Lost in Union Station

Los Angeles residents can board the commuter rail, Amtrak, and find buses parked outside of our Union Station? This information on public transit eluded my mom, a fifty something year resident of the suburbs, as well as a real estate agent, and me, an eighteen year inhabitant. Clearly, with an additional crutch of exhaustion from the final long ride and sleep on the train, trying to find each other in this “Last of the Great Railway Stations” posed a problem.

Many inquire on my knowledge of LA as if I lived downtown, or as if LA displayed a similar layout to New York. Growing up as a kid, many years before a car, qualifications to drink, and access to an extensive public transportation system, my experience extended to my home town, four other surrounding areas, and four further set satellite cities. Downtown, only reachable by a thirty minute drive, did not make the list.

Off the train with my Crippled Suitcase and no mom; hopefully this dying cell phone can keep up. Finally she called and the goose chase began. “What do you see?” “Arches” “I see a big brass balls.” “The ones to my left are cement. There are lots of buses.” “I don’t see buses.” “Why don’t you follow one and find me.” “That’s ridiculous. I know where you are walk to the corner.” “There is no corner, just an on ramp from the freeway.” “Do you see a big clock.” “No!” “Well, go find it and I’ll be there.”

Great. Back into the train station and down the escalator I go. A holiday band on break kindly pointed the way to this “big clock” and with a deliberate walk, I fought commuter rail crowds exiting the trains. The tunnel opened on a huge waiting room, with islands of padded chairs under a towering ceiling, surrounded by ornate trim. After thirty days, I thought I saw so much that my ability to feel disbelief dissipated, but here I stood in my own big city, amazed.

My phone rang again as my bag rolled out of the waiting room into the lobby, “Mom, I’m not outside yet.” “Well when you do go right.” This walk from front to back took much longer than expected. Finally, out the door with the clock, passed the waiting cars and taxis, my mom’s car waited and it felt good to be back, especially with the blue skies and seventy degree weather. Mommy! Yes, I’ll be soaking it up while I can, for back to Boston after the New Year I go for another round.

And it's time for breakfast.

Audio: The Train

Click Here to Hear the Train

Photos: Last Stop

Photos: Palatki

Photo: Devil's Bridge

Vortex or Roundabout

A map of Sedona lay out on the marble counter, with expected symbols littering its surface. Trails ventured off of roads, rock formation drawings illustrated scale, and a little v appeared multiple times. V was not for vendetta, however the answer from the key did not provide a more logical answer.

Vortexes exist in Sedona, something noted with an open mind and shot of tequila. Claims characterize these areas as spiritually uplifting, resulting from the energy emitted by Earth. Though not particularly planned into the itinerary, one of these sites exists at Cathedral Rock, a popular rock formation in Sedona. And so we went to hike up for the view and see what waited at this site.

Cathedral Rock towers over the southern part of Sedona; brush and shrubs fill the landscape climbing up red rock and crawling across stretches of terrain. The hike did not pose any real difficulty as we stepped up carved footholds and followed piles of rocks marking the cleared path. Expectations did not bubble inside as we approached the vortex, but a general curiosity loomed. Finally! The top…

Maybe like my map, a marker would indicate the presence of the vortex. However, the only writing available contained names of people who conquer the trail. Let’s see – Stephanie, MK+KL, Kayla (heart) David, CK+CJ, Richie- lots of love and equations but no sign of a vortex. Everything seemed expected, except the remarkable view, absolute silence, and hum of the wind. Vortex or not, Cathedral rock as an experience surpassed the promise of unknown vibrations.

If not there, vortexes must be somewhere else! Man figured out how to manufacture everything from surfing to snow; vortexes should be a breeze. While driving out of Sedona up the 89, cars entered a man made vortex and began driving around in a circle. Peculiar- some pulled out to go on their way, while others entered from all directions, only warned by the sign with three arrows in a circle. Luckily, we went through untouched and chugged along to the next vortex before spinning our wheels to bust out of town. Though a common occurrence on the East Coast, truthfully I never liked roundabouts.

Photos: Views of Sedona

Elote Café

Construction for a new bridge gathered dust, orange cones, and lines of caution tape on highway 179. Traffic moved gingerly around the turn avoiding a run in with obstacles and rerouted on coming traffic. With only a handful of highways through and around Sedona, the directions seemed correct but the scenery difficult to decipher. However, nothing could stop my dad and me from walking up the ramp to Elote Café for expressive Mexican cuisine.

Our wondering through and amongst the red rocks still resonated as we sat down, met with a bowl of chips, salsa, and offer for a drink to start. One Chihuahua please. A thick, salt-rimmed glass clunked on the table, the only distraction that took my eyes from the inventive menu. This was not your typical Mexican mix. Spicy cabbage, smoked chicken, roasted snapper, Shaft blue cheese, and pumpkinseed joined the expected corn mesa, guacamole, salsa verde, and poblano chile as ingredients. Theses choices expanded the possibilities without muddling the original undertones of such cuisine.

Three dishes stood out, two of them signature plates for Chef Jeff Smedstad. Our appetizer, Elote- the restaurants namesake, constituted fire roasted corn off the cob mixed with a spicy mayo and cotija cheese. Chile and cayenne pepper sprinkled over the yellow mixture adding a needed zest to the rich quality. Its evidence cleaned up by scrapes of our spoon and corn chips.

With appetizer plates picked up, new dishes appeared, full of foods and spices. Standing in a sea of spicy ancho sauce, a lamb shank kept its balance as forks peeled off braised skin and tender pieces, which sometimes fell into the sauce in need of saving. Finally, when removed meat unbalanced the shank, it capsized, throwing slices of beets and red onion rings off its body.

A cheesy, festive mix loaded the other plate, which even though displayed mushroom in its title, overrode the fleshy fungus with many other tastes and slivers. Cheese stretched from beneath the pile as forks unearthed the tortilla chips soaked with sauce, which creamy nature overwhelmed the vegetables and flavors.

All dishes, abundant in taste and richness, caused an unfamiliar reaction at such a restaurant. For the first time, no stomach or saturated taste buds could accept a dessert, even though the flan and chocolate tamale sounded toothsome. A rotund Mexican hot chocolate with a little kick split between two finished the meal.

Full and satisfied, we carefully maneuvered around full tables and jackets thrown over chairs. The restaurant at seven in the evening flowed at full power, with waiters and busboys politely moving to let us free up a table and make our way out. Traffic here, construction there, and chairs in the way, our quiet day hiking rock formations and taking in remarkable landscapes saw a lively end at Elote Cafe.

Photo: Which one to Choose?

Photos: A Walk Around Flagstaff

Photo: On Time!

Little Notebooks

On this trip, numerous sketchbooks and notebooks of different sizes weighed down my suitcase. Ones intended for my backpack and others for a larger table. Nevertheless, this careful consideration fell to the floor as my choice travel book became a little, back-pocket sized Moleskin I threw into my purse at the last minute. So far, two are filled with notes from museums, thoughts from eating breaks, and records of practical information. These little books are there when you need them and inconspicuous when you don’t.

Photos: Courtyards and Car

Photo: Home in Santa Fe

Recommended Readings

With a couple of longer train rides ahead, the need for a more substantial piece of literature developed. Usually, a local newspaper or magazine fills the time in between writing and staring out the window, however short readings become laborious while jumping amongst new subjects and writing styles.

Interested in America’s early history, pre-Pilgrims, A Voyage Long and Strange: Rediscovering the New World by Tony Horwitz caught my eye as a useful piece of literature to supplement my touring. From the France’s Louisiana territory to Spain’s New Spain, the development and exploration of these regions eluded my general knowledge of the America. European history briefly mentions such conquests and American history begins with the successful, English settlements. Truths surrounding the conditions and considerations of these European voyages fade amongst the vague, romanticized, and ruffian portraits.

The author, a former Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, uncovers the bones of early America by mixing travel experiences with historical fact, creating an illuminating, inclusive read.

Photo: Santa and Cider

Winter Wonderland

Santa Fe never impressed an image of Christmas cheer and holiday affairs until a visit to the Palace of the Governors Friday night changed my perspective. Lighting however takes a different form with bonfires and luminaries, candles in sand weighted paper bags.

At 5:00pm, the night festivities began with drumming in the portal where families gathered to listen while awaiting the Palace’s opening. Then Santa came, the chatty crowd shuffling in after him, and I tried to sift into the mix. Filling the courtyard, kids and parents enjoyed the caroling while waiting for a spot with Santa. Though young at heart, I forfeited this opportunity for a hot cider and warmth from one of the bonfires. A retired transportation lawyer and security guard joined my efforts, commenting on the pleasant Santa Fe and joyful nature of the festivities. After acquiring a smoky smell and sore eyes from the smoke, my attention turned toward the exhibitions inside, where wonderings saw violinists and guitarists amongst the historical artifacts and written depictions.

With other museums open free Friday night until eight, the conquest continued. The Georgia O’Keefe Museum houses an impressive amount of her work in addition to photographs and movies that contextualize her development as an artist. Though aware of her relationship with Stieglitz and their contributions to modern art, other accounts of their lives usually glaze over the impact they had on each other. As a graduate from an art school with a 70/30 girls to guys ratio, it’s difficult to realize the reaction O’Keefe received as a young painter- if men can do it well, why join the field? Appreciatively, current perceptions differ.  

With all the festivities and action, the cookies at the New Mexico Museum of Art’s entrance appeared free of charge, until I picked one up, met with a remark, “may I help you?” which politely suggests a step in the wrong direction. Quickly realizing this, two quarters paid for the treat, which I munched on while listening to the children’s orchestra. Disregarding my adult sensibilities commonly occurs during the holidays, as childhood memories twinkle over current activities. Blame the music, the smells, and even the corporations. Maybe a talk with Santa would have been a good idea.

Photos: Sundown, Lights on

Photo: San Miguel Mission

Native Couture

Now, I know Haute Couture, even Juicy Couture, but this one is new to me. Thank you Museum of International Folk Art for the update on the latest and greatest!

Photo: Welcome to the Southwest?

Hi Desert!

Perched 7,000 feet above sea level, Santa Fe classifies as a high desert susceptible to snow flurries and icy weather. Something unexpected when considering the image of a radiating sun usually attached to the desert persona. However this contrast builds distinctive landscapes of snow tucked between shrubs and occasional cacti; mountains surrounding the area resembling a mound of cookies and cream ice cream. It can be deceptive- days with bright sun can quickly turn as clouds set in and block the welcomed heat.

Unlike the cities of concrete and steel, Santa Fe’s adobe dwellings appear to have risen from the earth, taking on its color and ruff features. Definitely a romantic sight, one explicable visited by artists and occupied by retirees. To my happiness, lawns did not front Santa Fe homes, a smart landscaping decision considering the large amount of water necessary to fuel such an antiquated luxury.

As I looked at the map, a nearly central plaza, surrounding streets, and non-existing grid revealed a different city layout compared to the more American cities. Similar to New Orleans and its French and Spanish beginnings, Santa Fe reflected its colonial settlements by the Spanish. Another important fact, for it meant trustworthy Mexican food could easily be found- or discovered as the conquistadors probably said.

Photo: Train to Santa Fe

Assault from Canada

Many believe Canada contently sits above the United States with a population more concerned with beer and hockey than disturbing its assertive neighbor. Canada took everyone by surprise delivering a difficult storm that caused Californians to assemble sandbags and airliners to cancel or heavily delay flights throughout the Midwest and East Coast. Fortunately, as the storm commanded East, I voyaged West to avoid the inconvenient weather.

Well, almost.

The number three train pulled into Kansas City’s Union Station at 10:25pm on schedule and ready to board. After finding a seat and throwing my backpack in the overhead storage, I expected drowsiness to quickly follow. I guess I left sleep in the train station, and no shift in position or meditation exercise induced this elusive state. Cold air blew throughout the cabin, making my jacket-now-blanket useless in the comfort efforts.

At four in the morning, a grumbling noise shook the train and my glances around determined that a super snorer did not cause such an occurrence. Outside our cabin, the motor of an eastbound passenger train growled while we waited on a side track for it to pass.

The sun saturated my eyelids by eight in the morning, awaking me to a conversation between the conductor and another passenger. Bad weather slowed down the train –snow and ice coated the tracks inhibiting the reading of its sensors- resulting in a three hour delay. As we continued across, our speed periodically reduced to thirty miles an hour and I watched as cars proceeded by and landscapes slowly changed. The delay reached four hours, and mutterings of impatience and unrest by surrounding passengers floated along.

To alleviate such feelings, I walked over to the cafe car with wide windows and a more open ambiance. With a book in hand, a view in front of me, and a soda to sip, I did not mind so much the additional time. As the longest leg of my journey, what was four extra hours on a seventeen hour ride?

Photo: Sleeping on Amtrak

Chocolate Humor

A layover in Kansas City and the feels-like-negative-four-degrees weather, kept me inside. Fortunately the city enjoys the second largest train station after New York City’s Penn Station.

I walked around and then through an enclosed bridge to the adjoining mall. Smells of chocolate from down the hall led me to the shop, where a group of girl scouts crowded the rails to watch a fudge making demonstration. Though the girls were thirteen to sixteen, I found it difficult to see over them as many already outgrew me. However, the man making the chocolate kept my ears entertained with casual jokes spoken in a joyful, Midwestern twang.

Top Five Chocolate Jokes:

1. Floor samples are dirt cheap.

2. The fudge is fat free – you pay for the fudge and the fat comes free of charge.

3. The higher this fudge flies the higher quality it becomes.

4. Do you want nuts in your fudge? Because if so, I can jump right in! I’m a nutty guy.

5. You’ve been fudged!

Photos: Outside My Train Window

Photo: Amtrak Lounge

St. Louis Foods

Known for only a handful of foods, St. Louis sits low on the eating expedition’s lists. However, three solid contenders emerged from searches on chowhound and my trek began to find toasted ravioli, St. Louis pizza, and butter cake - foods that characterized a meeting of roadside and Italian.

A diner community still exists in the area, where Blueberry Hill in the Loop and Café Manhattan in Clayton attract locals and outsiders for a mix of burgers and memorabilia. Blueberry Hill boasts nine rooms filled with display cases of collectible knick knacks including the Beatles’ St. Pepper dolls, hundreds of Pez dispenser, autographed photos, Simpson’s action figures, and Howdy Doody puppets, protected by large elephants and dinosaur models. Though a scrolling sign and lights dressed the exterior, dim rooms, wood floors, and wooden seating created an interior comparable to an eccentric collector’s home.

Café Manhattan, located in a suburban community, portrayed an expected diner with gleaming surfaces and slick booths, accompanied by a typical menu and chummy staff. A welcomed sight for my rain soaked jacket and sore derrière from an earlier fall. No worries- Advil and beer quickly dulled the pain and frustrations.

An appetizer of toasted raviolis peered up from an oval plate, flanked by a cup of hot marinara sauce and sprinkles of parsley and parmesan cheese. Heavy coats of brown bread crumbs created a rocklike appearance, as if these ten raviolis formally lived amongst the crabs, tangled in gangly seaweed. My fork broke the surface with a reluctant crunch. Distinct tastes emerged, moving from marinara sauce to fried dough, and then finishing with a simply sweet sausage flavor. Ten down, one pizza to go!

With Chicago and New York battling over the best pizza, St. Louis’s small niche in the field commonly cooks unnoticed. Provol cheese accompanies or completely replaces the usual mozzarella, to give their city pizza a sweeter, more flavorful melted topping. Thin and crispy, the crust did not sag under the toppings’ weight and upheld a taste similar to a burnt water cracker. With my plates clean and the bill paid, I contently waved good bye leaving with a full stomach, drier jacket, and happier derrière.

(A day of touring went by and hunger knocked again)

But this time, something sweet for the table. Or actually bar for a Tuesday night at the Capri restaurant in a downtown hotel filled with teacher and administrators from a four day leadership conference. No dinner needed after a filling lunch, and I sat down with a glass of water and a butter cake. Some people could not believe this -

Bar Tender: So you walked all this way for a butter cake?

Whirlway: Yep, I did my research and came over.

Bar Tender: Seriously? I’ll hit you over the head this (he playfully picked up a stack of Styrofoam cups) if you’re lying.

Luckily, he believed me and I enjoyed my butter cake untouched. A Portland development counselor and Georgian elementary school principal provided their additional comments, which led to occasional conversations on other subjects while I slowly ate away. They inquired about the dense, buttery sheet cake topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, pecans, and sticky caramel doodles. I told them, it melts on the tongue with a directly sweet flavor and is worth trying once.

And how could you resist the dessert nick named the Gooey Louie?

Photo: Blueberry Hill Restaurant

Photos: At the St. Louis Art Museum

Photo: Silver Tree

New Heights in St. Louis

Regardless of its small size, St. Louis frequently provided opportunities to experience vertigo and dizziness. Understandable considering that their city symbol, a steel arch, casts a shadow long enough to act as a sundial for overhead planes. And yes, visitors can ride to the top for a full view of the city and Mississippi River.

So I went! In order to ascend the North side of the arch, passengers loaded up into petit, 60’s style pods with five seats and limited space. A busy season sees thousands of visitors and off months only hundreds a day, which meant no lines today and a pod per person.

It took about five minutes of clamoring and clanking, with gears and pulls laboring outside of my pod window, to reach the top. Though looking onto the city hundreds of feet in the air, leaning over an interior ledge to look out of little rectangular windows, a sense of safety remained. One similar to watching New York City fly by in the back of a taxi cab.

After photos and locating key building, the novelty wore of and down I went, clamoring and clanking in my pod. Underneath the arch and burrowed under the ground, the Westward Expansion Museum comfortably stretched out, introducing visitors to the importance of the Louisiana Purchase, St. Louis as a main stop in westward travels, and the expedition of Louis and Clark. As a traveler, my interests leaned toward learning more about the latter. Luckily a movie depicting the journey started in twenty minutes, just enough time to aimless browse the gift store.

Enormous! I could not believe the size of the movie screen. The video depicted the tale with soaring camera shots over plains of wilderness and stretches of the Mississippi river, frequent enough to induce motion sickness. Louis and Clark’s experiences seemed to relate to my own, until, after reaching in to my large purse, a pair of Polartec gloves and a cell phone surfaced. Beginning on the Mississippi meant paddling against the current and going into uncharted lands. Risks included weather and wary Native Americans. Clark, a master map maker, drew up the first ones for the area, while here I stand looking at an over illustrated map or notes jotted down from Google to find my way around. Our journeys do not compare.

After all of that history and seriousness, my next stop provided the needed fun break. Though closed, the repair crew of the City Museum did not mind my wondering, or crawling and climbing, around the place. This odd wonderland, filled with caves, sculptural metal work, stairs, slides, fish, whales, and other recycled oddities, developed in the mind of Cassilly. When I emerged from the spiral stairs onto a maze of metal framing, Al, the organ repair guy, greeted me with a look of surprise. However, he did not mind the unexpected visitor, and thoroughly described the acquisition of a 1920’s organ and its adoption into the museum. A computer screen built into the organ played songs on command, and Al pressed some buttons to start a French march. Not only did the organ pips blow, but other bells, whistles, and drums completed the soundtrack. I never quite understood what tears of joy meant until listening to this musical wonder on a cloudy afternoon.

After our conversations, he pointed me up the stairs, providing directions to the slide which traveled from the tenth floor to the third. After minutes of climbing I found it and went down. And down. And down. So down, I finally slide out in front of Al. A failed attempt to stand up gathered a laugh as he mentioned this was a common reaction.

While continuing on my way, admiring the sculptural, decorative, and imaginative qualities, I could only suppose the place filled with kids and parents. Luckily, this first visit did not contain such distractions.

With my shoes back on the St. Louis streets, not up hundreds of feet in the air or descending down a multilevel slide, a safe feeling surged. Well, until arriving at my hotel, where the elevator soared up at the press of a button to the twentieth floor. At least I am not afraid of heights.

Photos: Union Station

Photos: City Museum

Photo: The Arch

Is This HomeMade?

Down the street from Amy’s apartment building cheerfully sat HomeMade Pizza Co., all windows lit up and customers waiting. Many residents in her building recommended the place even though they never took home a hot pizza or even a mildly warm one. All pizzas remained frozen until the customer cooked it in their oven for approximately 15 minutes at 425 degrees Fahrenheit.

We decided to test it out ourselves, seeing if any discrepancies in texture, taste, or timing would result from the process. Our Sweet Onion and Sausage pizza, though frozen, contained fresh ingredients. Furthermore, custom frozen pizza, with choices in topping and crust, were also available.

Ding! First bite.

Not bad! With the crispy thin crust, cheese not too greasy, and sausage tender, approving mmms sang around the table. Their Pear and Walnut salad evened out the meal as we added slices to our plates and picked off leftover cheese from the serving dish. Luckily all went well, for my thank you card contained a gift certificate to HomeMade.

HomeMade Pizza Co. serves Illinois, Minnesota, and Washington D.C. Also offers cookies ready to bake and all-natural ice cream for dessert. Visit their website - http://www.homemadepizza.com/

Photos: Tiffany Domes at the Cultural Center

Photos: Marshall Fields (now Macys)

Look Up

Ceilings do not usually grab my attention. Whenever retesting this notion, forgetting my previous experiences, a glowing white expanse looks down with interruptions of lighting fixtures or piping to confirm its uneventful temperament. And when I see a drop ceiling, a tear falls for all under its covering. Please raise the roof and get rid of it!

Many too concerned with where their feet tread neglect to look up, and forget that a ceiling replaces the commanding sky or foliage covering. With meticulous patterning, and glowing sensations, everyday worries pose no match for the Tiffany domes and ceiling mosaics of Chicago, which are truly remarkable displays of glasswork and tiling.

Marshall Fields, now Macys, enjoys a mosaic of Tiffany glass over its lingerie department. Now, my inquiry falls on if the placement of this particular department purposefully occurred. Maybe planners found the lace and frill a great complement to the mosaic’s artistry or thought the irony irresistible. Nonetheless, my camera clicked away, keeping its focus on the shimmering blue tiles, ornate detailing, and hanging amber-colored lanterns.

The next location to view these glass skies, a former library and current Cultural Center, did not pose surroundings with such amusements. However, only my imagination could conjure the feeling of studying and reading under such a crafted display. Resembling a cool sky, the first dome swirled with light blue glass toward a more intricately laid center. Mosaic walls and molding supported its expression, and little lights lined the dome for glints and glistens. Around the corner and though a couple of rooms, the second dome floated overhead, comprised of greens, yellows, and peach colored glass arranged in abstract floral patterns.

Now, how much would this cost and would I be able to have one for myself? In the news, a Vermont church offered its stained glass window, a spectacular nine foot presentation of Tiffany work, to bidders expecting sixty to eighty thousand dollars return. My soul couldn’t buy one of those domes! And no matter- if installed in a little Boston apartment, no room would be left to sleep. Chicago, you win, but I’ll be back.

Photos: Christkindlmarket Food

Photos: Lincoln Park Conservatory Train

Photos: Lincoln Park Conservatory

Chicago Cold!

A huge scarf stuffed in the corner of my suitcase finally came out to battle Chicago’s twenty degree weather with Amy, My Valentine’s sister. Cold commonly plagues the East Coast, but with fine days in Jackson and high temperatures in New Orleans, no previous experience prepared me for this shock. Winter’s first snow flurries floated down the night before as if to say - this is how we do it in Chicago!

Wow, thank you for the warm welcome.

Photos: Chicago At Night

Until Someone Shows You

Today marks the halfway point of the train the trip and so far I’ve seen unexpected hospitality and generosity from strangers, friends, and family. It took time for me to get used to this, almost confused at first. My social tendencies lean toward a quiet curiosity, usually avoiding longer bouts of conversation or involvement. Going solo required an adaptation of an approachable, chatty, and animated butterfly than a closed mouth, independent go getter.

And it wasn’t until numerous people treated me with this degree of consideration that I understand or now hope to show others the same. So if I ever get back to the East Coast, come over and I’m entertaining and cooking for everyone!

Photo: End of the Line

Safety First

Though the train from Chicago to St. Louis marked my sixth ride, finding the last car never pinged my curiosity until now. It did not start off as a deliberate mission, one more or less found as I went for my walk from car to car. One of the advantages to train travel is the ability to move. When boredom knocks or crying kids strike my nerves, a good walk either to the café car or another passenger car cures the irritating stings. For some reason I realized on this walk that an end to the train existed and the countdown to its discovery commenced.

Tick, tick.

Completely filled with passengers, my car did not reflect the train’s actual capacity. The train cars leading to the end held less and less people, until the last three cabins contained three or less passengers. Little white lies were told via the announcements emphasizing that every available seat must remain clear because the train will be full. After observing this pattern on multiple rides, my advice stands - don’t believe this unless it’s the holidays.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

On the last train, there sat the ticket collectors, the door to the end rattled behind their seats. Of course no one else occupied the cabin and their items decorated surrounding rows. Casually passing by, the coast seemed clear until the opening woosh of the door to the outside stirred one of them to turn around and exclaim,

“Hey, what are you doing? You cannot go out there for the risk of your safety!”

I knew he would ruin the party. All in a days work I guess for a working authority figure.

Tock.

Question du Jour

“Are you a runaway?”

Run! for the Jatran

Jackson's one form of public transportation--a bus system under the name of Jatran--is not the model of perfection, with frequent and finicky tendencies. So when the one I needed sat at a stop light on the other side of the street, there I went running across four lanes of traffic, wrapping my arm around my backpack to keep it from jumping around. While inserting my $1.50 fee, the bus driver looked over and laughed, commenting on my daring dash.

Bus Driver: Ha, you went for it.
Whirlway: Oh yeah, no way this bus was going to leave without me.

With hair dyed blond hair from her original black, slightly curled, the bus driver sat fancy, yelling back and forth with regular riders.

Rider 1: Hey, turn the heat down.
Bus Driver: Turn it off?! Ha, you’d better take your coat off!

Rider 2: Working overtime?
Bus Driver: Yep, I’ve been drafted!

And at 2:00pm, after a tour of northern Jackson, the bus opened its doors onto Union Station, and with a thank you wave, I jumped off.

Photos: The Oaks