An eerie gray envelope covers San Francisco. What a stark contrast to the earlier afternoon sun! Now the wind blows. The mist seems to be working desperately to turn itself into mature sprinkles. Tiny drops follow me across the Bay Bridge to the Emeryville train station.
The weather’s odd personality invites me to stay outside, where the expansive train loading area is a stage to billowing clouds. Other passengers wait warmly inside. I expected just a five-minute outdoor experience, but it is turning out to be a full 20-minute communion with nature. The sky grows darker. The train is late. Obviously, the monitor inside the depot lied to me, shouting and blinking and bragging that my Sacramento-bound train will roll in on time. In a way, I am thankful because the train’s tardiness opens my eyes to fast-moving puffs across the sky that would have gone undiscovered. And now that the train chugs in, I see its lights turn raindrops into diamonds.
Just minutes into the ride north, the envelope over the bay seems to part. At the western edge, the sun shines through a dark layer of clouds and sets so big that the ball’s gravity draws my eyes. Too bright! I look away down the curving tracks. I see Martinez ahead.
The small town of Martinez claims its identity from nearby oil refineries and its status as the birthplace of a well-known Yankee baseball player. It sits along an edge of the bay where the water narrows and pushes inland. The sky here is now clear. We cross the Martinez Bridge and two oil tankers dock on either side of what is now becoming a river – the waterways of commerce. Having arrived to the other side of the bridge, I spy dozens of abandoned battle ships, a riverscape loaded with stories and history. But the ships’ gray colors and my dark images of Navy battles are interrupted by a wide swath of color. Below me on the right I discover hundreds of new sedans — red ones, blues ones, silver cars and white cars — each transitioning between ship and rail. They are destined, I suppose, for new car dealerships in the Western United States, where dirty raindrops will be exchanged for marketable shines.
As the train curves east, the colorful view of the cars disappears, but the mothballed fleet of ships delivers its starboard view. Their profiles put more stories in my head. My thoughts pulsate in rhythm with the train’s gentle wave. I remember seeing those ships for the first time twenty years ago. I was making my inaugural commute from Sacramento to San Francisco for a luncheon at the San Francisco Press Club. My new boss preened over her membership.
We ate lunch on the top floor of the building alongside San Francisco’s corporate public relations executives. She delighted in showing me around. The Press Club not only had a restaurant, but a lounge, and an array of hotel sleeping rooms for overnight guests, journalists, and others tied to the trade. Public relations professionals reserved Tuesdays for their get-togethers. That’s where I met a nonagenarian PR executive who fondly remembered his experience in the San Francisco earthquake of 1906.
But Tuesdays served as a trigger for my new boss. The Press Club also hosted a fitness center and pool. She wanted equal access to them. A courteous, outspoken feminist, she railed over policies that prevented her from getting equal access to the facilities. Tuesdays were “Women’s Days.” “One day out of six for women is not equal,” she said.
Making the facilities co-ed, I learned, taxed the wisdom of club directors. Tradition cloaked the club. A standing club rule required that absolutely no clothes were to be worn in the pool area. Signs on the wall enforced the practice. It seemed to be a very legitimate and upscale place for all I knew. Evidentially the male journalists of San Francisco had been swimming naked for decades and did not take well to covering up their free-floating willies for the sake of equality.
Today, alas, the press club and its male traditions are gone, shuffled off to mothballs, like the old ships in my darkening view.
Traveling on, the train winds its way east into the night. It is 8:28. We pass through another station, but stop in the middle of nowhere. Three minutes pass, enough time to check this story forward and backwards for spelling errors and nonsense. The conductor feels the need to explain our sudden pause. “It’s our sister train,” he says. “We’re waiting for her to pass, so we can take over the tracks ahead.”
It is so dark outside now. No civilization. No lights. No moon. I can barely make out our surroundings, let alone my sibling train ahead. I assume we are in the middle of a corn field. The view is much more interesting inside the coach.
There’s the 48-year old in front of me. He is playing video games on his computer. There’s the 29-year old across from me. She is fascinated with the name of the book on my table and can’t shut up about how long my computer battery is lasting. Kitty-corner from my table sit two other young professionals working at their computers, reviewing their e-mail. They do not know each other, have not talked to each other since they sat down, and share the table out of convenience. Each passenger has a task, and the train is their workshop.
The sister train has passed – without so much as a wave or a horn. How’s that for family bonding? Total elapsed time in the cornfield? 10 minutes. We will be late to Sacramento. The darkness outside is still so dark that I can only see the reflection of myself in the window – and I need a haircut badly.
My barber appears to be on vacation. I bet there may have been barbers on trains of yesteryear. That was the life: haircuts, shoe shines, and fine dining. Today I don’t get the fine china on the Capitol Corridor. They use paper plates. But I get a heck of a lot more than I would on an airplane. I can expect food, drinks, electricity, the Internet, wide seats, leg room, and even walking exercise. But, dang, today I need a haircut.
The train horn sounds frequently now. As we get closer to Sacramento, we cross more intersections. Prior to every intersection, the horn sounds. I have to admit, it is a charming and nostalgic sound. I curse it only when I am on the phone, leaving a message for my barber.
Finally civilization emerges. Lights. We arrive in Davis – about 12 minutes from Sacramento. Now we will travel full speed for about five miles, then slow to a creep as we meander into the Capital City. I know, because I am a regular on this route.
Just as we approach the Sacramento River for official entry into the city, I always try to look to my right — even if it is dark.
In West Sacramento we will pass a remarkable house on the south side of the track. The owner posts three signs, proclaiming, “Trespassers Will Be Shot and Killed.” So every time the trains passes, I try to survey the property. One day I will see a body in the yard or some heavy-duty police action to capture my attention as I slide by.
The lighted house serves as a landmark; I know my short journey is about over.
Someone from my family will be in Sacramento to pick me up. The dog may be there too. I will exit the air-conditioned train car to a blast of valley heat. Amtrak will usher me into a new weather ecosystem, opposite the drama that started my trip.
With city lights shining, I can tell the sky is clear. The moon now appears brightly outside my window. I look at the moon and gaze, pull up memories, and muse. I wish there were another train to take me all the way home to the sunny smiles of my wife and kids. The climate in that house is always warm.
