enough of it to go around. Jeez. If you lined end to end every sub Subway has ever made, I don't think it would cover Montana. If Pinocchio had to read Mein Kampf, his nose would not stretch across Montana. If every interesting fact about a place counted for 200 miles, I don't think Montana could cross itself. 

*Reader Discretion Advised* 10 minutes outside Shelby, Montana - Noonish Monday May 7th

Pasco, Spokane, Whitefish, Shelby down. Still got Fargo, St. Paul, Milwaukee, and Chicago to go. 

About Spokane: if you're ever wondering to yourself, what can I do in an hour an a half in Spokane, WA starting at midnight, I suggest getting high and climbing a tree. This is to say nothing of Spokane's excellent night clubs, and first rate diners, which probably exist. However I found that, especially on a budget, the best way to have a good time in Spokane is to get high and climb a tree. 

A couple of other guys from my college are on the train. We saw them at the Portland Station, and I chatted with them a few times on my way to the lounge car, and I remember thinking how it's awkward that it's been a whole evening and we haven't said anything past hello. Then I remembered that we're on a two day train, and we'll run into each other. We made a plan to explore Spokane, and after about 15 dull minutes of that, one of the guys pulled out a joint. 

Of the borderline sketchy things I've done in my life, this is pretty up there. Here we are, college guys heading east with an hour and a half to kill--though no more than that, because if we miss the train we're up the creek. In eastern Washington. Had we run into a cop, or had they not let us back on the train (not that we were that stoned) it would have really sucked. 

But that didn't happen. What did happen was we climbed a tree outside the Amtrak station. It was someone else's idea, we were already high and Spokane on a Sunday at midnight doesn't offer a lot of options. I figured we would just stand around while the guy who suggested it struggled to get up into the first row of branches and then we'd all give up. But that didn't happen. What happened was, the tree turned out to be near perfect for climbing. We were probably 25 feet off the ground, which would be high even if we weren't. We had an excellent view of the less-than-excellent part of Spokane the Amtrak station calls home. It was fun. 

When we got back, my traveling buddy was half asleep already. I got out my iPod, and started listening to Cage the Elephant. After a few songs, it just didn't feel right. Why were they singing so angry? Then it hit me: I was listening to the wrong music. There's a whole genre of music designed to be listened to stoned! So I made a quick playlist of Cat Stevens, Donovan, a little Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, Matisyahu, that super chill Jack Johnson song, Upside Down from Curious George the movie, and Kanye West. I was pretty high. I fell asleep peacefully before Kanye's "Stronger" came on (though I really fucking love that song) and slept through the night. 

Don't act like I never told 'ya. 

Montana Farmlands - 10:30 AM Monday May 7th

I'm looking out at the corner of 1st street and 3rd avenue, at a town so simple as to make a grid superfluous. Part of me wonders whether the residents are just that stupid (if they were smarter, they wouldn't live in Montana) or whether this little prairie town has, for the past fifty years, been expecting rapid urbanization any day now. 

1st street. The town treats these railroad tracks like a river. 

There is a boarded up dark blue home on 1st street. If you look down a dirt path that tracks behind the houses, you can see an abandoned school bus. Nothing exceeds two stories around 1st street. Somehow being behind glass, knowing you'll soon travel on, scenes like this don't look real. The America I see looks far more American than any America I've touched. 

Somewhere in Washington - 5:50 PM Sunday May 6th

The main reason train travel seems so antiquated compared to air travel is how you start out. With planes, you show up hours early, wait for, if you're lucky, only a few of hours in line, taxi around on the runway, and then - literally - take off. On a train, it takes 20 minutes to board, but you commence with a slow roll. The beginning of my journey felt less like a send off, and more like a car with the emergency brake up. - Does the conductor know we're rolling? Should I alert my nearest Amtrak Representative? - No, stupid, this is how train travel works. You roll. 

The Empire Builder's an alright train. This lounge car is pretty great. All windows, and some good sized tables. They don't have these on planes. 

Part of me feels like a very small child. Trains! Lounge cars! Wooo! When I was young I once told my uncle, who was working to fix the toilet in his cabin, that he should just put in an outhouse. Who needs toilets? Who needs plane travel? Planes don't have lounge cars. Those suckers getting across the continent in six hours don't know what they're missing! Six hours. In six hours I'll be in Montana--if I'm lucky. This is going to take a very long time. 

The landscape is beautiful, for what that's worth. We're passing ponds, lakes and mountains. It's very similar to Maine, except the mountains are bigger. I don't think I'll ever get used to how big the mountains are out here. If I wait long enough - say, a few hundred thousand years - I won't have to. 

The people on the lounge car this early in the ride include people who have taken the Empire Builder before, and me. I'm only here because my friend knows what's up. He also brought Bananagrams, and we just played a game. I told you he'd make good company. 

There's the older couple; the man with his bucket hat and vest of some undetermined fabric of probably water resistant qualities. The woman with a pink-red sporty jacket and zippers marking strange pockets she probably keeps something useful like chapstick in. He just put on those old guy sunglasses you could weld in. These folks are on a budget, but that doesn't mean they're not going to see the world. There's the woman traveling with a baby. God bless her. There's the other woman with the other baby. God bless her, too. There's the older woman who asked us how to play bananagrams, going to Boston like me to "see a game at Fenway." 

Trains are cool. 

Union Station Portland, OR - Sunday May 6th 3:16 PM

Pasco, Spokane, Whitefish, Shelby, Fargo, St. Paul, Milwaukee, Chicago. 

The English have Wordsworth, but that's American Poetry. It reads like a list of influential people--you recognize about half, but you don't second guess the few you don't. Newton, Galileo, Kerfluffle, Boer, Einstein. You don't think, who's Kerfluffle?

I haven't been to any of the eight cities we're stopping through. Pasco sounds podunk, Spokane sounds like a city which, like the tree my Dad planted right underneath the power line, had a lot of potential but a horrible location. Whitefish was founded and named by a man who put a lot of thought into the perfect name for his rustic little town. He probably had Daddie issues. Fargo was home to Chuck Klosterman for a time; St. Paul, like pork to chicken, is the other twin city; Milwaukee has beer, and lately a damn good baseball club, and that leaves Chicago. Chicago's baseball teams suck, I've never heard of their beer, it's certainly not podunk and their location is pretty decent. I wonder where the name comes from. 

I'll have around four hours in Chicago, 3:55 to 9:30 PM. Travel books can tell you what you can do in a day, but Amazon didn't have one called How to See Chicago in Four Hours and 35 Minutes with Luggage in Tow. I wanted to do a stand up set, but all the ones listed online weren't in the area, or weren't at the right time. A friend of mine who spent the last semester in London gets back to Chicago the day before we show up. I'll try to convince him to grab coffee. 

If it weren't for my laptop and people crouched over their cell phones, Union Station - Portland would truly look like a different era. The benches are wooden, the grumpy clerks wear ties. The obnoxious neon signs directing travelers to BAGGAGE DEPT, TELEPHONES, METROPOLITAN LOUNGE, look out of place. Too modern. Looking at the pay-phone bank I think, when did pay-phones start taking credit cards? 

My friend and I are two checked bags (not exceeding 50 lbs no exceptions) lighter. Operation Get Booze went about as well as the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Albeit with less planning. We get on the train in an hour. We'll get off in 50-odd hours. 

Lewis & Clark College SW Portland, OR - Sunday May 6th 9:13 AM

I just had a dream about trying to start a lacrosse league at Lewis & Clark. People kept asking me why I wanted to start a lacrosse league, and I could only answer that I found the image of grown men throwing and catching a ball with a net attached to the top of a stick quite funny. I just kept giggling every time anyone asked me anything.

I've heard a basic tenant of creative writing or poetry teaching is that, essentially, something should happen. In improv we call it showing, not telling. A scene about starting a lacrosse league because a guy finds lacrosse funny is stronger than a scene about a guy talking about starting a lacrosse league. That's my only critique for my dream.

I what happens when train conductors and airline pilots meet in bars. I imagine the conductors are all chummy, but the pilots probably keep their distance. Not to discount what train conductors do, but there are tracks. With planes, they fly them up into the sky and then somehow find this tiny airport some quadrillion miles away. 

It'd be real awkward if you had a truck driver, a train conductor, and an airline pilot all at one bar. The truck driver would say, "Well I'll be! Three masters of transportation!" And the train conductor would be like, "Ehhh...well, how- how exactly does truck driving work? Is it like driving a car? I drive a car," and by then the airline pilot will have excused himself and left the bar.

Lewis & Clark College: SW Portland, OR. Saturday May 6th 11:30 - Sunday May 7th 12:30

I read a book in high school about a guy who ran away from home at 18 (now technically one cannot run away at 18, but to say he just left undersells it), and rode cargo trains around the western United States. The book is called Hobo, and it made a part of me want to jump a train that would take me away from my banal high school existence. The only trouble was, my town did not have train tracks dividing the good neighborhoods from the bad. Towns of 2,000 don't really have the critical mass necessary for a split, though that's not to say there isn't inequality. Rather, I grew up understanding "Low Income" to be both an insult and an address--there was only one small complex in town.

That part of me that always wanted to jump a railcar is going to be pissed tomorrow, when me and my three days of snack food load that relatively comfy Amtrak passenger train bound for Chicago, then Boston. That part of me is going to be most frustrated in the relative direction of my travels--homeward bound. The Empire Builder isn't taking me away from, but rather delivering me towards banality. I left home not quite two years ago, and they've been the best fucking not quite two years of my life. I've been to Hollywood, the Redwoods, Portland, Seattle and Vancouver BC, as well as living for a couple months on a little island the natives call Manhattan. And that's just the places. I know going back to where I grew up won't turn me back to that transitional thing I was growing up, but sometimes correlation looks a hell of a lot like causation. If nothing else, Amrak's slow plod across the continent will delay the inevitable.

A lot of people who grew up in Rangeley will say they hate it, but if you really ask them they'll admit they love it. I don't love it. I don't love the lake, and I don't love the trees. And I definitely don't love the lack of creature comforts and culture. Now it's true Rangeley has some lovable quirks, and offers some things you can't find anywhere else. But you'll only find the world's largest twine ball in Kansas, is that a reason to be a Jayhawk? I love the people who love Rangeley. I'm like a soft spouse, and Rangeley's a poorly behaved small dog. I hate the stupid thing, but they love it. And I love them. I love the guy I worked with at the Grocery Store who used to be a chef. I love the owner of that store, who started out as a bagger. I love my high school english teacher who told me to go to New York, I love my social studies teacher who tells me to be amazing. I also love my parents. All these people in my life see something special in Rangeley. I don't see it. But I don't have to.

My friend and I need booze. He will be meeting up with me in Spokane and then we'll travel together to Chicago. He's the one I got this idea from, and he makes this whole process a great deal less stressful. I have not traveled extensively with friends. I came out west alone, and went to New York alone. Being with a friend creates a nice little pocket of certainty within the chaos of exploration and travel.

And we need booze. And we're both under 21, which makes this difficult. We have two good friends over 21, one of whom leaves tomorrow with his parents at 7:00 AM, the other of whom graduates college tomorrow, starting around 9:00. This frantic trying to score booze reminds me of freshman year. We'll have to figure something out. College has turned me into a drinker, and I think alcohol could greatly enhance the train experience. I remember wondering freshman year how effective it would be to just find some gentle looking homeless man and offer him a cut if he bought us some booze. I never did it because it sounds incredibly sketchy. The frustration of illicitly getting booze really gets to be, because a drinking age of 21 is plain ridiculous. I don't tend to get passionate about issues like I used to, but this one gets me going. I really think it's emblematic of larger problems within the American psyche. The logic behind a stiff drinking age is that young people use bad judgement, and it's a tragedy when young people die from stupidity. All this is true, but laws can't change behavior. Some people will argue that a lower drinking age would mean people would drink smarter, and maybe they're right. I'm not entirely convinced; but more than that, I am entirely convinced that this argument plays right into the logic which demands a higher drinking age: young people are stupid. I object to that.