An Autotrain Story Part I

     Unable to see out the rear window because the SUV was piled with golf clubs, file crates, boxes,

and suitcases, Marge and Steve crawled for four hours from their Florida residence to the Amtrak depot in Sanford, Florida. They arrived just before the check-in deadline.
     "Pull your vehicle all the way forward," the loudspeaker said.  Each line of cars moved forward at an impressive pace.
     Marge and Steve had Hollywood visions of the trip from "The Orient Express" movie:  a private compartment with 100-thread/square-inch bed linens, a white-gloved porter, a dining car laden with silver and crystal.
     An attendant moved next to Steve's door.  "Please take all personal belongings you'll need overnight," he said to them.  "The car will be locked and inaccessible.  May I have your paperwork, please?"
     Steve got out and handed over the documents and keys.  He reached into the back seat for his blue blazer and shrugged it on over his striped button-down.  Marge got their Louis Vitton overnight bag with her matching tote out of the trunk.
     "Please proceed to the waiting room and check in at the counter," the attendant said.
     Inside was a room that held the former occupants of four hundred cars.  All waited to board the three-quarter-mile train.
     Steve handed the Amtrak clerk his ID and paperwork.  "Welcome, Mr. Thomas!  I see you have a private sleeping compartment.   I'm afraid the 7:00 dinner seating is filled, so would you prefer the 5 p.m. or 9 p.m. seating?"
     "The early one, please," Marge said.
      "You'll hear an announcement in just a few minutes to proceed to the numbered car that's marked on this boarding pass.  Yours is #89.  There will be a porter outside the car to take your suitcase and lead you to the proper compartment."
     "OK.  Is there a bar car?" Steve said.
     "Oh, yes.  The porter will show you, if you ask.  Have a pleasant journey."
     "Thanks so much."
     Steve took off his blue blazer and slung it over his shoulder.  There were too many people in one room to lower the temperature to his liking.  Behind him he pulled their suitcase, while Marge carried matching tote and purse.
     They dodged dogs on reprieve from their cages, coolers spilling bottles of water and soda, college knapsacks, and military duffel bags, but were unable to find two seats.  A cat perched in a woman's lap.  Because of the enormity of the woman's stomach, the cat actually perched on her knees.  The husband's tee revealed his midriff and tattoos rippled across his biceps.  Bulging beneath one sleeve was a square box.
     "Better smoke one of them things now.  It'll be your last chance outside for a while," the woman said, as Steve and Marge maneuvered around the cat's carrying case, heading for two remaining seats outside the toilets.
     "Quite an assortment of people," Marge said to the back of Steve's head.
     Within minutes they heard the announcement to proceed to numbered cars.  As promised, a porter met them outside car #89. No white gloves, but he led them up the steps of the train and up again an interior spiral stair, holding their overnight bag so there'd be no scuffs.  Marge and Steve followed down a long, skinny corridor to compartment #216. 
     "Well, there'll be plenty of beer and wine at dinner, no limits," the porter said, placing their suitcase inside.  "I'll make the bunks up while you're eating, if that's OK.  You have the early seating?  The late one usually gets rowdy.  If there's anything else you need, just let me know.  Towels and kleenex are right here, and an overnight kit, too," he said, pointing beneath the sink.  "Glasses are up top.  The bathroom light goes on automatically, once you lock that door."
     The train pulled out right on schedule.  After they'd put everything away and took a glance out the windows, Marge and Steve heard the announcement for the 5:00 seating.
     "I guess we won't have time for a drink in the bar," Steve said.  They moved along the thin corridor in the opposite direction from where they'd climbed up, bumping against the long windows and  sides of compartments.  Between cars Steve hit the big red button to slide the steel doors open, trying to maintain his balance as the train weaved and jerked.
     Five cars later, they found the dining room.  Glasses from a restaurant supply store sat on linen tablecloths.  Stainless steel forks, knives, spoons edged the plates that would go directly into a commercial dishwasher.  No fine china in sight.

.....TO BE CONTINUED

Role Models for Twenty-Somethings: Grandpa and Grandma



Pam's parents, Ev and Walt, who are the subjects of her book, A Survival Guide for Children with Elderly Parents (Who Still Have Their Marbles)

Mireille Silcoff wrote a piece in the NY Times Magazine on April 28, 2013, about a rage called "Advanced Style."  The rage was created by  31-year-old Ari Cohen in his coffee table book featuring photos of women, mostly, who are too old to care what the latest style is.  By not caring, the women create a style of their own.  It's called "dressing for yourself instead of other people."

So, if you're over seventy, don't throw out your old stuff.  The twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings want to get their hands on it.  Put it on E-bay.

Which led me to wonder about the twenty-somethings:
-don't they know the shirts are stained with tobacco drool from grandpa's pipe?
-don't they know the pants have holes in not-so-appropriate places?
-don't they know the orthodic shoes are misshapen from the bunions that grew inside?
-don't they know the sweat stains in grandpa's baseball caps will never disappear?
-don't they know that tea cozies are dust collectors?
-don't they know that grandma's handknit afghans smells of moth balls?
-don't they know the thick socks with nonskid rubber underneath are from hospital overnights?
-don't they know that platinum highlights will come naturally?
-don't they know that herb-scented enlightenment is a reward after fifty years of working overtime?
-don't they know that retirement's freedom was paid for with a social security system
     that is broken, a pension that was tithed, and a savings account that started
     the minute grandma and grandpa married?

I guess the appeal of the twilight years is their authenticity.  You can eat when you want, fart when you want, sleep when you want, make love when you want, stay up all night on the computer if you want, wear what you want, follow the dream you want, go where you want. 

That's assuming you can still walk and see and digest and hear and have money to get there.  "Getting old is not for sissies," the saying goes, and that's certainly true.  But twenty-somethings don't want to hear about back pain, hip and knee replacements, arthritis flare-ups,  kidney stones, and cataracts.

Their grandpas and grandmas have held them in diapers, attended their graduations, walked down the aisle at their weddings, and now are travelling around the world with them.  They have become role models who have the younger generation's attention, and that is a testament unto itself in this culture of risk and exponentially increasing speed.  Grandma and grandpa's histories need to be repeated, and time is of the essence.  Forget the vinyl and afghans.  Forget style.  Tell the stories.

Key West Revisited

Charley and I head south every year in late April for the Conch Republic Festival.  It's Key West's version of Mardi Gras, a celebration of the island's unsuccessful attempt to secede from the Union.  The fact that they didn't succeed in seceding doesn't seem to matter.

We head as far south as we can go until U.S. 1 runs out, ninety miles from Cuba.  Key West is a paradise for writers - and artists, lovers, snorkelers, divers, boaters, fishermen, campers, birders, foreigners, lesbians, gays, transvestites - ANYONE!  Just the drive down is worth the trip.  It takes five hours from Delray Beach, over forty-some bridges.  The sea changes on both sides from deep azure far out to vibrant turquoise in the channels to beige over the sand bars to thin pea-soup green in the runoffs.  Nonstop photo ops, but not at 45 mph between Key Largo and Duval Street.

The bizarre becomes commonplace here and acceptance is the norm.  A young Irishman walks the sidewalk with pink dye in his blond Mohawk.  The spikes on his head are outdone only by the spikes on the green iguana grazing on the sea grapes at the edge of our beach.  A van in orange and white psychedelic swirls advertises a number to call for transport to "Live! Naked Dancers."  As opposed to what - dead naked dancers?  The mainland seems a million miles away.  CNN reports that authorities have surrounded a suspect from the Boston Marathon bombings.  He is lying wounded under a tarp in a boat in someone's backyard.  We are in the twilight zone.

There is the drag race down Duval Street.  Men in drag - sequined dresses, bright makeup, wigs, and revealing undergarments - RUN in stilettos, then jump through tires down the street.  Some of the

shaved legs are pretty shapely, and the butts aren't bad, either.  The contestants must work out for this. There are no bulging guts.

Another event during the two-week Festival is the bed race.  Beds become floats, pushed by the aforementioned "beauties," while real-life beauties sit on the mattresses, feathered, flocked, or fried.  Monkeys and a lemur squat on spectators' shoulders peeling peanuts, while parrots and macaws squawk at the contestants.  The pigeons are busy!  We see a dog dressed in doll clothes wearing a straw hat.

The other event that is a blast, literally, is the Coast Guard's attempt to subdue the rebel Conch Republic pirates on their ship off Mallory Pier.  The Pier is the site of sunset kisses, cruise or Naval ship dockings, and acts of wonder under spotlights.  We've seen the same contortionist, now age 60, remove himself from a chained straitjacket for ten years.  It's also the spot for the water fight.  The Coast Guard, with its superior hoses, subdues the rebels, but not before it has doused the spectators to their bones.  None of us care, since we all have a glow from the sun or whatever. 

I no longer wear flip flops with cute crystal beads cutting between my toes, as I did when we first started going here.  Charley doesn't walk in sandals, either.  Instead, we ramble up Duval Street and back (two and one-half miles, total) in the morning in sturdy walking sneakers and socks.  Charley dons a safari hat, looking for native Key West species.  The temperature will climb near ninety.  He sports a three-day beard, Papa Hemingway-style, and blends right in.

We no longer peer into the Hog's Breath Saloon, Sloppy Joe's, or Margueritaville.  The stink of beer venting onto the sidewalk in the morning takes away my appetite.  Instead, we stop on a porch near the Southernmost Hotel for glasses of ice water, coffee, lemonade, and muffins. 

There is a problem during our walk.  I must shop by memory.  "I hate to shop," Charley reminds me.  The first day I do a memory snapshot of the exact item I see in a window, the shop where I saw it, and where the shop is located.  The following day Charley indulges me by retracing our route while I try to locate the items.  He prevails upon the nearest shopkeeper to provide a plastic chair.  One year a shopkeeper actually gave him a key chain as a reward for his patience.   On the way back to our hotel, we look at shirts to replace what he forgot  or "Y" straps that will hold his sunglasses in place, since they are slipping in the heat.  It's a trade off.

In the afternoon we collapse on our hotel beach and order a late lunch from our chaises, without moving.  Reminds me of a story.

We took another couple with us to Key West a couple of times.  The first time we set up at the same beach but had no idea our section was designated "Topless."  Tom settled in, took one look at what was in front of him, and never moved a muscle for the rest of the afternoon.  He didn't even open a book.  "This is where I want to have lunch the rest of the trip," he said.

A Restaurant Encounter

We met a friend for drinks at a popular south Florida restaurant last week.  Maria had half a martini left when we arrived.  "Good thing I got here early," she said.  "It's Happy Hour!  I'm going to try to hold this seat for Steve, but I think Derek might come, too." 

Charley and I perched on high stools across from Maria in the middle of the room.  The bartender was hustling along the length of a granite slab behind us.  Two women sat across from each other on the right end of our island.  Someone whose head was barely visible over the granite top stood waiting next to them, with her husband.  Those end stools would be vacant for maybe thirty seconds after the two women had licked their last drops.

A couple nursed Margaritas to our left and another couple cut into their appetizers across from us, next to Maria.

Steve came in, leaned in to give Maria a peck, and claimed the empty chair she'd saved.

Derek came in, cradling his pekingese against him like a babe.  The two women at the end got up to leave and Derek moved in. 

"Oh no,"  said Bobblehead from somewhere near the floor.  "We've been waiting for these seats."

"But I'm with this group," Derek said.

"Too bad," Bobblehead said, raising her haunches toward the bottom rung of the stool.

Derek came behind us. "Guess they're in a rush," he said, while I searched Lily's long hair tied into  bows, trying to find ears to scratch.   She was swaddled in a green jacket.

"Oh my God, it's a dog!  Dogs aren't allowed in restaurants," the woman next to Maria yelled, spitting some of her appetizer toward us.

"Yes they are, if they're service dogs," Derek said.

"I'm allergic!  You've got to get that dog out of here," the Spitter said.

"I don't have to do any such thing!  It's a service dog.  See the green jacket?"

"What kind of service could that pipsqueak perform?" Spitter asked Maria.

"I really don't know.  But they're allowed.  If you don't like it, write the Governor."

Maria turned to speak to us but didn't get a word out.  "Get that f______ dog out of here!" yelled the Spitter's husband from the left end.

"There's no need for that kind of language," I said.

"Everyone calm down," Charley said, pushing his palms downward in slow motion.

"I'll go outside and see if there are any tables where we can finish our drinks," I said in an attempt at peacemaker.  I still had half a Bloody Mary to finish.  No seats outside.

Mr. Foul Mouth wasn't finished.  "My wife is allergic!  Get that f______ dog out of here!"

Steve found his way to the hostess.  He and Derek had a dinner reservation, and Steve motioned to Derek the table was ready. 

Lily went along for the ride, and maybe for leftovers.   Maria, Charley, and I drained our drinks and found a quieter place to eat, as three women jumped in to take our stools.

Oops - Forgot Something!

I've heard of leaving a child behind, but a wife??

Taking some heat - Galapagos, Ecuador

         HIS VERSION

The guys were all in the back of the bus playing poker.  We wanted to be close to the john, since we'd polished off a few beers by the time we stopped for lunch in St. Johnsbury, Vermont.

The women were all up front, and the guys were happy about that!  We didn't have to listen to the yapping from Bangor all the way to Montreal.

Sue and I had lunch together when we stopped.  Then our monitor, who was a member of our group, told us to get back on the bus.  I said to Sue I didn't need to use the bathroom in the restaurant, so I did what I was told.   I got back on the bus.  I figured Sue'd get on with the women.

One of my real good friends, Tom, was with us and he's a joker.  About three miles out of town, he asked where Sue was.

"Up front," I told him. 

Tom walked up the aisle, then came back and said, "She's not here.  I thought I spotted her running toward the bus when we took off."

My first reaction was that he was being an asshole and he'd hidden her in the nose of the bus or in the bathroom.  But I realized she hadn't passed us to get back there.  So I took a walk up front.

He was right.  No Sue!

I asked the monitor if he'd counted us before we left St. Johnsbury.  "All you have is one wife and you can't keep track of her?" he said.

We had to go another mile before the bus could turn around.  St. Johnsbury is a one-street town, and when we got back, there was only one sign of life.  It was Sue, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

The first time she spoke to me was three days later, when we got back home.

HER VERSION

What husband doesn't check to make sure his wife is on board?  He knows I always uses the restroom after a meal, and I sure as heck wasn't going to use the one on the bus, with all those beer-guzzling guys peeing in there!

He's saying it was the monitor's fault.  I had lunch with him, not the monitor.  I was with him when he told me he was getting back on the bus.  That's when I went to the restroom. 

I figure he must have been losing at poker because I was the furthest thing from his mind all during lunch.  He deserved that "Screw-up of the Year" plaque at the national convention!

Body Heat

I sat down at the computer in a gray sweater to write this blog.  Two sentences into the draft, I pulled the sweater off.  I was overheating. 

I don't mean overheating as in, "Come here, honey, let's have some fun!"  I mean overheating
as in, "Turn  the a.c. to sixty so I can get some relief!"  We live in Florida, don't forget.

This bodily reaction has been going on for twenty-plus years. It started around the time my hormones left me and took up residence I don't know where.   I refuse to take Hormone Replacement Therapy and instead pop nightly soy supplements and drink soy milk for breakfast and dinner.  The milk tastes better than niacin tablets, which turn my face and neck into a prickly red minefield of zits resembling the rash I get when Charley's beard scrapes me.  If I'm going to look like that, I want a little reward.

Time out...now getting cold and must put my sweater back on.

On any random night Charley knows that our blanket will be thrown off sometime before midnight and then yanked back up at an ungodly hour.  He tucks his side under his body so it won't move.  He has grown used to my saying that I am burning up and would he please roll to the other side of the bed.  He knows things won't change for a long time ---  my mother passed away at ninety and was still having flashes.

Excuse me...must take the sweater off again.  I am drinking hot tea.

At a dinner party Charley actually counted four times I took a jacket off and put it back on.  I reminded him that testosterone doesn't last forever, either.

Technicolor to Fifty Shades

We left Florida for a brief visit to Massachusetts. The first night it snowed three inches and the thermometer registered twenty-nine degrees.  Five days later we escaped a second snowstorm that pelted our region as we winged our way south in a metal tube.

You might think that what we missed most about Florida during the trip was warmth.  It was not.  It was ----- color!

We left a technicolor world and entered a monochromatic world in fifty shades of you-guessed-it, gray.  The heavy, wet snow bowed tree branches into arcs, making the scene spectacular.  But white, like black, is not a color.

People wore navy, olive, dark brown, or black to absorb the heat.  The most colorful sight we saw in the ground was a brazen patch of yellow and purple crocuses daring the cold.  It was beaten into submission with the first snowstorm.

We also saw a team of Little Leaguers practicing in red jerseys against a backdrop of frozen silt.  They'd probably be snowed out of their season opener.

I missed the de rigueur dress code of Florida, where women wore tees emblazoned with eye-popping sunflowers or preening parrots.  Their sandals boasted glass garnets of rubies and topazes.  White tennis outfits gave way to blocks of color like lavender with matching ruffles or white polka dots on aqua backgrounds. 

Men wore loafers without socks, revealing tanned ankles.  Their golf shirts ranged from bubblegum pink to sapphire blue and the more adventurous wore shorts of Kelly Green.  Linen jackets in baby blue or straw fronted dark tees or striped dress shirts.

On our trip north I vowed never again to tell Charley the shirt he loves with palm trees and pineapples had gone out of style ten years ago.