THE PRACTICE

Today’s post brought to you by: the drifting snow

Grateful for: Google maps finding me magical free things to do downtown Chicago

Trying hard to accept: adios beloved city

It’s 7am. It’s snowing. I’m in a café watching the increasingly whitewashed world outside.

I’ve got half the Chicago Tribune (thankfully the crossword; thankfully not the sports section), a warm flaky lemon and blueberry scone, a hot coffee and a pair of jeans straining at the seams.

All, most, is right with the world.

Thanks to a kick-start from Laura am making a list of travel writing publishers.

Have made a momentous decision.

Momentous!

After 44 years – assuming I wrote my first sentence at 6 – I’m going to finally go all out to get paid to write things.

Not things that’ll linger in some government department’s archives till Y3K, but things that make people laugh.

Not blogging – that won’t pay the bills, and let’s face it, technology and I will never be having coffee dates and sleepovers – but something published.

In the meantime I need to get a job – any job – to pay for shoes to walk off 6kg that have mysteriously appeared on my thighs.

It’s time to finally do something that’ll make me happy. And not just make do.

As I sit here and read Radio NZ’s list of the people – just like me – who died on White Island – I know it’s time to [insert cliché] and do it.

Whack on 5 hours.

You’ll never guess where I am now. The magnificent ginormous Chicago Public Library listening to the Leo Catholic High School choir singing Christmas carols.

Oooohh they’re doing a 3-part harmony of O Come All Ye Faithful.

Flippin’ ‘eck, I’m holding back the tears. Failed.

Not bad. Not bad at all for somewhere downtown that is (in order of importance): warm, free, interesting, safe and free wifi-ed.

Soon it’ll be time to walk down the street to the equally magnificent ginormous Union Station and get the 8-hour train to Minneapolis.

Here’s what’s on the lunch and dinner menu. It’s amazing what you can whip up in your apartment with a trip to the supermarket and leftovers from previous guests:

• Tuna sandwiches on best 7-grain bread ever
• Apple
• Kale chips
• Chicken, mustard* and mayo*
• Balsamic* roasted veg
• Almonds and walnuts
• Sparkling water*

* Courtesy of Amtrak/Erik

Total cost: $3.87

Yesterday I consulted Google maps for somewhere new to explore and found 3 of my favourite things in one place a few blocks north: historic church, Salvation Army thrift store and supermarket.

It was a low-income Middle Eastern neighbourhood. The gigantic (is there any other sort?) Catholic church fought for space with mosques, African food stores and pawn brokers.

What? It’s free?

Fare impazzire! Wielki success! I’ve never seen anything like Cermak Fresh Market.

Opened 40 years ago by Dimitrious “Jimmy” Bousis and Pantelis “Pandelo” Tzotzolis, it stocks every imaginable fresh, packaged and frozen food item from Greece, Italy, Russia, Belarus (why not?), Turkey, Poland, Mexico, Puerto Rico and all other bordering nations.

Took 20 minutes just to walk round the fruit and veg bit. Mind you, half that was spent looking over my shoulder for men in blue aprons ready to pounce on my phone.

For the sake of Pulitzer-winning photography I ignored threats to set their Italian/Russian/Mexican/Chicago-an mafia mates on anyone who dared to take a shot. (Like the shot that’d go through your bedroom window if they caught you).

Vast is one word for the produce section. Cheap is another. (And if I keep eating like this I’ll be both).

39c/lb for sweet potatoes. It made Wellington’s fruit and veg markets look like Harrod’s food hall.

52 minutes later I made it to the deli. You know how Europeans like their cured meat and cheese? Well it just went on and on and on. Like moi.

There must’ve been at least 860 dead pigs there in one form or another.

Then there was the incredible bakery. Where a couple of syrupy Greek pastry samples might’ve slithered down my throat.

Apparently you cook these. Presumably in the old bathtub in the back yard. Not even 12,000 sq ft American homes have kitchens that big.

You also cook these. Peeling them would be the ideal job for that irritating in-law you’re forced to invite for dinner.

Home again to defrost then back out to explore more of my neighbourhood.

One of my favourite quotes – on one of the many neighbourhood book exchanges on these middle-class, educated streets.

It was so bitterly cold that my jeans froze and then pricked my legs. I have no idea how the homeless survive.

Despite wearing 6 layers and forcing my legs to move faster and faster I still had to duck inside every 10 minutes so I could move my hands and face again.

For someone who hates shopping, have never been so glad to wander the aisles.

Am now something of an expert on Christmas trees. I don’t know if the prices round there were inflated but I almost bought a chainsaw and went into business after seeing what they charge.

And they’re fir which means they don’t even smell like Christmas trees. Give me an uneven, needle-dropping pine any day.

Guess how much a 10ft tall fir costs?

• $29.99 (did you not read what I just said?)
• $1,400 (good guess but wrong)
• $1.99 (no, I was not in Dollar General)
• $699 (correct!)

And that’s only for the tree. Then you have to shell (or cone) out for the skirt thing, a bucket (now that you can get from Dollar General) and $1,764 worth of decorations.

Or, $5,742 in the shop I went into.

It was simply the most beautiful shop I’ve been into. Exquisitely tasteful decorations, scented candles, homewares and gifts from all over the world.

At those prices you’d want to hang the decorations on the tree all year, even after the tree had long died.

I slathered myself in French hand cream, including lining my $1.99 gloves with it. Every so often I get a whiff of it. Am never going to shower again.

Then at the other end of the expenditure scale, but equally as wonderful, I found an antique store in the uber-priced Andersonville.

Would’ve bought the whole store if Qantas wasn’t so stingy with baggage allowances because it was all so cool and so cheap.

Bought this 60x40cm photo for $3.50 simply because I liked it.

His sister was there too but she got left on the shelf. I know how she feels.

Today’s post brought to you by: some incredibly gifted people who are quite good with a paintbrush

Grateful for: being inside

Trying hard to accept: 17 hours on train coming up. And that’s not even my longest trip.

I’ve been here, done this, got the Pearson’s Salted Nut Roll before.

This ain’t my first rodeo. But my god has my memory been selective since I last braved a Minnesota winter.

It’s cold. Damn cold. Fr-fr-freezing cold. Whack you in the face cold.

But here’s the thing. It’s beautiful. Minneapolis and St Paul are old enough to have magnificent ornate stone buildings on every corner but young enough to have pockets of stunningly simple arts and crafts and mid-century architecture.

Cover it all in a blanket of white, add a bit of moody late afternoon fog, a few (squillion) Christmas lights and you’re in a winter wonderland.

Here’s the other thing. Minneapolis has Ben. Ben who saved my skin in Florida hospital.

Final bill arrived today. Multiply it by 1.7 and you get NZ dollars. I’m too scared to. Never been so glad to see those 8 words at the bottom.

Ben who is also the most welcoming, generous person you could ever stay with. Where you emerge from your long peaceful sleep under feather duvets to a cooked breakfast and gifts galore.

It’s out of the freezer and into the sauna going from the cold grey streets to Ben’s house.

Plus she has the nicest friends. Who we had lunch with at her telecommunications company’s annual Christmas lunch. I met so many interesting, accomplished and welcoming people. Some of who we then spent the evening with at Jim’s place.

Newsflash: am at Union Station (cripes Amtrak, think of a different name would ya?) in St Paul killing time at a bar (mainly to escape the thousands of over-excited kids going for rides on the Polar Express) and the server just came by to tell me my Earl Grey tea is complimentary. I’m guessing she feels sorry for me laden down with all my bags. Or maybe she thinks I’m a man and wants a date.

Now Jim is another story. I first met him on my last visit and was taken by him then. He hasn’t changed.

He went progressively blind in mid-adulthood but despite that has raised three kids, held down a managerial job in the telecommunications business, been to NZ (and not on the tourist express – he actually spent days on fishing boats and sheep farms), founded a charity to pay for aids for low-income blind people, and lives in a 6,000 sq ft 1960s masterpiece on the banks of the Mississippi and cooks all his meals and cleans the house and negotiates these stairs, which scared the crap out of me. They are very steep and there’s lots of them.

I got to Minneapolis at I’m-so-tired-I-don’t-care-anymore-o’clock two nights ago. For some reason only known to sadistic Amtrak it took them 1.5 extra hours to move the train from the Union Station (snap!) in Chicago to the platform so we could all get on it.

I know every inch of that station. Including the waiting room that you, your heavy bags and 659 other passengers are forced to queue in after you walk the 15 minutes to the gate.

Just as you’re about to collapse from boredom, broken shoulders, headache (would you tell your kids to shut up?!) and caffeine overload they finally let you board.

Except that the aptly-named Empire Builder train is so freakin’ enormous that it takes you, your heavy bags, your aching body and your expired patience another 15 minutes to walk along the platform to your allocated boarding door.

Then … yes there is more to this monologue. Suck it up.

The train seems to be the Amish Express because you cannot get anywhere near your seat to dump your bag because the aisles are blocked by blank-looking old men with long beards who just stand there and watch while Ma and Laura Ingalls haul all the bags and blankets and thermos flasks onto the luggage racks.

Those same men then queue up in the train café to demand – in English-when-it-suits-them – endless cups of hot water (free) and ice (also free) while paying customers are forced to wait and practise shooting filthy looks.

Finally managed to escape them and set myself up in the lounge car, where Amtrak had obviously decided we all needed the full winter experience and turned the heating down so low I looked like an Antarctic explorer lying in my tent as I sprawled across the banquette seat in a (rare act of) piss-off-and-leave-me-alone-Ms-Conductor defiance.

All whinging aside, there was a beautiful golden glow over the world as we left Chicago. The setting sun was casting its orange light out one window and the full moon was following suit out the other one.

All the way to Milwaukee we passed iced-over lakes, geese flying in formation and silhouetted sticky trees. Wish I’d had a half-decent camera to capture it all.

No wonder Richie and Joanie Cunningham were so pasty-looking, and Howard spent his life practising secret handshakes down at the Lodge. It gets dark in Milwaukee at 4.30. 4.30!!

All we could see as we rolled into town was the smoke billowing out of the massive Victorian brick chimneys. The place is one big brewery, and they eat lots of cheese, so probably best I didn’t get off the train.

The best thing about riding the train in winter in December in middle-of-nowhereville is that all the homeowners along the rail track make special efforts to put on elaborate displays of Christmas lights. You’re going along in pitch black when all of a sudden the whole nativity scene and more is lit up like a Christmas tree (ha ha).

Me, my backpack (x 2) and my breakfast, lunch and dinner are all now waiting to get on the 10.30pm train to one-horse-town Havre, Montana. Where it’s colder than Minneapolis. Hotel better have at least 56 cable TV channels, central heating controls, endless hot water and triple glazing.

You all appreciate art don’t you? Good, because I spent a wonderful and overwhelming 3 hours in the Minneapolis Institute of Art today.

For your viewing pleasure, here are some of the highlights.

Close-up of some 17th C floral thing to show you the detail. I could stare at oil paintings for hours taking in the thousands of minute brush strokes. These guys could clearly see things the rest of us can’t.

Believe it or not this is a portrait of a woman. Clearly that guy couldn’t see things the rest of us can.

Living room – as in the actual living room – from a posh house in Minneapolis, c 1904. Those are Tiffany fireplace tiles. Nice.

Frank Lloyd Wright weed vase. Even I’d stick a bit of my gardening arch-rival fennel in there if I had one of his vases. Those are his doors too.

And this is a dining room set he designed. And that’s a man in the background. Who is not Frank Lloyd Wright.

And this Ben, is evidence you can find beauty in South Dakota. My favourite piece of the 3,786 I looked at.

Through the glass at the art institute. With St Paul yonder. The city, not the person. Duh.

Rembrandt’s painting of a young woman who’s about to stab herself to save her husband’s honour after she was raped.

The saddest face I’ve ever seen on a gallery wall. What you can’t see is how Rembrandt painted pearly white spots on her lower eye so they look like glistening tears.

Probably what Ikea got its ideas from. This kitchen was so very cool. And not just the fridge. There was a bit of a housing crisis in Germany after WWI – probably the least of their worries – so the immer-efficient government knocked up 10,000 apartments and mass-produced these amazing kitchens. All designed down to the last Formica millimeter to maximise the Hausfrau’s efficiency: dish-drying racks that go left to right, fold-down ironing boards, stool to sit at while she worked, built-in compost bins in benches, rubbish shoots, labelled aluminium bins for food staples, drawers for pots and lids, movable lights, pass-through to dining room etc etc. Now remember this was 1926. They were better working and better looking that what you can get today. Mein Gott, that’s a long Kaption!

Tatra sedan, 1936. Made in the same country that brought us the Skoda. Clearly a mass exodus of half-decent car designers in the intervening 40 years.

Glass. Obvs.

This was one of my favourite photos of all. By a woman called Gail Wilson. Stunning huh?

Funnily enough all the cafe-goers give up smoking in St Paul in winter. First day of spring they’re all back again hogging the outside tables.

Today’s post brought to you by: Danny, Sandy, Rizzo, Frenchie, Kenickie (I always thought he was the best looking) and everyone else from ‘Grease’

Grateful for: Super 8 hotel and everyone I’ve met in Havre so far

Trying hard to accept: people on train telling me Havre is a shit-hole. Clearly they’ve never stayed at the Super 8.

With 12 days till they kick me out of the country I’ve found the perfect husband.

And he’s from Duluth, Ben. As I say, perfect.

So I’m sitting in the dining area of the Super 8 hotel in Havre, Montana.

Eating the FREE and DELICIOUS and FREE minestrone soup and BISCUITS and homemade cupcakes and cookies, watching ‘Grease’ and this voice appears from behind, “Ooohhh I love Grease!”

Then I meet Bill and his boss Chris from Duluth who work on oil pipeline valves which means they travel all over the upper US most of the year.

Criteria #1 – check. Husband has to be away from home most of the time.

Bill’s same age as me (check), divorced (check) with grown kids (demerit – mind you he gets bonus points for calling his daughter Billy Jo), is half Finnish (of course he is, he’s from Minnesota) and lives on 137 acres (all wild animals – no farm wife duties required – plus we could have one of those super stylish country weddings in fall with all the golden leaves and drinks served in old jars and dinner in a restored barn).

And best thing is he loves food (check) and Elvis (his dad was spitting image) and always does ‘Summer Nights’ at karaoke (check – remember that time in Wanganui, Laura?)

He was the nicest guy.

Did you know the native Finns were dark haired and skinned like Inuits and the blond hair/blue eyes came from the nasty invading Russians?

Only hitch is I don’t fancy him. But that’s a minor point in the scheme of things.

Before my fiancé walked in I was having a long chat with Joanne and Steve who had popped over the border from their cattle and wheat farm somewhere round Medicine Hat, Alberta, because Havre is actually their closest town.

They come here all the time to go to movies, stay the night, stock up at Walmart and go home.

After I asked a million and one questions about wheat farming in Canada, Joanne showed me photos of their family Thanksgiving at an RV site in Alberta where she cooked up a turkey lurkey and ham in the RV oven. They all sat outside round a campfire and scoffed. Looked so cool (literally).

They invited me to the movies with them tonight – would’ve gone but I wouldn’t make it past the shorts in Jumanji 2 before I fell asleep, watched TV on my phone or spent the next 2 hours in the loo.

Once again I’ve landed on my feet choosing Super 8. Location-wise it’s not great – as in 2km from the thriving metropolis of Havre (population 9,000; 9 in winter).

But I have 2 feet (if it’s not too cold), there are taxis and Uber. Plus everyone here’s damn friendly I’m sure I could cadge a ride.

Super 8 must’ve had a sixth sense when I booked because they put me in the room next to the dining area where from 5am – 10am tomorrow there is FREE cooked and continental breakfast – and guess what, my fiancé told me they serve biscuits and gravy. Yes!!!

And by the looks of things, make your own waffles, and drown them in maple syrup.

Have set my alarm for 4.58am.

My room has all the necessities: nice bed, lazy boy chair, coffee maker, bath, 100-channel TV, view over the snow and central heating controls.

It might not be 5-star but it is to me. I am so happy.

Not sure what I’ll do tomorrow – well aside from the obvious.

I did want to go to Lutheran church at 9.30 so might splash out on Uber (seeing as won’t have to spend a cent on food thanks to Super 8) and then check out ‘downtown’.

Actually there’s a ‘holiday village mall’ across from the hotel so will visit there too. Judging by website should take 16 minutes.

Havre is as far from the swanky ski resorts (like Whitefish where I went last trip) of Montana as you can get.

To call it pretty is to call me self-controlled around food.

It’s mainly light industrial supplies, bars, more gas stations than supermarkets, and modest housing.

But there’s a Walmart. Mind you, there’s probably a Walmart in every town with population bigger than 26, ie, the minimum number required to staff the place.

The train trip from St Paul was v—e—r—y long and of course Amtrak was v—e—r—y late but I managed to sleep some of it away (MIRACLE) and spent the rest chatting to the Amish family and looking at Big Sky Country rolling past.

Because I’m always considering you, here’s the beginner’s guide to making a bed in Amtrak coach class:

• Grab seats at end of row in front of big rubbish box, which you can cleverly use to hide your backpack so (a) nobody nicks it (b) conductor doesn’t tell you to shift it

• Grab two seats. Minimum. Unless there’s a mass evacuation out of North America you should never have to share a train seat. Ever. Unless you have an ulterior motive. Or are plain stupid.

• Grab seats in same car as the Amish family. Take back all the unkind things you said about them in your last post. They are quiet, sleep all night, will never nick your stuff and make you feel all homely and cosy.

• Put on pink fluffy bed socks that Lovely Ben gave you. Realise 2.5 hours later that the white stuff covering your bed, floor and bags is sock fluff, not snow from a leaking skylight.

• Turn trusty jacket into pillow.

• Read a couple of chapters of the very very funny book you nicked from Starbucks, Winter Park, Florida. Congratulate yourself on your good taste in stolen books.

• Sleep for 1 hour, 17 minutes. Dream you landed in parachute in water with your father watching from the lakeside. Wake up freezing and semi-traumatised. Resist urge to analyse dream.

• Suffer through nerve pain to do a gymnastic feat of getting hoodie out of backpack hidden behind impossible-to-move rubbish box.

• Whack head on luggage rack on way up. Yelp in pain. Wake entire Amish community up. Don’t care.

• Put on hat, zip coat up to chin, use hoodie as pillow, sleep for another 58 minutes until hunger forces you awake.

Then smile with glee as you pull out a couple of slices of bread to make banana sandwich for breakfast and realise that bread spent the night cuddling up to the heater so it’s all warm like you’ve just pulled it out of the oven.

Then wonder why heat doesn’t seem to make it past bread and up to your stiff body.

Then look outside at bright red sun rising over flat white landscape of North Dakota. Which despite being nothing but farms the size of small cities, and grey grey grey, is actually very beautiful.

Train stopped in Minot, North Dakota, whose public library is now my new best friend.

After walking up and down the platform like a prison inmate till I could no longer feel my face, I shuffled into the station and what should I see staring at me but this lot, donated by the library.

It was like Christmas.

That little Amish girl there, Lori, finally sidled over to sit with me and by the end of the trip was following me round like a little lamb.

She was so cute, with beautiful English rose skin.

Her mom told me they were all returning from family wedding in Wisconsin.

What they would’ve lacked in grog I bet they made up with wedding food coloured white, golden yellow or brown.

Sheesh, they sure don’t equate godliness with diet because they scull more coffee and eat more crap than I do. I’m surprised there was any coffee left on that train by the time they left.

Right I’ve gotta go.

Got a wedding to plan!!! Soooooo much to do!!! Where to start????

Actually wonder if Bill’d be on for an Amish wedding. Lori could be my flower girl. Her mom would whip me up a beautifully hand-stitched frock.

And the food. Imagine the food.

Today’s post brought to you by: Doe, a deer, a female deer; ray, a drop of golden sun; me, a name I call myself; far, a long long way to run.

Grateful for: staying upright

Trying hard to accept: despite sucking up to receptionist and getting a late check-out tomorrow, my heavy bags and I have to kill 4 hours (in theory; 7 hours in Amtrak time) tomorrow. Won’t have to look far for a gun.

I’m pretty damn proud of myself.

Now this may not seem like a big deal to you but this morning I walked in the snow, down a big hill, on footpaths hidden under shagpiles of white, alongside a four-lane highway for over an hour to get downtown.

And then back again in the falling snow and setting sun.

Only skated on thin ice once.

My biggest fear, aside from jeans refusing to stretch any further, is going for a skate, ending up flat on my back and starting another email with the words: “Hi, I need to claim on my travel insurance.”

The only open places in town were bars, casinos (lots), pawn shops (lots), supermarket, fast food joints (lots) and movie theatre.

Not that I’m missing much judging by my 8-minute trudge through the snow to look round the fine selection of retail outfits.

What you can buy in Leon’s: power tools (think ‘Fargo’), 6,286 computer games, 8,243 DVDs, the complete range of Native American beaded everything, moccasins, blankets, $350 diamond ring (must tell Bill), saddles, chaps and more guns in one shop than in the whole of NZ. Every size, type, price, age gun you can imagine. Which begs the question: if those are just the ones in a pawn shop, how many exactly are out there in people’s bedrooms, vehicles, socks and toilets?

Guess who didn’t consider that Sunday in winter would be the worst possible time to visit.

Got the fright of my life in this place. Clearly the lack of daylight doesn’t affect sight because the second I snapped this shot a booming voice rang out. What he said: “Can I help you find anything?” What he meant: “Take any more shots, lady, and you’ll know the true meaning of the word.” I left without buying any overpriced tacky fringed clothing. Some of dem boots were pretty damn cool though.

But I struck gold at Gary and Leo’s Fresh Foods IGA supermarket. Pretty damned impressed.

It was cheaper than anywhere else I’ve shopped (keeping in mind this is the Wild West and it takes 4 days to get anything here), had clean bathrooms and a cosy cafe where I quaffed $1 coffee, sneakily ate my lunch and listened to Christmas carols next to a faux open fire and surprisingly tasteful and cute selection of Christmas decorations.

All along the way into town were these tracks going from the highway to the residential areas. Too big for squirrel or wolf. Too small for moose, bison or runaway prisoner. Am thinking coyote. Or rabbit in snow shoes.

On the way home I zipped (figuratively; chance’d be a fine thing on these icy roads) into the strangely named ‘Holiday Village Mall’ across the road from the hotel.

I tell you, it was all happening there on a Sunday afternoon.

The only place (a) still in business and (b) worth going into was Dollar Tree where everything was $1. Everything. Finally got my French’s French Fried Onions.

If you want to see a cross-section of Havre, go to the Dollar Tree.

Trolleys overloaded with Christmas tat and jumbo bags of TGI Friday’s cheese and bacon potato skins.

I could smell the cigarettes (probably $1) on everyone as they squeezed past me.

It was actually pretty depressing. One father was doing a rare feat for a man and multi-tasking.

“No! You’re not getting that. Put it back. I don’t have money for anything this month” while arguing on phone to ex-wife about what time he was bringing the kids back.

Liesl’s singing “I am 16 going on 17” to Rolf as I write this. First time I’ve ever watched ‘Sound of Music’ from beginning to end. Gee, anyone would think I was in Montana on a Sunday night in winter without a car.

Super 8 better have soundproof walls because I’m about to belt out “Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, these are a few of my favourite things. Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes …”

Ok, ready for it? No, not my angelic voice.

Thanks to my photographic food memory, here’s the complete list of choices at Super 8’s (FREE) breakfast.

As much as you can scoff of:

• 3 types of caffeinated coffee
• 1 type of decaffeinated coffee
• 1 type of tea
• 2 types of hot chocolate
• Every type of creamer ever invented
• Frosty Flakes
• Raisin Bran
• Fallen asleep yet?
• Maple and brown sugar oatmeal
• Raisin and cinnamon oatmeal
• Granny Smith apples
• Hard boiled eggs
• 2 types of yoghurt
• Biscuits
• Sausage gravy
• Biscuits
• Sausage gravy
• Ok, move on Gail
• English muffins
• Boring bread
• Bagels
• Blueberry muffins
• Why does every yummy crap food start with B?
• Danish pastries
• Apple and cinnamon iced pastries
• Cream cheese, my best mate peanut butter and 4 types of sugar-laden spreads
• And the one thing I said last night I would not go near but was first in line because when am I ever going to get another chance – the waffle maker.

This was so cool. Actually it was scalding hot. You dispense a cup of ‘Today’s flavour’ or ‘Original’ batter into a cup, step two paces to the right, pour it in a rotating iron waffle pan, wile away the 2-minute waiting time by talking to all the blokes coming in for a big feed before heading outside to work, remove piping hot perfectly cooked waffle and slather it in cherry jam, maple syrup and stewed apples. And peanut butter. Because peanut butter is good on anything. (Sorry Jim).

I chucked pepper on the biscuits and gravy to try and make them look like real food.

In a rare moment of self-control (read as: I’m fat, I have zits, my clothes hate me) I sampled most of it, but only a couple of bites. Even I have my limits.

Yeah yeah I know completely wasteful. But, in my feeble defence, it’s a one-off. Well two-off if you count tomorrow morning.

Americans seem to have this fascination with Montana — well judging by my source of all information on American life — HGTV’s ‘Big Sky Country’.

I can see why. It’s like nowhere else. And it feels a million miles away from anywhere else. There’s something special about it.

There’s something special about the people too. Don’t think many Nobel Prize winners come outta these parts.

There’s a real distinctive Montana accent. Kinda like Minnesota on speed.

Everyone looks like they’ve just stepped off a western film set. If you don’t have a beard, wear a baseball cap and drive a truck you got no business in this town.

And that includes the women.

Today’s post brought to you by: Mother Abbess sagely pushing Maria into the arms of that hunk Captain Von Trapp

Grateful for: ability to obey Mother Abscess (convent humour) literally and figuratively

Trying hard to accept: my mind going blank when the Amtrak guy at Portland Union (gawd) station asked where I’d boarded the train. Too many cities in too few days.

I’m in Portland. I think.

It’s a strange place. Charming and uber outdoorsy but strange.

I’d sum it up as shabbily earnest. Where function beats form. The people seem more interested in doing good than looking good.

It’s the only city where I’ve seen passers-by stop and help the homeless.

Its downtown must’ve eloped with Baltimore’s because it ain’t anywhere to be found.

Once again I’m struck by how incredibly different the regions of this vast country are.

Sitting here in the Pacific Northwest I’d never guess I was in the same country as Lafayette or Minneapolis. The architecture, weather, people and cityscapes have zilch in common.

Portland peeps are so laid back they’re almost splattered on the footpath.

Everyone looks like they’re about to (a) climb a mountain (b) brew a batch of craft beer (c) marry their same-sex partner (d) do all 3, simultaneously.

Sums it up

‘Twas a very long 19 hours from Havre to here. I spent my last few hours in Havre yesterday at my favourite joint: Guy and Leo’s IGA supermarket cafe.

Well, second favourite next to Super 8 hotel.

Thoroughly enjoyed every minute there. And I emailed to tell them so. Super comfortable room. Super bath. Super friendly. Super delicious, super free food. Oh yeah, on the second night we got absolutely divine beef stew: big chunks of coyote roadkill and variously coloured veg in a rich and tasty gravy all plonked on a hot biscuit. All free.

Hopefully my nice email to them will get me an upgrade to a Super 9 next time.

This was breakfast day 2. Dragged my screaming sciatic nerve out of bed at 7am, and still in pyjamas, went next door and munched on sausage and egg hash, and tortillas (that’s Mexican sauce, not the result of a fight down the pub last night) while having a yarn with Ray the truck driver from West Virginia. Not surprisingly he hates his job.

I camped out at Guy and Leo’s because there was nothing else to do in Havre. And I mean nothing. Not even on a Workday Monday.

Particularly with a 40lb backpack and a 12lbs overweight body to lug around the slippery dippery footpaths. I fell over 1.75 times.

Spent a couple of happy hours in Guy and Leo’s with my $1 (free refill) coffee and low-calorie homemade lunch. One eye on HGTV show on the iPad and the other on the assortment of passers-by.

When I left they gave me a bill for rent. I forwarded it to my travel insurance co.

To sum up Havre in one word: depressed. Before setting up camp at Guy and Leo’s I hauled all my stuff to the Grateful Bread bakery because Google reviews told me my life wouldn’t be worth living if I didn’t go there.

You’re such a liar, Google.

It was in this dark, dingy, decrepit (like a bra size, DDD) underground mall. Like going back to the 60s. In a bad way. Faux wood panelling everywhere you spun, wrought iron stair rails and green linoleum interspersed with brown carpet squares.

93% (don’t argue) of the retail spaces were empty. The shops that were in business had 50% off and closing-down sales. One retailer was so desperate she came out as I walked by to lure me inside. With my backpack? Probably wanted me to break everything so she could do a dodgy insurance claim.

Grateful Bread was a huge letdown. About as far from its Facebook photos as I am from home.

I fled and walked very slowly and carefully to Guy and Leo’s. Was joined by a part Native American woman who came out of the soup kitchen and started walking and talking with me.

Her stuck-ness and lack of hope reminded of the people I saw in south Chicago. Even those with a bit of cash in Havre have that ‘Well where else am I gonna go?’ look about them.

Amazingly there’s a university there but I’m sure it’s about as far from the top of the league as it is from Princeton itself.

Havre might be a struggling backwater but the trip outta town in the setting sun would have to be one of the most beautiful Amtrak can offer.

We headed west into the big red glowing sun.

Out one window were vast, flat, snow-covered farms as far as the eye could see. 20 metres for those of us who refuse to wear glasses.

Out the other window were vast, flat, snow-covered farms as far as the eye could see. 21 metres if I squinted.

I can’t even imagine what it’d be like living out there. There was nothing for miles. Must take Old McDonald 2 days return trip to buy a pint of milk, a six pack and a lottery ticket.

I guess it’d be pretty much like living on an Australian sheep station but with carpets of slushy white stuff rather than dusty red stuff.

I’m so glad the train was (only) 24 minutes late leaving Havre as I got to meet Ken.

Thankfully someone at Havre station had the foresight to nick a few trolleys from the airport. Notice how I cleverly placed the Empire Builder retro poster in the background.

Ken’s a driver for the Rocky Mountain Treatment Centre in Great Falls (2 hours away) and was at the station to pick up a new client.

If you’re going to detox or dry out, rural Montana is probably as good as it gets. Endless sky to shout at when you’ve run out of people to shout at.

Wish I’d had longer to talk with Ken. He’s a retired school teacher. A few years back he turned down a teaching job in northern Alaska (couldn’t convince wife to move there – sensible woman). Teaching Native Americans in a two-shower village only accessible by air. Needless to say the money was good.

I was telling him about this new TV show I saw advertised. Some reality thing following cops around Alaska – whose crime rate is so high it makes Baltimore look like bible camp.

Gee, let me think why you’d turn to crime in Alaska. No job. No prospect of getting one. No money. No prospect of getting any. No sunlight. No prospect of getting any for 8 months.

I was asking him where the never-ending oil transporter trains at the station would be going to and from.

North Dakota apparently – which unbeknown to me has a big oil industry. And a big drug problem. As in the guys working in those risky oil jobs are high half the time. And not on the oil fumes either.

Was telling Ken how Martin was a fly fishing guide for rich helicopter-in-helicopter-out Americans. Turns out Ken’s son does same on Missouri River.

Son and daughter-in-law went tramping in NZ a few years back. I’m gonna try same trick as she did. Broke her leg just before due to fly home and guess what … business class here me and my crutches come.

I sat in train lounge car next to Simon, a PhD student from university in Great Falls, on his way home to spend Christmas with dad near Seattle and then mom somewhere not near Seattle. 30 hour trip each way. Sure hope they stuff his stockings full.

He gave me a new idea. He tutors at university. Which means … dah dah dah … he gets 5 years free tuition.

If Simon can do a dissertation on Gothic English literature at University of Montana I can do one on 569 Places to Get $1 Coffee Plus Free Refills North of the Mason-Dixon Line at Yale.

Once I get that under my ever-expanding belt, a Green Card will be a mere formality.

14 hours and three neck-wringing short sleeps later, we rolled into Bingen, Oregon. But might as well have been in central Otago, NZ.

Out one panoramic window was water, water and not a drop to drink. Massive logging and milling industries seem to keep the place ticking.

Out the other panoramic window were steep grey rocky hills. And in between in one huge train full of sleeping passengers going though tunnel after tunnel.

‘Twas a world of grey outside. The sky merely turned a lighter shade of black.

All the timber money must’ve floated down the river to Vancouver, Washington. Jeepers creepers you should’ve seen the sizes of the homes along the river. You can have any colour house you want. As long as it’s brown.

The bald eagle-eyed of you will have thought, Vancouver? Isn’t that over the border? Jawohl, it is but clearly the city planners lacked the imagination gene because there’s a third one, Vancouver Island.

Vancouver’s not even a nice name. Not like Gail.

Or else? What?