California dreaming on (not) a winter’s day

Today’s post brought to you by: not taking it all for granted
Grateful for: serendipity
Trying hard to accept: I’m 50, going on 70

I’m sitting in the sun in train lounge car (too bad for you Amtrak lied and there is NO wifi so this is gonna be one looooonnnnnnggggg post) watching southern California’s food basket roll by. Ploughed fields, brown hills, birds skirting across reservoirs, oil drillers and oak and eucalyptus trees (sans koalas) for miles.

73-year-old Pat (I seem to spend a lot of time talking to women in their 70s. Might never leave Florida) from San Luis Obispo is on the phone telling her friend Yvonne all about my trip. I don’t think Yvonne can quite believe it. She’s asking lots of “Really??” questions.

Passing through San Jose I read Meryl-Lynn’s memoirs, which brought it all home about being grateful. As she put it: “We worked hard (boy did David do some hard graft in his younger years), saved hard (trebled money on Avondale house – can’t get more M&D than that), lived an idyllic life but never took it for granted.”

Closer to home I just need to look out the window at all the homeless men living in tents along the rail tracks. Little communities in some cases.

Pat just pointed out an elementary school group where every child was Mexican, most likely kids of low-paid farm workers (as opposed to high-paid pea harvesters of Hawkes Bay). Then when I spent 47 seconds thinking about it, I realised that of the low-income/needy people in these parts, the homeless are mostly white and the farm workers are mostly Mexican. And never the twain shall meet. Interesting.

To my left right now is a correctional facility the size of downtown Wellington, surrounded by wind turbines (hopefully the state of California gives the inmates decent food seeing as power is gratis). Reminded me of that depressing film festival doco we saw years ago at the city gallery (I went with a bloke – Grant? Or was it you Peter? John?) about life inside that prison in California desert where inmates lived in tents.

Earlier today 74-year-old Carol invited me to stay at her house in downtown San Francisco (winter home) or her National Park Service cabin in Yosemite (park guide in summer).

Boy was I glad to meet Carol at 7.14 this morning after spending 58 panicky minutes covering every inch of the Salesforce Transit Centre (Amtrak connecting bus depot) and Transbay Transit Centre three blocks away (Amtrak connecting bus depot according to its stupid website … job # 1 when find wifi – helpful (bloody grumpy) email to Amtrak).

I asked every transit employee, bus driver, random person on street, Greyhound employee (“Amtrak? Oh no we know absolutely nothing about them, no way, no how, nothing, we cannot help you”) I could find.

16 minutes left to find bus stop, ring Amtrak automated (GRRRRRR) help line. Just as giving up all hope of (a) finding bus stop (b) embracing ‘acceptance’, I finally speak to Amtrak agent (calm voice Gail, speak slow, don’t take it out on the agent) who has no friggin’ idea where the bus stop is and couldn’t even find the transit station on their station list. Thank goodness my friend serendipity turned up because as I was calculating cost of last-minute air ticket to LA I looked up and there was Carol standing next to an Amtrak connecting bus stop looking equally lost.

Carol looks 60 and like me ran away when she turned 50. Quit graphic design job at IBM, sold the house, sold the husband, bought a new car and drove off to discover America/decide what to do next.

She’s also into meditation et al and was telling me about a 14 day silent retreat she went on in the California wine country. Complete bliss for lithe introverts because not only are you not allowed to utter a word but you’re also not allowed to make eye contact with anyone. At all. For 14 days. Not even while eating meals.

I can’t think what’d be worse – that or the agony of sitting cross-legged meditating for 6 hours every day. I gather if you ask (in sign language) if you’re allowed to lie down they reply (on a scrap of unbleached recycled paper) that no, you may not. Sucker.

Another woman in her 70s just sat next to me. I’m going to act like a retreat guest and not look at/speak to her. Too busy eating (mindfully, Martha!).

One sleep and 2 hrs later. Hunger forced me to the train café to pay $7.50 for the only option under 6,000 calories. Cheese (yuk), ham (double yuk) and bacon (guilty yum) sandwich. My bag is bursting at the seams with ‘complimentary’ packets of relish, mayo (surprsingly nice and surprisingly free when made into sandwich on Trader Joes whole grain and oat bread) and Half ‘n Half.

“Tell me” I said to the café manager, “What exactly is Half ‘n Half? Is it half milk, half cream?” He scratched his bald head, stared out the window for an eternity and said “You know, I don’t actually know. I’ve been drinkin’ the stuff for years and never thought about it. I’ll have to google that when I get home.” Lucky for him I didn’t return with any more world-changing questions.

I wish you’d been there (well not all of you ‘cause you would’ve had to have sat three on top of each other) in the lounge car with me when I took my $7.50 sandwich up there. A young woman with cancer was playing her guitar and singing (no Peter, not Arlo Guthrie’s City of New Orleans), the blindingly orange sun was setting over the sea and there was a warm golden light throughout the lounge car. One of the reasons you ride Amtrak.

I went and talked to Kelly, a fashion design student from Santa Barbara who showed me her design for a woodcut printed jacket. Then got talking to Elissa, a florist/artist from a small farming town north of Seattle. And she’s not in her 70s! Only 67!

She’s house/flower nursery sitting for a wealthy couple from NY on a lush green property which looks surprisingly like NZ except for the 20,000 snow geese currently on the front paddock. She invited me to stay which would’ve been the most wonderful experience, sitting in front of the fire, looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows watching the snow geese fly away in formation.

We talked about everything under the setting sun. I’m grateful to Elissa for pointing out 2 things to me:

• The rug I chose for my bedroom is actually a very similar pattern to the William Morris wallpaper on my phone screen picture. Subconscious in action.

• When deciding on next career move think long and hard about the ‘essence’ of why I want to do a certain job. So instead of “I want to be a counsellor or hairdresser”, why do I want to do those jobs? Answer: because I’m extremely interested in talking to people and finding out about their lives and what makes them tick. Ok, so what other jobs could I do that use that but don’t require me to retrain? Etc, etc. Professional Amtrak passenger?

One Uber later I arrive at Julia (ex El Salvador) and Rudy’s (ex Mexico) house in Silver Lake, LA (House Hunters buyers always end up in Silver Lake).

They gave me such a warm welcome I felt like a long lost little sister. We chatted, they gave me big hugs, I had a long shower, now am in my snack-filled room with view of palm trees and sounds of LA outside.

And on that note, “Good night sweetheart, well it’s time to go. I hate to leave you but I really must say, good night sweetheart, good night.”

Hey, I could write this blog in song lyrics. Now there’s an idea I bet nobody’s ever thought of.

The lovely Julia and Rudy in LA. If all Airbnb hosts are as nice as them I’m in for a very warm trip.

This picture has nothing to do with this post. I just stuck it here ‘cause I like it. View from top of my street.