everyone_is_here crOwl there's a scene in the old film, fiddler on the roof, where the father is saying goodbye to his daughter and they are waiting for her train to come in the middle of the desolate russian wilderness. "god only knows when i will see you again," she says to him. i remembered that as we stood in the shelter at the tiny greensburg, pennsylvania train station. snow swirling outside the small glass booth. we had just had a bon voyage dinner with dave and hilary at red star and they stood a few last moments with us before we rode the elevator to the tracks. kathy and greta bid me to have a look while we waited, now just the three of us, so i braved the frigid wind to check if i could see the light of its impending approach. it was fifteen minutes late. when it fianlly arrived and we hurried to board, dragging our heavy luggage like some unwanted burden, it felt like a great iron beast had stopped, tearing the air with its hissiing, squealing feet because it had smelled us and then swallowed us without hesitation. the coach conductor offered his scripted greeting, his words mingling with a waft of snowflakes and steam and urged us up and inside, so we nervously moved through the belly of the beast trying to find an open place amongst the placid travelers unwilling to give up their empty seats, who already seemed under the spell of the unraveling darkness. moments later, we too sighed with the acquisition of our temporary home and settled in for the first step along this new adventure, the long, ten hour ride to chicago. 050318 ... skinny heaven... everyone would be there smiling fondly they'd get fed up with me, eventually, though i'm sure 050318 ... crOwl why does someone take the train cross-country instead of flying? nearly a three day journey compared to a quick, five hour jaunt? we had our reasons. we have already flown several times, took the greyhound twice and even drove by car twice. it's been fifteen years since kathy has been back to california and since becoming a mother she would rather keep her feet on the ground. however, as i settled into my surprisingly comfortable seat, plugged the g4 laptop into the outlet running along the sidewall and slapped the bose headfones over my ears to watch the march issue of paste magazine's free dvd, i looked around and wondered what my fellow travelers would say if i asked them the same question. i would soon find out. kathy and greta were sharing a seat across from me and the passenger in front of them, an african-american man on his way to pittsburgh from philadelphia had already given them his read-through, worn-paged people magazine. i always have to keep my eye on dudes and their seemingly casual advances around her. she's beautiful and those brown eyes are like magnets. but, i'm the one she loves. i'm her husband of 25 years. i'm the father of her three daughters. we've made the trip to pittsburgh so many times, thousands actually, but the first time ever by train. already, at just the first stop of many to come, i had the initial taste of the passive observer, beholding such a familiar place with the sense of what it must be like to just visit and i must say, as the forward momentum slowed and the cityscape presented itself, reflected bridgelights on shimmering rivers, i was proud of it. pittsburgh...the most under-rated city in the country. america's best kept secret. 050319 ... unhinged i've lived in the rust belt my entire life. we try to give ourselves some beauty to look at so we can forget how we were abandoned. abandoned by industry, the government, tourism. the common human thread of pride and depression holding us together when the rest of the country forgot that we used to make the raw material of skyscrapers towering over their heads as they bustled from place to place. dead steel towns trying to find a new way to survive. most of us failing miserably held together by our desperation. love is different here because we all understand immutably what it's like to be abandoned. hanging on by a thread, struggling to eat, the ass end of a consumerist capitalist nation. eastern ohio, western pennsylvania, northern west virginia, the armpit of america. i can walk down the streets with a tear in my eye and see the compassion of mutual disease. everyone is crying here. 050319 ... crOwl at the pittsburgh stop several people exited and were replaced with fresh passengers, their eyes wide, searching for seats. when we started up again it seemed there was more emptiness than before. i had to switch to a place behind greta because i realized with no light coming from the side of the computer that my outlet wasn't working. i had been using battery power the whole time. the left side of the train's electricity, however, was functioning. kind of like the right side and left side of my brain. kathy took my old seat so now we all had our own bed to fall asleep. i watched pillow book, a bethany suggested, unusual film by peter greenaway about a chinese girl's obsession to recreate her childhood memories as calligraphical tattoos on her body and the willing bodies of those she approved. there were times when my 12" screen must have been an attractive light in the darkness to those stumbling to the snack car or cramped bathroom and unfortunately, i would have been momentarily embarrassed by what visions they might have caught if they stole a glance. let me just say that ewan mcgregor's early career had no restraints on full frontal nudity. as the ohio river raced beside us, i tried to sleep when the dvd was finally over, but the tiny, tissue covered pillow the coach conductor pulled from a plastic bag and gave us just never seemed to provide enough comfort. i tried laying down across the seat using the arm rest to prop my weary head, but the old woman traveling to kansas across and one down from me kept coughing like a chicken, yanking me from the smallest snippet of sleep i managed to fall into. suddenly, around 1:oo am they must have turned the heat off, thinking we wouldn't notice since we were supossed to be dozing in la la land, so i used my suede coat as a blanket and struggled to gain a condusive position to trick myself into thinking there was enough comfort to snooze. the chicken lady's coughing ceased and was replaced by a soft snoring which must have been tolerable, because, believe it or not, i was able to shiver into what i could proudly call a dream. 050320 ... crOwl someone must have complained to the conductor about the unexpected chill because the heat came on and the indoor temperature dramatically changed to an uncomfortable warm. it was actually a voice that woke me, gravelly and insensitive and i think it was coming from the one whose grievance was responsible for the abrupt alteration. my back hurt like hell from laying like a wet noodle over the arm rest. and so, i creaked to a sitting position, remembering someone banged my head during the night. i guess it served me right for thinking i could take advantage of the common space of the aisle. blinking at the light of the fragile dawn from the spacious window to my left, fields, distant woods, and suburban sprawl gradually coming into focus, i followed the sound of this bombastic vociferation to find it belonged to a peculiar looking man about three seats up to my right. i always think it is so funny and perhaps even more so sad to see how older men try to hide their baldness. why not just shave it down to a neat buzz or simply wear a hat? toupees are instantly recognizable and wigs are utterly ridiculous, especially the one this dude was sporting. he looked like the grandfather of lloyd christmas in dumb and dumber. i'm totally serious. kathy and greta were awake by now and we exchanged incredulous glances as the cantankerous old clown rambled on to who knows who, maybe the hot air itself. his main subject was the cold and hot fluctuations and then he started to rail (no pun intended) on amtrak itself, how it was going out of business, and how the government was unwilling to foot the bill which we later discovered was crap talk. i noticed someone on his left, a young man with cool, black rectangle specs and a pony tail was the one he seemed to be directing his meaningless diatribe to, although the kid never responded. even if he did, i doubt if it would have been heard. there's some people who just have to let their fermented thoughts become words and then foul the air. as we passed by the southside of chicago and kaminski park, the jagged skyline and the massive sears tower came into view. our train neared union station and came to a stop, taking its turn with other trains departing or arriving. the codger, who had been openly sharing his plans for the day which included being picked up by a military helicopter and whisked off to nebraska, um, ok, and then back in time to catch the evening train back to pittsburgh, then started to criticize the engineer for driving the train backwards. "what the hell is he DOING?" i felt bad for him. i wondered why he was alone. was there anyone he was going back home to? we shook our heads, raised our eyebrows, and gathered our bags from the overhead compartments. the first half of our journey to california was over. we would have a considerable layover in the windy city and then board the southwest chief to los angeles. 050321 ... crOwl amtrak provides helpful service employees called redcaps who drive small vehicles a little bigger and longer than golf carts with extensive storage space to haul people and their cumbersome luggage from the train, along the narrow expanse next to the tracks, and then into the station. they show up and are available on a first come, first serve basis as the train is deboarding. when we found one his cart was already filled with takers, but he said he had room for our luggage and would haul it and meet us at the amtrak lounge, a waiting facility provided for first class ticket-holders, which we now were for the remainder of the trip. so, we carried the laptop and digital camera ourselves and walked the hundred yards in between trains and next to fellow passengers, our minds on connections and what we would do until it was time to make them. union station, built in 1913, is grand and breathtaking with its monumental neoclassical architecture and beaux-arts waitng room. back in the day it used to handle 3oo trains and 1oo, oo passengers daily. it's massive and the newer metroplex is quite condusive for the traveler, offering an exstensive food court, bars, newstands, and easy access to the city itself with a long row of waiting taxis along jackson and canal streets. we reached the lounge easy enough by just following the ample signage, but had to wait considerably for the redcap to arrive, wondering if we might have miscommunicated. i stood, a bundle of nerves and energy, in between the help desk and the lounge doors just watching people and listened to the questions they asked. it was a melting pot of cultures and types, but, i continue to find we're all the same. we worry if we're doing things right. we want someone to help us be assured that we are fine, safe, and alive. when our bags finally arrived, the redcap helped me put them in a locked storage room, speaking chicagoese. i tipped him for his gracious efforts and he thanked me, explaining to me in detail what our next steps would be when preparing to reboard. the lounge was spacious, quiet, cozy, and provided free drinks, snacks, and a television. we could have easily hung out there until it was time to board our new train, but chicago was happy to see us again and she wanted us to come out and play. 050322 ... crOwl pushing through the heavy glass doors, we made our unencumbered way into the brisk morning sunshine to canal st. where at least fifteen taxis sat bumper to bumber like mothers waiting for their children to come out of school. which one to choose? is there proper etiquette for selection? kathy's idea made the most sense. so we took the first one in line. it was a van driven by an african american with a quiet demeanor. we told him we wanted to go to filter, a wireless cafe. but he had no idea what we were talking about. he wanted a street location. but we didn't remember it. "wicker park and bucktown?" i asked. "milwaukee, damen, and north?" he answered. "that's it," i said, relieved to remember. the meter starts at $2.oo. there must have been a crackdown on how taxi drivers take their customers the long, winding, time-consuming way to their destinations because last year, we never had a fare under $1o.oo. this time we arrived super fast and it totaled around $6.oo. this particular driver had little to say, responding with one word or simple phrase answers in his soft spoken, accented english. yet, most importantly, after weaving in and out of the erratic, zig-zagging traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions from every angle, he dropped us off right in front of our favorite place. flooded with natural light, filter is a mecca for those hipsters desiring loud music with their espresso, where you can eat a pesto laced sandwich or dip a sweet potato fry into a spicy dip while sitting on a retro couch. we go for all those things plus the wireless, even though you have to buy a password card for 3 bucks an hour. it was packed as usual, its square tables and mismatched chairs taken by singles hunched over laptops while framed abstract art hung on the walls above them. we ordered from the vast chalkboard menu featuring everything from organic fruited smoothies to lobster tacos and the tattooed counter girl with jet black bangs and a punk t-shirt was happy and smiley to comply. i'm always glad when a place has green machine, the superfood. we found a couch open next to the window facing north avenue, the same place we sat last year. kathy had wireless business to attend to and so i snuck a few fotos. above the cafe is an artist's loft called the flat iron where the approachable locals pre-order food and slither down to refuel and mix with the college crowd and independants ferociously typing away. i ducked into the tiny co-ed bathroom which was graffitti-friendly and peeled away a sticker to slap in my journal. here's what it said: "the degree to which you resist is the degree to which you are free." ~utah phillips i looked this dude up and it turns out he is a nationally known folk artist, singer/story-teller, grammy award nominee for his work with ani difranco,and host of his own radio show, loafer's glory: the hobo jungle of the mind. 050323 ... crOwl kathy, dealing with customer requests and questions via e-mail, urged me to buy another hour of wireless time and some lunch for her, so i set my journal down and stepped past a couple sucking cigarettes, cooly exhaling their smoke into the music drenched air like 192o hollywood noir film stars, sharing the same comfy chair. she with a scarf cast around her neck. he with british boy-band hair. i ended up eating half of the tuscan goat cheese sandwich kathy couldn't finish and that's when we decided to go on our separate adventures. we still had three hours until we had to be back at union station, plenty of time to frolic. she and greta were determined to find some diesel clothes and set out on a walking bucktown search, dipping into a few eclectic boutiques, while i opted to go solo, do a repeat performance of last year and stroll the invigorating sunshine and trash strewn sidewalks to the greatest shoppe in all of the world: quimby's. have you ever had the priviledge of reading a home-made zine? an absolute labour of literary love that someone in some small corner of the vast world infused with every ounce of creative zeal, filling it with personal drawings, memories of childhood, stories, lyrics, propaganda, rants, raves, faves, disturbing images, poetry, prose, and every imaginable form of expression possible? if not, get your hands on one as soon as possible or better yet, make one yourself and then think what it would be like if you could enter a place where you could discover and purchase not only one similar to it, but thousands of them, all done in a thousand different ways. see them lined up on shelves reaching to the ceiling, set out liberally for your uninhibited perusal. reach out, select one, let the title strike a match in your soul. open it up and feel the fire burn. for the next hour, that's what i did. quimby's, what chicago's metromix calls a "bastion of unabashed expression." is also an alternative press book shoppe/counter-culture extraordinaire. it copiously stocks publications by writers like algren, bukowski, burroughs, and kerouac, at the same time offering the stuff of sedaris, chabon, eggers, vowell, and lamott. although i was bummed when they didn't have scott carrier's book, running after antelope, number one on my must read list. every title seems to carry the weight of careful consideration by the staff, offered for the edification and stimulation of their customers. no meaningless junk or syrupy sap. no spam or flim flam. no prosaic puff. just the essential, spirit-breathed reads and gut-rousing foto journals that guarantee hours and days of interpretative pleasure. there also exists a plethora of international graphic novels and a pirate's booty and collector's bounty of old and new comix, featuring undeground illustrators like chris ware and r. crumb. i moved like a studiously depraved snail slithering from packed aisle to stuffed aisle leaving not a trail of slime but a wake of wonder and inspiration from countless angles. sometimes i wish i could be a hundred people and live a hundred different lives. there just isn't enough time to read the books that are tugging at my arm or write the stories that are begging to be written. some theatrical punk music was playing in the background. last year when we visited, kathy asked the same girl who was working this day who it was and we ended up buying it in pittsburgh, a band called flaming fire. this particular mix was slightly different, featuring a rowdy boys choir. i was basically alone in the shoppe, except for two others who came in, lingered a bit, and then left. i asked the girl, who was busy making fone call orders if they sold t-shirts. "no," she said, because the owner would make me wear it like a uniform." kathy and greta came in and i couldn't believe my time was already up. they had been to a store aptly called, untitled, but none of the diesel clothes fit greta. they also stopped in reckless records. kathy always falls in love with the music that is playing in a store but they never seem to have it. last year it was trad gras stenar, a phish-like band from sweden and she had to again get it at paul's in pittsburgh. greta bought the used dvds of spaceballs and evil dead2. with so much i could have purchased, i settled on a copy of fader magazine because my patagonia bag was already oveflowing with great reads. we exited, our eyes squinting in the mid-afternoon sun. we walked down milwaukee avenue for a bit, planning another trip here. there's just way too much to do and see in chicago. it demands a proper, unadulterated week-end. 050324 ... crOwl greta and kathy were nervous about getting back, counting on me to flag down a taxi, a task that is easy, as long as you don't cut it close which we weren't by any means... believe me that was always the main concern: getting to the train on time. kathy said she had a nightmare back in our bed at robin hill, that i was delayed, missed the train and she had no choice but to leave me behind and she kept trying to catch a different train to get back to me. we gave ourselves a considerable cushion, enough to nap in if we so desired. i simply directed us to the corner of milwaukee and north and we stood less than five minutes with the bucktown hipsters strolling by in the sunshine that the buildings didn't block until i spotted a cab, raised my arm, and he pulled over. just like magic. our driver was another slightly accented african-american, but this one was much more talkative and friendly. after we told him we needed to go to union station, he listened to our small talk about the vw bug we saw pass us and then surprised us by requesting us to solve a puzzle with him. we were definately up for it and its premise was simple. "in what country of africa do they call the vw a tortoise?" he asked, his small dread locks swishing a bit as he turned his head to the back seat where we sat cramped, three in a row with the laptop and camera bags. he explained we each had two guesses. kathy went first and guessed rwanda and kenya. he seemed excited that we were playing and so willingly. he put us in suspense at times when we offered up our selections, fooling us to think we might be right, like when i said mozambique and especially when i said cameroon. he told me it was the closest that anyone had ever come. i thought, yeah right, that's what you tell all your riders. when it was greta's turn, he gave her a huge, perfect, white-teethed smile and teased her into trying. she's not real good on african geography so i whispered her some tries, and she said them aloud, ivory coast and chad, which unfortunately were both wrong. turns out the correct answer was nigeria, the country he was from originally. they call it the tortoise because of the shape he said. so we talked a bit more about his life there and the foods he ate. he left when he was college age and went to greece for a while, then italy, finally came to new york, and then settled in chicago to raise his family, now three teen-agers he's able to send to private schools in chicago. we hadn't even thought about the drive there. he pulled up right along jackson st. in front of the train station, much faster than we figured and we got out, all of us wishing the short ride was a little longer. we are all stars colliding, bright flashes of momentary light, illuminating the surrounding darkness and then settling down again to pinholes once more. 050325 ... crOwl with nearly forty-five minutes until we could board the southwest chief to los angeles, we relaxed a bit in the lounge on their comfy chairs and couches, noticing a few passengers from our other train. while kathy and greta read, i downed a few glasses of ice water. i was still parched for some reason and drank like a camel. the dude with the cool glasses and the ponytail that we first saw when we were getting off the train came over and sat near us. his name was bobby was with his friend gary. they were on their way from altoona, pennsylvania, which is only an hour from robin hill, to needles, california. their journey included catching a bus to las vegas where they would eventually pick up a car, which was a gift from gary's grandmother and then drive it back home. we laughed together about the crazy old man with the dumb and dumber wig. bobby said he kept him awake all night with his prattle. any time he even got close to sleep, the codger erupted with a new spew of caustic words. kathy told them about the black man in front of her and the talk she overheard him having with a girl soldier who just returned from iraq with tales about saddam hussein's misogynous rampages, how he would order his army to enter and pillage obscure villages and mercilessly lop off the breasts of women. bobby showed us cellfone fotos of his four year-old son, jareth, who loves to make-up stories about knights and use his sword in the woods. we asked them what they did during the layover. they climbed the sears tower, the tallest building in the world i think, which really frightened bobby, and someone offered to sell them drugs right out in front of the station. when it came time to get our luggage out of storage, the overhead announcement informed us our new train would be an hour late. too bad we didn't know that earlier, i thought. i would have loved another hour in quimby's. instead i learned a few new cultural tidbits from fader magazine. like youth-ologist ed templeton has a new book called, the contagion of possibility. he's the king of glossy art impressionable yougsters. also, if you live near baltimore and love to read, heads up! every week-end 1o,ooo books are given away by a non-profit group that knows reading is cool. (bookthing.org) there's a joanna newsom article called magic everyday, the bizarre antony and the johnsons, the return of the queens of the stone age, mars volta, and the fashion of erotokrito and silas. check them out. 050326 ... crOwl when the ok was finally given for us to board, there was a mad dash to the storage area and red caps were gobbled up ferociously. we ended up being able to let our bags take a ride, stuffing them on the cart, while we trudged onwards, joining others like ourselves, excited to continue the trip cross country. our tickets deemed us first class passengers, which meant we no longer had to ride in coach with the wig wearing crankers, chicken coughers, and crying babies. but now were the priviledged occupants of a private sleeping car. the immediate difference of class distinction was relevant and obvious even when our bags arrived. we were amicably greeted by a service conductor, named joan, dressed in the tradtional blue and white, her hair stuffed under a cap. she helped carry our awkward bags to a secluded area on the first floor of our car and then led us up a narrow, twisting staircase to our berth. it had a slick, sliding door and a curtain and when the three of us first entered the tiny room, we looked at each other and nearly laughed at how compressed it was, wondering how we would endure two days in such cramped quarters. although, the fact that we were not moving and parked under the dark union station garage had a lot to do with our unavoidable feeling of confinement. later, when we would eventually embark, the space would seem to grow with the additon of changing scenery through the large plate glass viewing window and another window on the other side looking through the door. we looked around. in one corner was our own toilet and shower. across from that was a small sink, mirror, and compartments for toiletries. in the main space was a chair, a tiny pull down table and a couch that converted into a bed with a bunk bed that was convertable when needed. joan's voice came over the internal intercom within the first fifteen minutes of our acclimation. soothing, calm, and bordering on the semi-erotic, we giggled as she welcomed us and explained our ammentites and the advantages of our first class position, offering turn down service, and "if there is anything i can do to make your trip better, please let me know." it was hilarious. whether it was us dealing with our nervous energy or because we just couldn't believe how comic it sounded, kathy and i simply lost it. it would be the first time in many that i would do the father/daughter embarrassment thing. actually i doubt if that was the first time. i probably did it earlier. i don't always realize when i'm a dork, as greta tends to define me. 050327 ... crOwl joan also mentioned that the dining car, two cars down from ours, would be serving dinner starting at 5:3opm and would be sending a representative to ask what time we would like to make our reservation. moments later, the dining staff member came by, knocked on our door and when he gave us the choice amongst 45 minute intervals, we selected 7:45. however, not long after he left, the conductor came on the intercom and said there was a "situation" they were dealing with and that if all could be resolved, the train would be able to leave the station shortly. the vagueness is what weirded me out. i wish they would have been clearer with their explanation, leaving us instead to our anxious imaginations, which tended to border on the what if we're stuck in chicago mentality. for something to pass the time, we tried to make calls on the cellfone which were impossible to complete because we were stuck in the garage and had no freaking signal. what to do but chill and wait for dinner? there was no hurry actually. what can sticks floating on a stream do when they get stuck anyway? wishes do come true, though, because the conductor's voice came back over the intercom and gave us the juicy details on our delay. seems the norfolk train traffic controller's union went on strike and their walk-out was preventing any trains from using their tracks, not just their freight trains, but amtrak passenger trains as well. however, federal law states in case of a rail strike, the government can step in and say, wait a minute, let our choo choo go on your tracks, a mediation between authorities and union reps which would require another three hours to constitute. let's see, we were supposed to roll at 3:45pm. oh really? our new, estimated departure was 9:oopm! 050328 ... crOwl home-made christmas gifts that take a whole year to complete is just something i do, always have, ever since the girls were little. i made several board games, card games, illustrated storybooks, wooden toys, (kathy made dolls) and now as two are out of the house, its collage books, and the project for hilary this year which i took with me on the train to work on is a handwritten form of cadeau_de_vous in a beautiful, handmade paper, nepalese journal. that's what i was doing while we waited for dinner. finally, the james earl jones like voice came on. "if you made a 7:45 dinner reservation, please proceed to the dining car." oh yeah! it was funny to see kathy prepare for the big night out of the tiny room. spritzing water in her hair, blow drying it in front of the "bathroom" mirror, applying a touch of make-up. greta wore her plaid newsboy hat backwards. i just slipped my docs on. we walked past the omnipresent coffeepot, its inviting smell lingering in the narrow hallway, along another sleeper car on our way. the rooms, minus an internal toilet and shower were even smaller than ours. i could catch a slight vision of my fellow travelers in various positions of repose and recline, some playing cards, others reading books, zines or newspapers, or snoozing, or listening to something from headfones. i loved the way the doors slid open in between cars. you pressed on a rectangular, black button and they peeled back to the left to allow you entrance. very slick, sucking air and swooshy sounding, the stuff of science fiction. the trio that worked in the dining car were all african-americans and upon our initial meeting super nice. the cozy booths sat four which meant we would usually have a single person seated with us, a stanger that would rapidly become an aquaintance, although not this particular time. the tables had white-paper tablecloths, but real silverware, plates, and cups. the car itself had large windows at the side of each table to provide an ever-changing view, but unfortunately for this dinner all we saw was black space. our waiter, a charismatic, pleasant-smiled man named winston macintosh did his best to cheer us up considering the circumstnces of our delay and succeeded with flying colors. he had a slight accent and as he attended to and amused a table of europeans across from us, i heard a woman ask him if he spoke portuguese and so i found out later he was from guyana, attended school in new york, but lived now in los angeles. he charmed the socks off kathy, no doubt gravitating towards her beauty like every man does. when he asked us where we were going and we told him los angeles, he nonchalantly schmoozed, "what movie are you working on now?" the dinner was surprisingly tasty. actually delicious. i had the salmon with a couple glasses of california chardonnay. kathy's filet medallions melted in her mouth. greta picked at her pasta. for dessert i had what would become a standard for me. organic apple pie ala mode. dude! yum! every dessert from then on. it got to be that i didn't even have to tell them. they just knew. while we were at dinner, joan had turned down our beds which virtually removed all the space we had, restricting us to one seat and all bed. it was 9:oopm by then and yet our train still didn't move and no explanation from the conductor. we couldn't help but wonder what hotel they would bus us to. kathy played solitaire on the table insufficient for her cards, while greta and i watched donnie darko uncut on the laptop that we plugged into the outlet beside the sink. as usual, i fell asleep sitting up. "dad!" greta yelled. after the second time she would nudge me. the third time she just let me go. but that's nothing new for us. i always end up seeing most movies in bits and pieces. finally, at 9:35, the conductor was pleased to announce an agreement had been reached with norfolk and the tracks were open out of chicago for us to proceed westward. i climbed up to the top bunk. kathy and greta shared the bottom one. it felt so good to just lay down flat and to surrender to the new adventure now beginning. 050329 what's it to you? who go blather from