Searching for a home during a global pandemic
By Stacey Warde
I woke up at 4:45 a.m. to catch a six o’clock train, Amtrak’s Surfliner, in San Luis Obispo to Santa Ana. I slept fitfully in a Motel 6 not far from the station.
Had I stayed here the previous night, it would have cost me nearly $300, which I don’t have; but Sunday, after prime time, it’s only $80, which is still more than I want to pay on a fixed budget. Fortunately, good friends put me up for a night and it was great to socialize and visit them and to find love in an era where love seems lacking, when so many are holding their breath, isolating themselves as I have these past two years, waiting for the covid pandemic to end, starved for affection and a friendly, warm human embrace.
Throughout the night I could hear rainfall but it turned heavy and started dumping around 3 a.m. I got up several times to look out the window of my motel room and saw it coming down in sheets the way it does in the tropics. God, I thought, I hope there aren’t any delays or problems on the railroad tracks.
I’ve been looking for a new home, essentially homeless, these past four weeks after quitting a 7-year relationship. I’ve been up to Mendocino and back to San Luis Obispo and Orange Counties several times, staying with family, friends, and in motels, hoping to find a place to land.
Meanwhile, during my travels up and down the state, I had been worried about this supposed “bomb cyclone” forecasters had been warning about for days, a system out of Alaska that was drawing moisture up from the south and packing potential devastating rain, with flash flood warnings in California’s burn areas, one of which, the Alisal Fire near Gaviota, we would be passing through on our way south. Peak rainfall, the forecast warned, would occur as we passed through the area, and debris could quite possibly muck things up.
I found a space as close to the station as possible in the long-term parking lot, and tried to wait a few minutes for the rain to lighten up before traipsing up to the train depot but the rain kept coming down hard. Finally, losing precious time, I grabbed my bags and hustled off, still a good walking distance from the station, to find cover inside the depot, when I realized that I hadn’t placed my parking pass on the dashboard of my truck. I hurried back (“goddammit!”), by this time nearly soaked, to place the pass in the window as heavy rain blasted at my back. I could feel it soaking through, my bags already glistening wet as I set them down to unlock my truck and put the parking pass where it belonged.
Inside the depot, still not quite 6 a.m., I had a moment of panic, my travel bags dripping, clothes soaked, waiting passengers milling about, shaking off the rain, some wearing masks as required to protect against Covid-19, others not, some, believe it or not, wearing flip-flops over bare feet. I hadn’t had my coffee, and I was feeling cranky, and the air itself seemed icky wet.
A young male adult, probably a Cal Poly student, stood tossing a yo-yo through the air not far from where I sat, barely missing his girlfriend’s face who was seated in front of him, watching and blinking as the yo-yo flew past her nose, and I wondered what her parents must think of the fella, whose only talent appeared to be wrapping yo-yo string around his fingers, and making the yo-yo itself twirl in loops around their daughter’s face. What a useless dick, I thought, feeling like a crotchety old man. Still, she seemed to like him.
I noticed one woman who had gone into the restroom with wet clothes and came out moments later in dry clothes. She appeared to be the only person in the room who felt comfortable and at ease. Smart woman, I thought. I’ll be doing the same thing on the train, putting on dry clothes, staying comfortable, not getting chilled.
The station master, who had been carefully monitoring the scene, came out, and from the door of his office announced, “the password to get into the restroom is 2-0-0-1.” In minutes, the train pulled up to the boarding platform and passengers gathered their damp belongings to go outside, where it was still dark, and board the train. Underneath a small covering, in the glimmering light of the station, we waited for the doors of the train to open and watched as the rain poured, splattering the ground all around us.
The biggest concern I had at that moment wasn’t the flash flood warnings given for the recent Alisal Fire near Gaviota, but my damp clothes, staying warm, and keeping my covid protection mask dry. “Ugh, a petri dish of…” I had to put it out of my mind. “What good does it do to worry? I’m going, so let’s go!” I boarded the train, feeling like a wet rat in clothes and a mask covering my face.
On board the train, as I changed my wet outer garments into something dry, the conductor announced that the train isn’t exactly weather proof, there may be some seats that are wet, due to leaks, and to “feel free to move around until you find something dry.” I found my place, the same as always, a seat with no one behind me. I could essentially relax unmolested, if I could relax.
We passed the Alisal Fire area without any problems, the blackened ground reeling against the season’s first downpour but not slipping into nearby ravines and clogging waterways or blocking the road and railroad tracks. I could barely see out of my window as the rain pelted the train. I could hear it on the roof of the car, and when I went down to the cafe car to get coffee, I spotted empty seats that were taking on water from the leaky roof.
At the Santa Barbara station, where mostly college students get on or off, the conductor announced again, “this train is not weather proof! Please find yourselves a seat that’s dry, and be careful walking around the lower deck; it’s very wet!”
Occasionally, I could hear the throaty hacking cough of a woman several seats in front of me. WTF? I hoped she’s ok and that it was only the usual morning clearing of the lungs and not something more menacing. Yet, I know there are those who will travel no matter how they feel, even during a global pandemic.
Upon our arrival in Ventura, the rain had lightened considerably but the wind blew stiff against flags that flapped furiously in dark horizontal squares against the sky, and along the tracks trees had fallen. The hacking cough continued unabated, at least until the woman got off the train. I wasn’t feeling especially charitable or friendly, and neither did other passengers appear ready to show friendly faces. I kept to myself, and did not wish to appear friendly so no one would sit next to me. I was perfectly happy to sit alone for this ride.
My mask, as always with long-time wear, was beginning to hurt my ears after several hours, but at least my clothes were dry.
This trip would not have been necessary had I stayed in the unhappy situation I’d lived in for years. Things had gotten so toxic. I try not to focus on it too much and remind myself that I need to get on with my life, and I’m still learning what that even means. “Getting on” means a willingness to risk, to be vulnerable, to find a home, to end things when so much effort goes into making an unworkable relationship work.
As we rolled into the LA station, the conductor announced that more than 100 passengers would be boarding, and that all seats must be made available. “It’s a crowded train.” Who’s gonna get the wet seats on this train that “isn’t weatherproof”? And why are so many people traveling when the risk of covid is still so great?
As more passengers boarded, complaining of how crowded the train was, I could smell the dank odor of marijuana. Someone is packing or carrying a load, I thought, someone always is. Fortunately for me, I love that smell.
As the conductor made announcements about federal regulations for wearing masks–“yesterday I removed five passengers for not wearing masks”–a young woman, probably in her 20s, on her cell phone raised her voice to be heard above the din: “I had the bruschetta…” I was having trouble hearing the conductor. What is wrong with people, I thought as I tried to listen to the conductor’s instructions, that their personal stuff, which isn’t really personal because everyone can hear them, is so much more important than the conductor giving instructions for riding the train during a global pandemic? A friend soon joined her. Neither one wore a mask.
I’ve been hearing so much about the tensions between Boomers like me–“OK, Boomer”–and younger folk like this woman, who was so rude and selfish in her tiny little world of sharing her dinner experience with everyone on the train. I didn’t understand those tensions; now I do. Basically, I realized, we’re all sojourners of a sort, looking for a place to call home. Yet, I also know that home is a state of mind, where friends and family welcome you into their arms, no matter how wet you are, or how difficult your life has been.
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Stacey Warde is editor of The Rogue Voice. Please leave comments.
