Will Rogers State Beach, near Sunset Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway in Los Angeles
Just days before Brad's injury I finalized plans to make a second trip out to California. I had arranged to take a personal day the last day of school and had gotten a good deal on airfare to Palm Springs, which would have been the second closest airport to the Mavericks' ballpark in Adelanto. When Brad broke his wrist and it was clear he would not be playing until June, it seemed silly to make a second trip to basically watch him sit on the bench. I had a plane ticket, though, and while it technically could have been refunded, the fee to do so would have amounted to forfeiting more than half the fare. I decided I might as well take a real vacation and see some of the things out west that I'd wanted to see since I was a little boy. I kept my plans and made my trip--I just didn't go anywhere near Adelanto.
* * * * *
I left Algona precisely at 1pm (the town whistle was blowing as I left) and set out south on highway 169. The crops were just starting to pop up, which gave the countryside a soft green tint-so much nicer than the bare gray ground of springtime.
It was very windy today, at times requiring two hands to keep the car on a straight course. I wondered whether this might affect plane travel. My fears were relieved a bit by seeing contrail after contrail criss-crossing the sky. It made me think back to September 12, 2001, the day after the awful attacks on New York and Arlington. I remember going to a cross-country meet over in Clear Lake that day. The sky was bright blue and cloudless, and it was absolutely eerie to look up and see not a single contrail anywhere. I remember this past fall going to that same meet in Clear Lake on another clear blue day. I made a point of looking skyward again, and I must say it was reassuring to see a few of those soft white streaks of smoke. I suppose they're really nothing more than air pollution, but they're part of my world, and it's good to see them in the place where they belong.
Today would have been my father's eighty-second birthday--a mind-boggling thought if ever I had one. Like so many people who die suddenly, my father is frozen in my mind (and probably in everyone else's) just as he was when he died. I never thought of my father as a young man. He was well into middle age when I was born, and he only aged from there. He was bald with a fringe of gray pretty much my whole life, and he always walked with a bit of a stoop. By the time I was in college, he was sixty years old, and he acted it. He was still reasonably active, though, and while he had talked of retirement I really can't imagine him old. He's been gone my whole adult life; it's amazing to think that it will be twenty years ago this Christmas he was killed. As I drove along and thought of my father, the strains of "In the Garden" kept going through my head. Honestly I've never cared for that hymn. We have a weekly "hymn by request" at our church, and it's one the elderly members of the congregation frequently ask for. I sort of roll my eyes every time it comes up and politely mouth the words. It's weird to think that were my parents around, they would be those old people in the church congregation. "In the Garden" was one of their favorite hymns, too--I think the whole "greatest generation" must have loved it. I remember my father resenting the fact that it didn't appear in the 1964 Methodist hymnal (the hymnal when I was growing up), and he constantly sang along to George Beverly Shea's rendition of it on scratchy old LP records. I'm sure it was in my parents' honor that "In the Garden" kept coming into my head today.
The trip down to Des Moines went very quickly. In my mind this should be a three-hour trip; in fact, it wasn't much over two. I do that a lot with distances. It mostly goes back to the fact that I started driving back when the speed limit was 55 mph everywhere, even on the interstate. Being a young driver with expensive insurance (and then being suddenly thrust into adulthood when my parents died), the last thing I wanted to do was get a speeding ticket, so I pretty much religiously obeyed the speed limit. That wasn't that unusual; everyone drove slower back in '70s and early '80s. Today, of course, no one seems to drive 55 even on roads where that is the posted speed limit. Just today a highway patrol vehicle passed me north of Humboldt when my speedometer showed 62. You get there faster when you drive faster, but in my mind it should still take the same time it took at 55.
* * * * *
I exited onto Fleur Drive ... and drove north about a mile and a half to Des Moines International Airport. As far as I could tell from the schedule, the only "international" destination you can fly from here is Winnipeg, and if you flew there you'd probably go through U.S. customs before departing Canada on the return trip. I suppose having "international" in the name makes them sound more like a big city, though.
Just past old Army Post Road I turned left into the airport's economy lot. Parking here costs $4 a day. While that's more than the $2 they charge in Mason City, it compares favorably with the $8/day fee in the ramp adjacent to the terminal and is not even close to the fees they charge in Minneapolis or Chicago. The economy parking is a fair hike from the terminals, but it would be walkable in a pinch. There's really no reason to, though, as they have a shuttle that circulates between economy parking and the terminals every five minutes at any hour the airport is open.
The shuttle dropped me off right outside the United ticketing area. I walked inside and joined a short line of passengers who had far more problems checking in than I would. The person with the most problems was a college-aged Asian girl who had purchased a ticket on Priceline.com, a discount service I'd heard about more in connection with hotels than airplane tickets. Apparently Priceline essentially gives you a stand-by ticket rather than a confirmed reservation. The airline couldn't issue a boarding pass until they were certain the flight was not sold out (which would be half an hour prior to departure), and security regulations wouldn't let the woman check baggage or go to the gate area until she had a boarding pass. The woman was arguing that she had paid for her ticket. She had; the problem was that it wasn't a ticket for any specific flight-just for passage between two cities during a window of possible times. United would have to get her to her destination by the ultimate time shown on the ticket, but they didn't have to send her on the flight she preferred. What's more, if she had a complaint, her only recourse was though Priceline, because they issued the ticket-not the airline. It was interested to overhear the whole exchange, and it definitely proves you should read the fine print before committing to a major purchase.
The other people in line ahead of me were a mother and her adult daughter. I don't know where they were flying, but it didn't require a passport. It apparently did require taking all their worldly possessions, though. They each checked two enormous suitcases (they might as well have been steamer trunks), and they each had a "stewardess" bag and a huge purse to carry on the plane. The guy at the desk alluded to "your return trip next Thursday", which means they'd be gone a week. I can't imagine who could possibly need so much luggage for just a week.
I myself had a single duffel bag with clothes and a small briefcase (one we had been given as a Christmas gift years ago at school) that contained my semester tests from Garrigan. The man at the desk seemed surprised that I didn't plan to check anything, but he agreed that the bags I had would easily fit the carry-on allowance. The man looked at my identification (my passport, which is easier to keep available than a driver's license), punched a couple of keys on his computer, and gave me my boarding passes. He didn't even need my e-ticket confirmation; just my name was sufficient to finish the check-in process.
I didn't know what to expect at security, particularly since just yesterday the nationwide terror alert had been raised to "orange alert". ... I assumed the airport probably would care about the change, but really things didn't seem any different today than they did when I flew under yellow alert last month. Security was tight both times, and frankly I think it always should be.
Lots of people set off the metal detector and were called aside for individual searches. That didn't happen to me, but my carry-on bag was apparently suspicious. They removed the film I had in there and then returned it to be X-rayed again and again. It turned out the problem was that I had two zip-lock bags full of coins-mostly quarters, with a few dimes and nickels and some L.A. transit tokens. I always travel with lots of coins. I buy newspapers everywhere I go (usually two quarters a pop), I sometimes get drinks or snacks at vending machines (easily a dollar or more), and I also ride public transportation (the tokens, or several coins in fare). I'm not sure what the coins look like on the X-ray, but apparently it's not something they expect to see. I'm also not sure why they couldn't just do a hand search to confirm what they were, but they just sent them back and forth repeatedly through the X-ray. I can't imagine I'm the only person who brings coins with them when they travel, but you'd think they'd never seen them before at this airport. Eventually they decided the coins were not explosives or anything else unsavory and sent me on my way.
* * * * *
The Des Moines airport's website advises that you arrive two hours early for all flights, and with the orange alert I figured I should probably take that seriously. Needless to say, both check-in and security went quickly and I had almost two full hours to wait at the gate. I made my way to gate A-4, where absolutely no one else was waiting, and proceeded to grade the final exams from my advanced algebra class at Garrigan.
While I waited a flight arrived from Chicago. The passengers came through the jetway, and almost all of them were male. This was definitely a flight geared to businessmen, with probably sixty men and just a handful of women. The woman working at the gate paged a skycap to come to the gate with a wheelchair, since there was apparently someone needing assistance on the flight. No skycap showed, and eventually the flight crew came off and told her everyone was off. They double-checked, but apparently the "handicapped" person had walked off on their own. It wasn't until about fifteen minutes later (and after they had cancelled the page twice) that the skycap finally showed up.
After the flight crew was off the plane, a college-aged boy came rushing back to the gate. In a really panicked voice he explained that he had lost his wallet and he was hoping it might still be on the plane. The crew would not let him back on to search, but a flight attendant asked him what his seat number was. After a few minutes she came back with the wallet in hand. It had apparently had fallen out and was laying on the seat. The boy thanked her and quickly checked to make sure that his money (a sizeable amount of it) was still there. I'm glad things worked out for him.
The gate gradually filled as I continued grading trig tests. Finally around 5:40pm they began the boarding process for flight #761 to Denver. Next to the boarding gate they had a machine not unlike a subway turnstile. As each person came up they presented their identification and then gave their boarding pass to the attendant. She fed the magnetic-backed card into the front of the machine, which clunked around a bit and then spit out the receipt end of the ticket at the other end.
We left the gate at 5:50pm, fifteen minutes before our scheduled departure. There was no reason to dawdle, since everyone was on board. Indeed, every single seat on the plane was full. I pondered on this full plane exactly how it was that the airlines could be in financial trouble. United is literally bankrupt, and supposedly many other airlines are on the brink of insolvency. I knew what I was paying for this flight. I thought I got a good deal, so I assume others were paying similar fares. A quick scan through the 737 showed that they should have around $17,500 in income for this one flight. I have no idea what jet fuel costs or what they pay their employees. I would think, though, that it ought to be profitable to fly a plane that earned that much revenue. If it's not, then if you ask me they deserve to have the company go under.
We taxied forever on the ground in Des Moines. I'd swear we must have gone halfway to Nebraska before we finally turned around and took off toward the east. We climbed rapidly-as fast as I recall on any plane I've been on. Then we basically did a U-turn in the air and headed off to the west.
There was no meal on this flight, even though it was right at dinner time. ... Instead each passenger got a bag filled with half an ounce of cheddar-flavored party mix, barely enough to even fill your mouth once. We were also allowed to have one complimentary soft drink (or to purchase beer or wine for $5 a serving). The freebie drinks were served in plastic cups barely larger than a bathroom cup. Northwest and Continental had larger cups, and they also gave you the can so you could refill things yourself. Here I got only one tiny cup of ginger ale, and no refills-period.
Unlike most flights I've been on, here the attendants didn't push a drink cart through the aisle. Instead they first came around taking orders from everyone. Then they came back carrying the drinks on plastic trays that looked like muffin tins, with little places to put the cups hollowed out at the bottom. There were two coach class attendants (the third attendant served only the twelve first passengers on board). The one toward the front (a fifty-ish blonde woman) acted like she was memorizing the drink orders and never wrote anything down. When she brought out the drinks, though, she got almost everyone's order wrong. Fortunately I had the rear attendant (a very overweight black woman). She took orders on a pad like a waitress and made no mistakes in serving anyone.
We arrived in Denver nearly half an hour early, around 6:30 mountain time. I had about an hour and a half before my next flight, so I spent some time checking out the airport. The new Denver International Airport is weird. It's really not all that large of an airport (Minneapolis is definitely larger, and so is O'Hare), but it's ugly and not particularly convenient. The airport is literally out in the middle of nowhere, completely surrounded by farmland. There are no hotels or businesses anywhere remotely close. Denver has a light rail system, but it doesn't go out to the airport; I hate to think what the taxi fare to downtown (or to anywhere populated) must be. The place has three concourses which are each basically an enormously long hallway out in the middle of the tarmac. There is no ground-level connection between the concourses or the main terminal. That makes it easy for planes to navigate around all sides of all of them, but it means you need to take a special subway train to connect from one concourse to another; they don't even have underground passageways like O'Hare does. Each concourse has four sets of moving walkways running down the center, two in each direction. It makes sort of an express/local system, like you'd find on a big city freeway. The walkways move very fast. I nearly tripped as I was spit out the end of one of them. The gates are interspersed with shops and restaurants, but there's really not much of a selection-just the same stuff over and over again. While breaking the trip at almost exactly the halfway point made for two pleasantly short flights, given a choice in the future I'd connect at either Minneapolis or Chicago rather than flying through Denver again.
I ... looked for somewhere to eat [and] found a place called "¡Qué Bien!" which served highly stylized Mexican food. I had vegetarian tacos that were made with sautéed peppers and squash as well as a bottle of "tropical" Sprite. I guess that's something new the soft drink company has come up with. Instead of the vaguely citrus flavor Sprite normally has, this had a too-sweet tropical fruit flavor-probably mango or something like that. The tacos were good, but I won't be buying tropical Sprite again.
Once I'd finished dinner I had just a brief wait at gate B-59 before they started boarding flight 6861 to Palm Springs. We again gave our boarding passes to a woman at the gate who fed them into that turnstile-like device to let us proceed. This time, though, instead of going out to a jetway the door led to a staircase that went down and down and down. (There was also an elevator available for those who couldn't negotiate the stairs.) At the bottom were the so-called "lower gates", with names like 59-A, 59-B, etc. Each served flights to various second-rate cities around the West. I could have flown from here to Missoula, Durango, Flagstaff, Twin Falls, or Casper. the Palm Springs flight left from 59-E, a door that led straight out to the tarmac. I waited by the gate next to an elderly couple who had been escorted there in wheelchairs. They were concerned about how far they would have to go to get to the plane. Their view was toward a different direction, but I could easily see our plane. I assured them it was just a short walk (maybe 50 feet) from the door.
We chatted for quite a while as we waited by the lower gate. I found out that the couple's son was a commercial pilot, which made me think of the son of one of my fellow teachers who is trying to break into that career. The couple is apparently retired in Palm Springs, but they fly all over the country seeing their children and grandchildren. When they finally opened the door and led us out to the plane, they exclaimed "my, that's a big one". Apparently the planes they had taken in and out of Palm Springs in the past were the sort of thing that flies into Mason City. Ours was a small prop jet (just two seats on each side of the aisle), but definitely a class up from the tiny planes.
* * * * *
Flight 6861 was officially a "United Express" flight, operated by Skywest Airlines, a regional carrier that doesn't actually sell tickets under their own name but subcontracts to several major airlines to provide service to smaller airports. It was really a much better flight than the real United flight. The plane (a Canadair regional jet) was brand new with roomy leather-covered seats, they served us oatmeal cookies as well as snack mix, and they allowed refills on the drinks.
Our one and only flight attendant was a pleasant boy named Eddie, who was barely beyond high school age. It was interesting that while he was of Asian ancestry every single passenger on the plane was white. To be more precise, in the Southwest all 42 of us would be described as "Anglo"; there was not a Hispanic or a Black person in the group.
Eddie rattled off the safety speech, including an announcement that it was in violation of federal law for anyone to attempt to tamper with the cockpit door. I certainly knew that was true, but no one on any other flight-before or since-has bothered to say it. The captain then gave us our flight information, including the fact that "first officer Zac" would be flying the plane today-his first "in command" flight. I'm not sure that's the most reassuring thing to hear as a passenger, but everyone has to start somewhere. What's more, Zac was probably more conscious of what he was doing than a seasoned pilot would be. He also told us that it was currently clear and 104 degrees in Palm Springs, and I could only hope the temperature would go down at least a bit after sundown.
We had a gorgeous view of the sunset over the snowcapped Colorado Rockies shortly after taking off. Otherwise it was a pretty uneventful flight. I finished grading the last of my tests and then read the Denver papers and USA Today. About the time I finished, it was time for our final descent. As I looked out I could see the circles of streetlights that marked suburban sprawl below me. Zac startled us all by abruptly lowering the landing gear, making a loud bang not unlike a small explosion. The captain felt compelled to reassure us that everything was okay, and I'm sure Zac got a lecture on how to accomplish this more smoothly. We landed precisely at 9pm Pacific time, about 15 minutes early.
Eddie told us we would have to wait for the propellers to stop spinning before we could deplane in Palm Springs. That took about five minutes, and it was at least another five minutes before all the rows in front of me had exited. As I stepped down to the tarmac, it was immediately clear that while it might not have been 104 degrees, it was still very warm. I suppose I could politely describe it as a balmy evening. It wasn't sweltering or miserable, but it was far from comfortable.
I quickly made my way to the car rental area, which was conveniently located right next to baggage claim. The Alamo and National companies share a desk here. A mousy-haired middle-aged woman served the joint desk, and her primary concern seemed to be with which company I had made my reservation. She asked a couple of quick questions, punched a few keys on her computer, and soon gave me the keys to a red Dodge Neon (license #5AVN998) that was parked just a few steps out the door. This was not nearly as nice of a car as the Mitsubishi Lancer I had gotten at Ontario Airport, but it probably was closer to the "economy" model I had reserved both times. I couldn't argue with the price either. For just over $100 I could rent the car for a full week. There were no hidden charges, and the only tax they charge in Palm Springs is the standard state sales tax-no county or local add-ons.
Unlike Ontario, there was no security guard to check my rental papers when I left the airport-just a sign warning me of "severe tire damage" if I chose to back up instead of going forward. I left the airport on Tahquiz Canyon Way (TOCK-izz), the main drag of the desert resort. I proceeded west until I got to the closest thing there is to a downtown in Palm Springs and turned north on Indian Canyon Road. Everything looked pleasant and well-kept, though nighttime is really not the time to judge any community. I took Indian Canyon north for about seven miles, passing motel after motel and restaurant after restaurant. Finally I made it up to Interstate 10.
Palm Springs is about 125 miles east of Los Angeles, but it's pretty much solid city all the way to the Pacific. The interstate is eight lanes wide at Palm Springs (and for about twenty-five miles further east, for that mater), and except for a brief six-lane stretch going over the pass by San Bernardino, it's eight lanes (and occasionally ten) from here westward. It was fairly late on a weeknight, and traffic was really quite light. It was mostly trucks, though, and between some serious grades and stiff winds, they were driving quite erratically. I often found myself in the unusual position of being toward the left side of the freeway, so I didn't have to constantly brake for the trucks in the right two lanes.
My destination was the Motel 6 in Fontana, the same place I stayed a month ago. It was no surprise to find that the exit for Sierra Avenue, where the Motel 6 was located, was still closed for construction. At least this time I knew how to get into the motel through the back way. I exited at Citrus Avenue, drove north to Valley (the access road), and went back east to a McDonalds parking lot that provided access to the motel. In the intervening month they'd placed an orange sign by the McDonalds lot that showing that it was indeed the way to Motel 6. I still had to negotiate a bit of a maze getting to the motel, though. A large moving van was blocking the main entrance, so I had to drive into the lot of a K-Mart next door and enter the motel through yet another back way.
The van drivers were checking in when I got to the office. They did not look like the most trustworthy of people, certainly not the folks I'd entrust with all my worldly possessions. Checking out as they checked in (after 10pm) was a skuzzy middle-aged couple that I'd wager paid an hourly rate. There were other "colorful" people around--including a group of middle-school aged black boys skateboarding around the parking lot and a constantly-coughing old lady who seemed to permanently stand by the vending machines smoking. They were all perfectly harmless, though, and the place was certainly worth the $33 nightly rate I ended up paying.
I've heard a lot of people make bad comments about Motel 6's. They certainly aren't the Ritz, but they're not bad places for what you pay. I basically think of a motel room as somewhere to sleep, and Motel 6 accomplishes that very well. They are always immaculately clean, and the beds are comfortably hard. They are well located (always near the points of interest in an area and always close to city buses or trains). There's color TV with free movie and sports channels, and parking and phone calls are free. Probably most important in my book, though, is that they always have good shower heads. All hotels have low-flow showers these days (it's probably a law), but almost no one other than Motel 6 has low-flow showers that actually have some force to them. For as long as I can remember (even back when they had vibrating beds and they sold you a key to turn on the black-and white TV), Motel 6 has used aerating shower heads that give a strong force while using very little water. I've been to Super 8s and Comfort Inns and even once to a Hilton that had showers that barely managed to drip. At Motel 6, though, I've always had a decent shower.
I got settled into my room and enjoyed a brief shower. Then around 11:15 I turned out the lights and went to sleep.
The schedule today turned out almost exactly backwards from what I had planned, but it was a most enjoyable day. I had planned to wait until after 8:00 (when fares are lower) to travel into Los Angeles, but I was wide awake at 5am so I decided I might as well take an early train. I showered again and drove up Sierra to the same park-and-ride I had patronized a month ago.
It's amazing just how early the rush hour is in Los Angeles. I could see I-10 from the Motel 6 parking lot, and traffic was backed up at 5:30am. Sierra Avenue was also packed with cars, mostly traveling south to the freeway. The train platform was full, and so was the train--one that would arrive in downtown Los Angeles right at 7am. [My brother] Paul suggested that a lot of the business people here must essentially work on Eastern time, starting their day when the business day would begin in New York. There's probably some truth to that, although then you'd expect the evening rush hour to also be early when in fact it's about the same time it would be back home.
In April I had difficulty using the Metrolink vending machine, but today things worked okay. I put the $15.75 fare on a credit card and quickly got my ticket. Interestingly no one checked for tickets on this or any other Metrolink train on this trip, though in April inspectors came around twice.
In addition to the station announcements, the conductor repeatedly apologized for the "service interruptions you may have experienced last night". I read about those interruptions in the paper. Apparently some idiot stopped her car right on the train tracks at a crossing in Rialto, just east of Fontana. She and her baby daughter were both killed when a train traveling 70 mph was unable to stop in time. Train service had to be halted in both directions while they investigated things and cleared away the wreckage. Supposedly traffic was backed up because of construction on the street, but that's still no excuse for stopping right on the tracks. I certainly don't wish death on anyone, no matter how stupid they may be. I only hope people can learn from the tragedy and not repeat it.
... In the lobby area of the subway four different officers were checking that people had tickets. If you buy a ticket to ride the Metrolink commuter trains, the same ticket works on the red line in Los Angeles, so I just flashed the ticket I had bought in Fontana and went on my way.
I took the train three stops to 7th Street/Metro Center station, the same place all the businesspeople on the train were getting off. Metro Center is in the heart of L.A.'s financial district, beneath one skyscraper bank and surrounded by many others. The area looks a lot like the southern part of the Chicago Loop, though the towers aren't quite so tall nor packed so closely together. That lets more light in and makes the downtown area look quite a bit more cheerful.
I walked down Figueroa Avenue to a restaurant that every guide to L.A. praises. The Original Pantry is owned by former mayor Richard Riordan, who bought it to save the building from being torn down to make room for a skyscraper. The restaurant opened in 1924, and they have been open around the clock ("never closed, never without a customer") for seventy-nine years. There are actually two "Original Pantries" around the corner from each other in the same building, sharing a kitchen. The diner is where you're supposed to eat, but it's almost always packed. The bakeshop (where I ate) has a bit calmer atmosphere, identical food, and equally historic surroundings.
I can't speak for the diner, but the bakeshop is a lovely little café. The showpiece is a gorgeous mahogany bar with brass accessories. Huge picture windows look out at the street, and there is ornate woodwork on the walls and ceiling. The tables are plane furniture from the '50s-green vinyl-backed chairs set at chrome and Formica tables. The patrons are a wide mix of people: businessmen and women, blue-collar factory workers, retired folks chatting over coffee, college students reading at tables for one, tourists, and even destitute street people. The bulk of the customers are Anglo white people, but all races are represented among the clientele. Supposedly lots of movie stars eat here regularly, but I can't say I saw anybody famous.
Most guidebooks refer to the staff here as surly, likening them to convicts working as waiters. They were certainly efficient and not particularly friendly, but "surly" seems a tad extreme. My waiter was an elderly gentleman (they note that fourteen of their employees have worked here at least twenty years, two for over forty years) who gestured me to a seat and instantly plunked down and filled a coffee cup, without my even requesting it. There are no menus here; the food and prices are written on chalkboards covering the walls. The waiters expect you to know what you're ordering, and I suppose a bit of the "surliness" comes from them waiting impatiently for customers to decide. It can be a tough decision, too. They pretty much serve everything you could imagine, though, and all of it is available at all hours. I could have had filet mignon in wine sauce or roast leg of lamb for breakfast if I wanted it.
Instead I ordered ham and eggs, plus fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. The place supposedly specializes in pork, and my breakfast included a thick slab of juicy grilled ham with the bone in it. The eggs were properly cooked and flavorful, and the plate was accompanied by fried potatoes (not unlike what the call "hash browns" in Chicago) with peppers, onions, and fresh garlic, and toast made from homemade sourdough bread with butter and a wide variety of jams and jellies to choose from. The juice was tart and tasty, and the coffee was outstanding. What's more, the whole thing set me back just $5.49 ($7 with tax and a generous tip). If I should happen to return to Los Angeles, I'd definitely go back here again.
I went back to Metro Center and used one of my 90¢ tokens, plus a quarter to buy a subway ticket with transfer. I probably could have gotten by flashing the Metrolink ticket all day if I wanted. The ticket is supposed to be good for one ride on the subway (and a return trip to Union Station), though, and I generally try to be honest. It's not like the fare would exactly break me anyhow.
That fare was the subject of great controversy while I was in L.A., though. Just today the MTA board was meeting to decide whether to "restructure" fares on the buses and subways for the first time in a decade. For most tourists the new fare scheme would actually mean a reduction in costs. A cash fare, which is now $1.35 would go down to $1.25, and they'd be introducing a day pass that would offer unlimited rides for just $3. The controversy arose from the fact that many regular riders would pay more than they currently do. That's because tokens would be raised from $.90 to $1.10 (and would be eventually phased out in 3 - 4 years), monthly passes would go from $42 to $52, and the $.25 transfers would be eliminated (though, if you think about it, the day pass would cost the exact same amount as a round trip with transfer, so that one's pretty much a wash.)
The biggest agitator in this controversy is an organization called the Bus Riders Union. The group seems to be made up mostly of lawyers and college professors, rather than people who actually ride public transit with much frequency. Nonetheless they appear to oppose anything and everything MTA does. The group claims that they want improved transit, yet they lobbied fiercely against building the subway and light rail lines, backing up construction for more than a decade. They also opposed expanding the new rapid bus service that moves you across town quickly, instead of making you stop at every single bus stop on a street. They never seem to say what they do want, only that they don't want anything MTA ever proposes. If they really wanted to improve transit, you'd think that they'd like high-speed rail and bus lines-probably the biggest service improvements the city had made in decades. Instead they just file lawsuit after lawsuit and make unrealistic demands for things like $.50 fares and unlimited free transfers, including free transfers to other systems' buses. The group had plastered telephone poles all over the city. Some of their signs encouraged riders to stop paying their fares until MTA backs down on the fare restructuring. Most of the actual riders on the buses and trains are Hispanic working people, and not a one of them seemed to be taking the Bus Riders Union's advice.
I can certainly sympathize with those who would experience a fare increase, particularly since a large part of the transit riders in Los Angeles are really quite poor. They must realize, though, that by comparison with other cities the prices in L.A. are still dirt cheap. In Chicago the base fare is $1.50, and a monthly pass costs $75. Out east the standard subway fare is now $2 a ride. Compared with that, you can hardly complain about a buck and a quarter. What's more, that $3 unlimited day pass compares quite favorably with the $15.75 round-trip fare to take the commuter train from Fontana.
* * * * *
I'm sure the Bus Riders Union will hate the journey I made this morning. I rode the red line subway westward to Wilshire and Vermont and then caught the rapid bus that runs down Wilshire Boulevard. Margaret and I had taken this out to the tar pits in 2001, but this time I went much further west. I went all the way to the end of the line at the Pacific Ocean, and on the way I saw a fascinating cross-section of the city. Wilshire looks like a grand boulevard from a foreign city. Indeed, it reminded me a lot of Madrid. It's lined with a collection of architecturally interesting tall buildings and filled with flowers and trees in the median and sidewalk. The "foreign" feeling comes from seeing signs in a variety of languages, coupled with the fact that it's quite a bit grimier than places like Michigan Avenue in Chicago. It's a fascinating street, and the bus ride down it was most interesting.
My ride started in Koreatown, which combines an Asian shopping strip with the headquarters of several large banks. West of there is the Miracle Mile, one of the first suburban shopping strips in America. Today the retailers here are mostly down-market; about the nicest things here are Staples and Office Max. Many of the grand department stores that line the street have been replaced by museums. Margaret and I visited the Peterson Automotive Museum here, and there are also a collection of major art museums.
A little ways west of the museums Wilshire enters Beverly Hills. This wasn't the Beverly Hills of grand mansions behind walls I'd seen before, though. Wilshire is home to Beverly Hills' commercial district. You've almost certainly heard of Rodeo Drive, one of the major cross-streets here. The stores along Wilshire include the likes of Tiffany, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Nieman Marcus-no 99¢ store here. For all the snooty store names, though, it's really not that glamorous of a neighborhood. It would definitely not be a place to window shop, because most of the stores don't have windows. If you walked along the sidewalk (which almost no one does here) you'd basically see a bunch of bare walls. You'd also encounter a large number of homeless people pushing their shopping carts around. I certainly hadn't expected to see bag ladies in Beverly Hills, but I suppose they congregate where people are likely to be generous to beggars.
Beyond Beverly Hills is Century City, one of the most upscale residential and commercial areas in Los Angeles. Century City was built on the site of the old 20th Century Fox back lot. Today it's a collection of high-rise luxury apartments and office buildings and low-rise pretentious malls. It looks a lot like Paseo de la Castellana in Madrid, and it's also similar to the lakefront development east of Wrigley Field in Chicago. It's probably the nicest area we passed on Wilshire, but I really didn't feel the need to get off the bus and see things up close.
One thing I definitely didn't expect to see in California was Canadian banks, but oddly enough they're everywhere in Los Angeles. In Beverly Hills and Century City it seemed as if every two or three blocks I saw one of those green "TD" signs you see all over Canada. They don't tell you here that "TD" stands for "Toronto Dominion", but they're just as eager to take your money as Bank of America or Wells-Fargo.
The population gets whiter and whiter as you head west. Koreatown is heavily Asian, and the area around the Miracle Mile is a mix of Black and Hispanic. Beverly Hills seems to have a surprising mix of racial groups, but Century City came across as lily white. Past Century City you enter Santa Monica, a city of about 100,000 that fiercely maintains its independence from L.A. Santa Monica also seemed overwhelmingly white-full of the blond, tan beach people that L.A. proper doesn't have.
Travel guides describe Santa Monica as "middle class", but along Wilshire it seemed anything but that to me. There were places that looked like glorified trailer parks and places that seemed way too snooty for my taste. ... It's a very patchy city, too, with good and bad literally right next door to each other. The businesses were the same thing you'd find on any strip anywhere, leaning just a bit toward the pretentious side (lots of coffee bars, for instance). Probably because it comes right after Century City, Santa Monica comes across as a very low-rise place. It's the only place along Wilshire that there aren't tall buildings, and it probably seems a little backwards because of that. Guide books describe Santa Monica as the place tourists must go in L.A. I didn't dislike the place, but I certainly didn't see what all the fuss was about.
It was very foggy in Santa Monica when I was there. Being right on the coast, the place gets coastal weather. It was essentially clear downtown, but here in Santa Monica I might as well have been in London. We passed a Barnes and Noble, and I resisted the urge to pick up a Dickens book to capture the mood.
Wilshire Boulevard ends on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. The bus turned and went a couple blocks south along the coast before stopping at the end of the line. There was a lovely park right next to the bus stop; I explored it and snapped a few shots of the foggy Pacific. I didn't dawdle, though, as Santa Monica seems to have more than its share of homeless people. I had just missed the next bus on my itinerary, and I waited for what seemed like hours (actually about 20 minutes) for the next one to happen by.
I pondered as I waited why it is that you almost never see homeless people in small towns or suburban areas. Even in the dingiest old suburbs (like Ford Heights south of Chicago, one of the poorest places in America), you never see the homeless. In rural areas I've only occasionally seen them, and then it's usually with a "will work for food" sign--at least a minor indication of some ambition. Certainly Santa Monica would be one of the most pleasant places a homeless person might go, but I really did wonder why I didn't see their equivalent in Fontana or Palm Springs or Adelanto.
* * * * *
Before long a cute college-aged blonde girl with an enormous hat that looked like something out of the '60s came up to the bus stop and asked if "the 4-3-4" (she chomped her gum to punctuate each of the numbers) had left yet. I told her that was what I was waiting or, too. ... Eventually two high-school aged Asian kids with bleached hair and skateboards came along, plus an elderly black man in a blue suit and an obese Mexican woman in a pink waitress uniform. No one said much of anything; we all just stood there and waited.
Bus 434 was very crowded, the only one I took on this trip where I was not able to find a seat. That meant I really didn't get much of a view of the ocean from the bus as we rushed up PCH, but I did catch a glimpse here and there. My destination was Sunset Boulevard, which on most maps looks like the first major intersection north of Santa Monica. We went a ways north, and I saw a major intersection, so I pulled the cord and got off the bus, together with a Hispanic woman who was working as a maid somewhere nearby.
I'm still not sure whether to say unfortunately or fortunately, but whatever the case, this was not Sunset. It was, in fact Chautauqua Avenue. If I'd really cared, I could have gotten out my transit map and figured out a quicker route, but as it was I walked about a mile and a half along Pacific Coast Highway until I actually came to Sunset. This gave me the close-up view of the ocean I didn't have from the bus, but the problem was I was a pedestrian walking along a freeway. (Technically it's an "expressway", not a "freeway", because there are stoplights every couple of miles. Traffic is heavy, though, and it moves fast. There are also no sidewalks for most of the length.)
I had gotten off on the northbound side of PCH, and if I wanted to see the ocean, it made sense to go over to the other side of the highway. Not far ahead there was a crosswalk. Unfortunately the button that would activate a red light to stop traffic was out of order. I knew from past experience, though, that pedestrians always have the right of way at crosswalks in California. Personally I think that law is stupid, but I wasn't opposed to using it to my advantage. I waited until there was a break in the northbound traffic and started across. Sure enough, the southbound traffic screeched to a halt, and I easily managed to cross.
Much of my walk was past the Will Rogers State Beach. I usually think of sunbathing as the main beach activity, but with the fog it was hardly prime tanning weather. The fog didn't stop the surfers, though. I don't think I'd ever seen surfers up close before, but there were probably a dozen of them scattered through the park here. I chatted with a female surfer who had just used a porta-pottie by the beach. I can't say it was exactly an enlightening conversation, but it was a brief introduction to a world I've never entered before.
I didn't have to see the sign to know when I reached Sunset Boulevard. There had been a couple of important intersections south of there, but Sunset and PCH is a MAJOR intersection. While Sunset's route is convoluted (it follows the base of the mountains), it is one of only a handful of streets (Wilshire is the next one south) that run all the way across the city. Both Sunset and PCH move a ton of traffic, and their T-intersection has to be one of the busiest I've seen anywhere. I walked past the intersection to get one more view of the ocean and then needed to cross both streets to get to the bus stop I wanted. It took a full ten minutes just to cross the street, and in the process the bus that had been waiting at the stop pulled away. I bought some coffee and a newspaper at a convenience store on the corner and then entertained myself as I drank it by watching the police frisking a man they had stopped at the intersection.
Buses run quite frequently on Sunset Boulevard downtown and through Hollywood. West of there, though, the frequency rapidly decreases. The line splits to serve a variety of destinations on L.A.'s west side, and after rush hour they only serve PCH and Sunset every half hour. I had a schedule for this route with me, so it surprised me when after about ten minutes of waiting another bus pulled up at the stop. I asked the driver (a Black woman about my age) how long it would be until she pulled out, and she confirmed that it would be about twenty minutes. PCH is the start of the line, and they have to leave on schedule. She said, though that she could lock me inside the bus so I could wait out of the cold. I was wearing shorts and short sleeves, having not really expected May in California to be cold and foggy, so I took her up on the offer. I boarded, and then she locked the door so no one could enter and I could not exit. I read the paper on board the bus while the driver bought some coffee at the convenience store and proceeded to drink it and have a smoke at the bus stop.
When she was done with her cigarette, she got back on board and started the bus running. We still had about five minutes before departure, and she spent that time chatting on her cell phone. No one else showed up at the bus stop, so when the appointed hour came, we departed. The driver never did ask me for a fare. I asked if she needed to see my transfer. The response was a grunt, and I never was sure if that was directed at me or at whoever she was talking to on the cell phone.
For about ten minutes I was the only passenger on the bus. The driver was quite friendly, and she made almost two much conversation as we drove along. She was concerned to find that I had just missed the last bus. Apparently they're supposed to wait for any regular passengers and for people who might be crossing the street. She seemed surprised that I wasn't horribly upset about it. I assured her it was no big deal. Then she asked if I had seen American Idol on TV. I hadn't, but I knew the concept of the show and I managed to fake my way through small talk about it. I also found out that she had relatives coming to visit for the holiday weekend, which she obviously viewed as a chore rather than a pleasure. I commiserated with her, and we kept on having a rather forced conversation until eventually other passengers started to board.
Even more than Wilshire, Sunset Boulevard really is a cross-section of Los Angeles. ... The neighborhood where I got on is aptly named Pacific Palisades. It's a tree-filled neighborhood of relatively modest homes that sell for absurdly high prices. Just inland from here is Brentwood, which you surely remember from the O.J. Simpson trial a few years back. We passed both Rockingham Road and Bundy Drive, and the whole neighborhood just reeked of wealth. It was really no surprise at all that I was the only person who boarded the bus until we got past Brentwood. I'm sure that earlier in the day the westbound buses were full of maids, nannies, and gardeners going to work here, and they'd be full eastbound in the afternoon. It's hard to imagine most of the residents taking public transit, though.
By contrast, a few miles inland we reached a neighborhood that depends heavily on transit. Westwood is home to UCLA, probably the largest university I've ever seen. The percentage of bus riders here seems to be at least as high as it is in Iowa City. The bus diverges off Sunset to more thoroughly serve the area around the UCLA campus. It was interesting to see all the trendy shops and nightspots catering to the college kids-completely different than the quiet residential area to the west.
It rapidly gets residential again beyond UCLA. This is the old money Belair neighborhood, the place where the Reagans lived for decades. Belair is also home to Hugh Hefner's Playboy mansion. East of there I saw yet another part of Beverly Hills. "West Beverly", the name they gave to the high school on the 90210 TV show, is as close to middle class as Beverly Hills gets. There are a number of very basic stores around here (Target, Staples, and Walgreen's), plus lots of boxy apartments and bungalow-style houses. Not far east we came to the Beverly Hills I remembered, with mansions, parks, and the grandiose Beverly Hills Hotel.
Next up came West Hollywood, an independent city with one of the most diverse populations anywhere. This is the center of L.A.'s gay population, and the fact that 70% of West Hollywood's population is male attests to that. The second cultural influence in West Hollywood consists of Orthodox Jews, most of them refugees from the former Soviet Union. I saw old babushkas buying bread and sausages, while beside them on the sidewalk buff studs headed to tanning spas.... What I didn't see anywhere in West Hollywood was children. The Jews are all elderly and the gays are all in their twenties or thirties. I got the feeling that no one under the age of 21 was even allowed to even get off the bus here.
When we re-entered Los Angeles, things suddenly looked very familiar. This was Hollywood, the place I spent the better part of a week two years ago. It was fun to recognize landmarks like Blessed Sacrament Church, Hollywood High School, the Palladium, and the Cinarama Dome. I also recognized fast food places where I had eaten, stores I had shopped at, and other places I recognized from having walked around the neighborhood. The familiar memories continued until we got to the hospitals at Vermont Avenue, where the Los Feliz neighborhood subway station is located.
The area east of Vermont was virgin territory for me, though "virgin" is hardly the word to describe the Silver Lake neighborhood that is located here. This "hip" and rapidly gentrifying area has traditionally been one of the sleaziest parts of the city. While it has apparently moved upmarket, it was hard to miss the proliferation of adult-oriented businesses in the area. This is the heart of L.A.'s club scene, with the same sort of night spots you'd find on the near north side in Chicago. I also couldn't help but notice that there were women in hot pants (or perhaps they were men in drag) standing by lampposts here at midday.
Continuing east we came to Echo Park. This has traditionally been considered a "bad" neighborhood, a place wave after wave of first-generation immigrants have called home. Until this trip my knowledge of Echo Park consisted of an old Linda Ronstadt ballad that referred to being "all strung out on heroin on the wrong side of town". It turns out that Echo Park has some gorgeous homes-not mansions, but small architecturally interesting gems built on hillsides with lovely views of the city. In the past few years yuppie couples have snapped up fixer-uppers in Echo Park, finding the area a pleasant and affordable alternative to the suburbs. In the process tortilla shops are being converted into coffee bars and dollar stores are giving way to work-out gyms. If a sociologist wanted to study urban gentrification up close, this would be the perfect place to do it.
The final neighborhood I passed through on a nearly two-hour bus ride was Elysian Park. I had read any number of guides that implied that this still was a bad neighborhood. It really didn't seem so to me. It's a Hispanic neighborhood-no question there-but it comes across as a stable, middle-class area with pleasant homes and well-traveled sidewalks.
My ultimate destination was the one and only real attraction in Elysian Park, Dodger Stadium. Any number of sources had told me that Dodger Stadium really wasn't accessible by public transportation; you basically had to get there by car. That's just nonsense; the people who say that have to be the same ones who think there is no public transportation in L.A. No, the bus doesn't go right up to the door of the stadium, but the walk from the bus stop on Sunset Boulevard is really not much farther than drivers would walk from where they'd parked their cars. In fact the majority of the hike is across the ultra-massive Dodger Stadium parking lot. It costs $8 to $12 to park in that lot, and only season ticket holders get to park close-in. The walk from the bus stop to the turnstiles took no more than fifteen minutes (probably closer to ten), and I'm certain it would be safe even at night. The sidewalk was full of other fans doing exactly the same thing I did....
Dodger Stadium is a fascinating place. It opened the year I was born, 1962, and--believe it or not--that makes it the fourth oldest major league stadium (after Fenway Park, Wrigley Field, and Yankee Stadium). It was also the last major league park built by the team itself, without either public or outside corporate financing. I must say it's kind of nice that it's "Dodger Stadium", rather than "Your Name Here Stadium". There has been some talk of building a new downtown baseball park ..., but none of it seems to have gone beyond talk.
Given its age, the stadium is in remarkably good shape. Its architectural details are very much of another era-the same sort of zig-zag canopies you'd find on a shopping center that features a failing Sears store. Unlike that shopping center though, Dodger Stadium has been immaculately maintained. Several guidebooks marveled that it was spotlessly clean. ... [Perhaps most impressive] to me was that there was no litter in that enormous parking lot and any cracks that forty years of weather and earthquakes might have brought to the structure had been fixed so you couldn't notice them. It also impressed me that the restroom was spotless, even in the late innings of the game. My hat is definitely off to their custodial staff.
It's hard to get into Dodger Stadium. The stadium is literally built into a hillside, and each of the many entrances leads to only one level of the park. They don't have those endless ramps leading up and up and up like so many stadiums do. Instead you find walk up or down steps to your level outside the park and then go in and find your seat. Once inside, the only way to get to another level is by elevator. Apparently you can do this to get concessions that aren't available on your level, but you're not supposed to go to the other levels of seats.
My $6 seat was in the aptly named "top deck". It wasn't a bad seat, though. I was in Row A, right on an aisle. I could stretch out my legs and I had a good (if distant) view of the entire park. The only problem was the bar across the front of the deck. It was just slightly too high for my taste, forcing me to either sit up straight or scrunch down to see around it.
The view from Dodger Stadium is quite nice. Some people criticize the place because it's not in a downtown location with a skyline view. What you see instead are the San Gabriel Mountains, the general area where I had gone hiking last month. The only thing that spoiled that view was a bit of smog trapped on the hillside-a definite change from the clear blue sky I saw in April. The stadium itself is very pretty and refreshingly free of the advertising that plagues newer facilities.
What smog there was certainly didn't reduce the sunlight at the stadium. I had brought along sunscreen, and I was definitely glad I did. Even with the stuff smeared on my neck, arms, and legs, I still got a bit of a burn. I hate to think what would have happened without it. I also wore my sunglasses through the whole game, and even with them I was squinting at times.
The crowd here was very pleasant, one of the nicest I've been to in any park. I had read that people arrived late and left early at Dodger Stadium, the same sort of thing Margaret and I saw in San Francisco. I really didn't notice that today, though. Perhaps it was because this was an afternoon game, but for whatever reason pretty much everyone stayed until the final out. The 29,000 in attendance were a laid-back group. They cheered the home team but were polite to the visitors, and everyone seemed to genuinely enjoy just being at the game.
This was also the single most multi-ethnic crowd I've ever seen at a baseball game. Even in other cities with diverse populations, the baseball crowds have been overwhelmingly white. This crowd was definitely whiter than the city of Los Angeles (though possibly the same ratio as the metropolitan area), but there were large numbers of Hispanics, Asians, and Blacks in attendance. The races were well distributed throughout all the seating levels, too--unlike some places I've been where "ethnic" spectators invariably end up in the cheap seats. Everybody mixed well, and it was refreshing to attend a sporting event where the players and the fans both represented a good cross-section of people.
The concourse area of the top deck was badly lit and a bit cramped, but the concessions themselves were quite good. Guidebooks rave about Dodger dogs, and that's one point I'm definitely in agreement with them on. They're plump, juicy grilled footlongs--probably not worth their $3 pricetag, but reasonable compared with other stadium franks. They serve them naked, but they have sauerkraut, relish and a delicious spicy mustard available nearby. ... In addition to the Dodger dog, I bought Nachos ($4)--an enormous portion that were served with heaping portions of both cheese and salsa (the salsa was an especially nice surprise), together with a huge cup of jalapenos. Pushing my bill over the $10 mark was a souvenir cup of lemonade, one of the largest plastic cups I've ever seen. In addition to the Dodger dog stand I also patronized the souvenir shop, where I picked up a program and a Dodgers polo shirt. I probably dropped more money here than I have at any other major league stadium, but I really didn't feel ripped off.
Oh yeah, there was a baseball game going on here too. The Dodgers were hosting the Colorado Rockies. The game started out very slowly (the first two innings took over an hour). Once it picked up steam, it was a good game, though. The Rockies got the early lead, but the Dodgers came back to lead the game 4 - 3. Then, with much fanfare, they brought out their closing pitcher, Eric Gagne. As he walked out the words "GAME OVER" flashed on the scoreboard, much like you'd see at the end of game in a video arcade. Gagne lived up to the hype and finished the game without any more Rockies reaching base.
After the final out I made my way back down to Sunset Boulevard. There was a fairly sizeable crowd waiting there, including one nasty old lady who presumably lives in the neighborhood and was snapping at everybody for waiting at her bus stop. Softly enough that no one could possibly hear, I muttered "it is called public transit, honey--get a life." When the bus showed up it was virtually empty, and everybody got a seat. The lady continued snapping at everyone all the way downtown, though.
We followed Sunset about a mile more until it became Cesar Chavez in a skuzzy no-man's land between downtown and Chinatown. We then turned south on Hill Street, and crossed over a freeway into the "Civic Center" area, home to city hall, the county courthouse, and what is supposedly the largest collection of government buildings outside Washington. I got off at Temple Street and walked about half a block to my final destination of the day, the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, also known as the "new" cathedral.
Our Lady of the Angels is indeed new; it celebrated its first anniversary last fall and just a week ago they held the first ordination here. It replaced the old Cathedral of St. Vibiana, an apparently modest 19th Century church that was rendered unusable by an earthquake about ten years ago. The new cathedral rivals the grand cathedrals of Europe, yet it is an ultramodern building. Designed by an architect from Madrid, it features oddly angled tan stone walls surrounding a lovely courtyard. At the entrance to the courtyard is an enormous carillon with bells styled in the form of the old California mission bells. The cathedral windows are all clear glass, but they light up at night to show a glowing cross-shape that is visible a mile away on the freeway. The walls are decorated with tapestries acknowledging the religious traditions of the many cultures that make up the Catholic Diocese of Los Angeles. There are side chapels dedicated to all aspects of the faith as well, each completely different from the next. It's a gorgeous place overall--not necessarily a place I'd want to go to church, but a wonderful place to serve as the heart of the diocese.
Throughout the day, while individuals and groups tour the church and its grounds, they give constant recitals on the cathedral organ. Few modern churches are blessed with such a commanding and powerful instrument. I could have sat there all afternoon listening to that lovely organ, and if I return to Los Angeles I may do just that.
* * * * *
My last stop at the cathedral was at their gift shop, a place as large as the book stores at many malls. They have a wide selection of religious books, including not just Catholicism, but all world religions. There are countless Christian handicrafts, some made locally and others imported from the native lands of all those ethnic groups that make up L.A. They have a vast collection of medals, crosses, statuary, paintings, tapestries, candles, crèches, and holy cards--and any other Catholic knick-knack you could possibly want. Unlike many Catholic gift shop (which bring to mind the story of the moneychangers at the temple), this place was really quite tasteful. Perhaps that's because it was actually run by the cathedral, rather than by private individuals trying to profit from religion. I browsed for quite a while and eventually picked up a beautiful Christmas ornament that is a miniature copy of the cathedral's gold, ruby, and crystal processional cross. It's a lovely and quite fitting souvenir.
I walked about a block south to the Civic Center subway station and took the next train back to Union Station. I bought juice and some newspapers at the gift shop in the station and then boarded a rush hour train back to Fontana. Our train stayed parked in the Baldwin Park station (three stops east of L.A.) for fifteen minutes while we were apparently waiting for road construction on a cross street to be completed. I happened to be sitting near the restroom in my car, and while we were stopped five different people used the facilities. I was reminded of an old British ditty I remember hearing on Discovery channel documentaries about railroads:
Don't use the W.C.
while the train is standing in the station;
if you have to go
then you'll have to go
before you reach your destination.
The reason for not using the W.C. was that the waste drained straight out onto the tracks. It would hardly be pleasant to have this happen right around the station. I assume these trains had holding tanks that were emptied wherever the trains were serviced, but the old song kept playing in my head-and it did make me wonder.
The trip back to Fontana was really kind of annoying because almost all my fellow passengers seemed to be forever getting calls on their cell phones and pagers. Each had its own unique ring, some of them very silly. Whenever there was just a moment of silence, though, another phone or pager would always go off. I'm kind of glad I'm not so indispensable that people have to be constantly calling me.
I had dinner tonight at Baker's Drive Thru, which in spite of its name offers dine-in as well as drive-through cuisine. They claim to be the Inland Empire's best fast food as well as "America's first twin kitchen". The second bit of hype refers to the fact that they have served both Mexican and American food for nearly fifty years. I chose American, with a tasty chicken breast sandwich as the center of my dinner. It was really rather tasty.
I spent about half an hour browsing through the Fontana's 99¢ Only store. I described this California chain in my 2001 travelogue, so I won't ramble about it here. I do wish we had something similar back home, though. It's nice to see a dollar store that stocks things people might actually want to buy.
The bag they put my shirt in at Dodger Stadium had gotten ink all over my shorts, which were now almost unpresentable. I stopped at the K-Mart next to Motel 6 to replace them. It reminded me of the K-Marts in Chicago, with Spanish signs everywhere and extra security at the door. Here, though, Spanish was the second language on the signs rather than the first one. The employees all had Spanish names, but all the announcements were in English: "Associate José and associate Marisol (rhymes with "aerosol" in boarderland Spanglish), please come to customer service."
They had closed down the self check-out lanes here. (I found out on returning that they've done the same thing at our K-Mart in Algona; I always liked them, but I guess they didn't work out the way the company planned.) That meant I had to wait in an endless line at a "real" register. Two places in front of me was an annoying woman who took forever to get through the line. She looked anorexic, with peroxide hair, a leather skirt, and a cute pink sweater-not really what I'd guess to be a typical K-Mart shopper. She had a cartload of goods, including two different pairs of little girl's jeans. One came up at a sale price when they scanned it, but the other was a different brand and cost quite a bit more. The woman seemed to think that all little girl's jeans should be on sale, regardless of the brand. She ranted on and on to the poor checker (Lupe), who checked with someone in the children's wear and confirmed that the price had scanned correctly. She then demanded to see the manager and complained, who was apparently busy, since it seemed to take forever for her to show up. When the manager (a grandmotherly woman named Gertrudes) appeared, the anorexic lady tore into her about how the sign had implied that the jeans should be 7.99, so she should get them for 7.99. While I never saw the sign, I'm sure the lady was wrong. Surely it either said "FROM 7.99" or it said something like "select children's jeans" that limited the sale. I've been caught by similar mistakes myself, but I don't usually blame the store for them-nor hold up the line while I'm complaining. When she didn't get her way, I expected the woman to just leave the jeans on the counter in disgust. Oddly enough, she ended up buying them at the regular price, though. She paid for her purchase with a hundred dollar bill and started yelling at the poor checker again when she held it up to the light to make sure the watermark was there.
Back at the motel I noticed that I had no bath towels. I've had this problem before at Motel 6--some towels, but not a complete set. Most hotels have two full sets of towels for every room, so they can put one out while washing the other. I think Motel 6 tries to make do with less than that, though, and they often run into shortages. I'm always just a bit worried I might get charged for stealing towels (something I'd never dream of doing), but I never have. Missing the towels today really was no big deal. I ended up using the floor mat as a bath towel and a hand towel as a floor mat. Perhaps stranger than the towels was that the maid left no soap today. That was also no problem, as I pretty much use shampoo as soap when I shower. I'd have just taken the motel soap to give to the food pantry.
I spent most of the evening watching a Spanish TV station from San Bernardino. Most interesting was "Tribunal Popular", the Spanish rip-off of "The People's Court". I watched that, read through the stuff I had acquired during the day, and then turned out the lights and went to bed.
I was up around 5:30 this morning--still very early, but half an hour later than yesterday. I breakfasted at "Cindy's Donuts", a little shop in the K-Mart plaza. If there is a "Cindy", I doubt she was the woman working this morning. The only employee here was a middle-aged Asian woman (I'd bet Vietnamese or Cambodian) who barely spoke English. I managed to get a roll and coffee, though, which made a pleasant start to the day.
I got to the park-and-ride about twenty minutes before the next train would arrive. It was chilly and foggy in Fontana this morning, so after buying my ticket I joined most of the other commuters by waiting in the car until just a couple minutes before the train came....
I sat at one of the tables on the upper level of the train, and when I got on the car was relatively empty. It was still less than half full when we left Rancho Cucamonga. There were two other tables with no one sitting at them, but even so a middle aged black woman dressed for success (Beverly R.--I'll leave out her last name here) plunked herself down right across the table from me. She never said a word as she started sifting through various paperwork, but I got the feeling I was sitting at her table and was being treated like an intruder. The train rapidly filled up and all but one seat in the car was full by the time we passed Pomona. That seat was the one next to Beverly. She had strategically seated herself on the aisle and placed her purse and a shopping bag on the window seat. Whenever I ride transit I make a point of sitting by the window if it's available, and I hold whatever I might have with me. It's downright impolite to hog two seats, but I guess no one ever explained that to Ms. R.
I told the people who asked about this trip that basically I spent the day Friday on the train. That's not really true-in fact I saw all kinds of things-but I did ride six different trains to get to and from the points of interest. Once this Metrolink train arrived at Union Station, it was one down and five to go.
I had about half an hour to kill at Union Station before my next train boarded. I bought coffee and an exquisite cranberry scone from a vending cart in the lobby and sat back in one of the enormous leather chairs in the waiting room to consume them. The "grand salon" at Union Station is gorgeous. It's an architectural masterpiece, combining the best elements of the art deco, mission, and arts and crafts styles. Most beautiful is the floor, which I don't think I had even noticed before. It's an intricate pattern of hardwood forming a sunburst design. The main features of the building are marble and dark wood, with brass accents, and tan leather furniture accented with brass tacks makes for a very pleasant waiting area. When I finished my scone I walked out to the courtyard, which looks not unlike an old Spanish plaza, with tile paths meandering past potted trees and formal gardens. There's a lovely view of the downtown skyline from the courtyard, and I snapped some pictures there. I also bought the daily papers at the Union Station gift shop and then used the restroom (also decorated with brass and hardwood). Finally I made my way back to the platform area.
Train #2 today was operated by Amtrak. The Pacific Surfliner runs back and forth between San Diego and Los Angeles about every hour, with a few trains continuing farther north. Its customers are mostly business people, who find the train more efficient than either driving or flying for the short haul between these two major cities. You could, in theory, take commuter trains all the way to San Diego. Metrolink runs as far south as Oceanside (about the half-way point), and from there the San Diego Coaster and trolley will take you all the way to the Mexican border at Tijuana. Those trains run only at rush hour, though, and their frequent stops slow things down quite a bit. The Amtrak train is faster and nicer, but you definitely pay for that. I had griped about how expensive the Metrolink fare was, but it's very cheap compared to a short-run Amtrak ticket. I had bought my tickets in advance on-line and I received a AAA discount for them. Even so, I was paying about $35 for a round-trip ride to San Juan Capistrano (about an hour one way, according to the schedule) and another $20 between S.J.C. and Oceanside (half an hour, one way).
Before we left the conductor got on the P.A. and made a big deal of the fact that this was an Amtrak train. Apparently they have a number of people who "accidentally" board this instead of Metrolink. I use the quotation marks, because anyone with common sense would know this wasn't the same train. Metrolink trains are boxy and painted in green over beige, while Amtrak trains are sleek and painted in blue and purple over silver and white. The seating on Metrolink is comfortable, but utilitarian, while on Amtrak it is soft and comfy. The configuration of every car is different, and there are far more cars on the Surfliner than on any Metrolink train. Still, the conductor felt compelled to remind people that "if you've got one of those little square tickets from a machine, you'll have to buy an Amtrak ticket."
For both good and bad reasons it wasn't hard to tell that this was an Amtrak train. The train itself was much nicer than the commuter trains. It had big plush seats spaced about like the first-class section of an airplane. There was an actual conductor who took tickets and placed seat tags to indicate passengers' destinations, just as they do on the long-distance trains. The cars had spacious lavatories, and there was a lounge and a dining car--complete with "Ken", the diner attendant who rambled on over the intercom with what he called "public service announcements". On the down side, we encountered the same schedule problems I was all too familiar with on Amtrak. We began by literally crawling out of Union Station; indeed, I wondered if we'd ever make it past the public housing complex across the street. It turned out we were waiting for the Southwest Chief from Chicago (which, oddly enough, was arriving right on time at 8:40--or perhaps it was a full day late) to clear the tracks. We stopped again in the east L.A. industrial area waiting for a defective signal to change, once more waiting for a northbound Metrolink train to pass, and yet again for no good reason just before the Fullerton station. That made us about twenty minutes behind schedule when we reached our very first stop.
Shortly after we left the conductor came around to take tickets. He scolded me because I had not signed my ticket. There as a space to sign it at the top, which I honestly had not noticed until he pointed it out. I borrowed his pen and signed it, and he then took the ticket. What's silly is that both all over Union Station and on the train there were signs informing passengers that because of new security measures, identification was required for travel on Amtrak. (It's not required on Metrolink.) No one in the station asked for ID, and neither did the conductor nor anyone else on the train. All they seemed to care about was a signature, which anyone at all could have forged.
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We had a surprisingly brief stop at Fullerton, and past there the grimy factories turned into industrial parks of warehouses and we even started seeing some housing developments beside the tracks. It was still very much solid city though, even though we were technically out of greater Los Angeles and into Orange County. This is one of the most heavily and densely populated regions on earth. In Orange County Amtrak stops in Fullerton (population 125,000), Anaheim (300,000), Santa Ana (325,000), and Irvine (150,000), all within half an hour of each other. All together Orange County (which geographically is not much bigger than a Midwestern county) has over 2,700,000 people, about the same as the city of Chicago or the entire state of Iowa. It's apparently the wealthiest area in southern California, as well as the fastest growing. It is all definitely suburban rather than urban (I think the tallest building in the county is Anaheim Stadium); and it's the epitome of ugly, pointless sprawl.
In an office park in Anaheim we stopped suddenly and remained stopped for about fifteen minutes. People in the offices had come out to the parking lots and were staring at the train. Eventually the conductor came on the P.A. and told us that someone had been "playing chicken" on the tracks. Fortunately no one was hurt, but to wait for police to deal with the matter. Now they would be doing a brake test, and as soon as we got clearance from the dispatcher in Los Angeles we would proceed. By the time we reached the Anaheim station we were more than half an hour behind schedule.
The Anaheim station is in an interesting location. The park-and-ride is actually the parking lot for Edison International Field, the place I know better as Anaheim Stadium. The station is literally right next to he ballpark, and "the Pond" (home of hockey's Mighty Ducks) is right across the street. Having read all those articles that described Dodger Stadium's location unflatteringly, it was interesting to see that the Anaheim sports complex would be all but impossible to get to as a pedestrian. If you could find a train schedule that would work, you could take the train. The reason they can use the place as a park-and-ride, though, is that pretty much all the trains run during the business day and virtually all the games are at night. Aside from the train, there's nothing but parking, parking, and more parking near Anaheim Stadium. Once you get beyond the parking lots, the surrounding neighborhood is a very seedy district (warehouses surrounded by razor wire) where I'd definitely not want to wander around at night. There are supposedly buses that run along Katella Avenue between here and Disneyland, but we were stopped for over ten minutes and I didn't see a single one in either direction. Obviously the way everyone gets to sporting events in Anaheim is by car.
* * * * *
Our wait in Anaheim was mostly for one man. There was an old geezer who walked out of the station building almost five minutes after we had stopped and then took nearly another five minutes to board the train. There were more slow boarders in Santa Ana and Irvine. You'd think that with the train running late, people would be ready for it when it showed. Everyone here seemed to board in slow motion, though. Fortunately they had quite a bit of extra time padding the schedule between Anaheim and Santa Ana, so we were only twenty minutes behind south of there.
The area we passed through got more residential and much nicer looking south of Anaheim. Santa Ana came across as a very pleasant suburb. I liked the homes here better than those other places in suburban California because they weren't walled in; there were single-family homes with shared lawns that extended throughout the neighborhood. The office parks here also lacked walls, and the train station looked like an old church.
Between Santa Ana and Irvine we passed through a tiny area of empty land. There wasn't much of it though, and most of what was there had already been cleared to make way for a condo development. There was one little farm (growing strawberries) that seemed to be the last hold-out against suburban sprawl.
Irvine is a city that just reeks of wealth. Looking at the place, it's no surprise that Orange County is the last bastion of the Republican Party in an overwhelmingly Democratic state. I'm sure for the people who live here the train fares I've been complaining about would be pocket change. Irvine is supposedly an entirely planned community, with the perfect mix of residential, commercial, and industrial (i.e. office park) development. It's one of those places that dictates the style of every home that's built and what kind of landscaping you have to do in your yard. It reminded me of Florida, where the whole state is full of those stupid planned communities. I'm all in favor of zoning and urban planning, but I've never cared for look-alike neighborhoods of any sort. I must say also that the same people who choose to live here are the same ones who always complain about how they want to get government off their back.
There was a lovely park with a jogging trail right next to the tracks in Irvine. It was crowded with women in designer lycra who were power walking off all the fat that liposuction couldn't reach. There were also Hispanic and Asian nannies leading around black and white spoiled brat children on leashes, as if they were puppies. What seemed most bizarre to me here was that the "planners" who had built this park had chosen to locate the trail directly underneath high-tension power lines. With all the lawsuits there have been about power lines in recent years (many of them from California), it seems very strange to make them the centerpiece of a park. It's not like there should be a lawsuit over this park, though. You can't help but notice the power lines are there; surely everyone in the park had seen them and chosen to go there anyway
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