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From: Jaye Date: 08 Nov 2002 Time: 04:15 PM Comments: This little piece is copyrighted. Please don't use any of it without asking me - jaye.pd@care2.com if you don't know me, otherwise use my regular email. Written on my way home from Carol's in November 2002. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Letter on the Road November 6, 2002 The fall colors seem pale this year, the trees wispy. Many of them seem to be going directly from yellowish green to brown. After breakfast and a nap, I spent my morning gazing out the windows at the rock hills of West Virginia, at rushing waterfalls sliding down every low place, at rivers swollen brown from several days’ rain. I suppose it was the summer drought across our shared latitude that made the trees so vague here and at home in Maryland; the misty moisture makes them look at times fairly-like, at others simply half-hearted. I remember that on my October trip, the Ohio River valley where the train runs along it on the Kentucky side was inhabited by shapeless pearls of fog that turned to pink as the sun lifted them, but the sun rises later these days, so the wet scene was merely gloomy today. The scenery is gorgeous along the Cardinal’s route. Train travel, with its schedule-wrecking lackadaisical progress, must be an end in itself to be enjoyed. Despite the screaming children in coach, the over-used rest rooms, the ghastly Snack Car food, and the union rules that have one fellow count you, another give you a pillow, and a third, the conductor, punch your ticket, it’s an anachronism that I hope never goes away entirely. I met a surprising number of people who travel by train because they’re afraid to fly, but I do it partly for the extremely good bargains, but mostly just for the fun of it. It’s the manners of the staff that most delight me. I go to the dining car: someone greets me, indicates a seat at a white tablecloth with whoever came in just before me, and withdraws, gravely honored by my presence. As I notice that the tableware is all plastic and there aren’t enough menus to go around, I exchange travel information with my tablemates. One must ask and be asked where one got on the train, where one is getting off and the purpose of going there, and if things are going cordially, to identify one’s occupation and those of one’s near relatives, if needed for clarity. Everyone is nice, everyone is pleasant, everyone tells stories as if at a meal with old friends. The waiter comes at last, with dignity befitting the bearer of 30 years of train lore, which he can probably not be persuaded to expound upon lest other guests’ needs be neglected. In a suspiciously short time the food arrives. We are grateful if it’s hot through, or at least only slightly frozen. We blanch at the price (although it’s included with sleeping compartments). We tip with the largesse of people who depend repeatedly on the same staff. This morning at breakfast I was seated with a doctor, a specialist in family practice, who was on her way to a professional meeting at a resort in the West Virginia hills. We discussed the difficulty of family doctors in diagnosing Parkinson’s. She said that it just wasn’t something you thought of, especially in young people. Then she asked me what my first symptoms were. Plantar fasciitis, a rotator cuff injury, stiffness in my neck, and bradykinesia--slowness, pokiness, outright sloth at times, I told her. She was surprised that the chronic pain along the bottoms of the feet and the shoulder injury were part of the PD picture. When we came to depression, I explained that the clinical depression that can be associated with Parkinson’s Disease is often not, and in my case pretty certainly not, due to the knowledge of the diagnosis, but comes from actual brain cell death due to the disease process itself. She appeared surprised again, but readily accepted my neuropsychiatrist’s credentials, while I devoutly hoped that I had quoted my doctor correctly. For her part, the good doctor, although she enjoyed the family aspect of family practice, regretted that there are so many dysfunctional families out there. I had observed that myself, but I was sorry to hear it from an expert. Just as sadly, we found no solution to sniper crime nor to the political situation pertaining to stem cell research. Returning to my compartment after a lunch with two hospital administrators and a fashion advertising freelancer, I was aware of the necessity of doing something about the beer I drank with my lunch—vacation, you know—which, disappointingly, wasn’t helping me take the nap I had hoped it would induce but caused something more inconvenient. In the microscopic world of a “standard bedroom,” this means I had to heave my 50-pound suitcase onto the vacant seat, close all the shades on both corridor side and view side, lift a lid which doubles as a stair step to the unused upper berth, and squash myself into a space the width of an airline seat in a 757, the memory of which reminds me why I’m not flying and makes railroad travel seem like a real, er, relief. I folded down the lavatory above the second, much narrower, stair step, and did my best to wash up with the trickle of cool water allotted to me. The tiny compartment that I rented after boarding was hardly as romance-friendly as I had thought it might be, looking forward to some future trip. After interrupting my companion’s reading or sightseeing for about the seventh time in a day to either, uh, sit down next to him or force him out into the teensy hallway, I’m afraid I’d stop feeling quite so alluring. Nor was the bed very comfortable, but perhaps it was just the claustrophobic feeling of being in a sleeping locker or in a layer of one of those trucks that take livestock to market. No, I was better off with my feet hanging, so I made the bed back into facing seats after my first nap. Too, while the noise of coach class is several cars away, the sleepers are closer to the engine and therefore to the whistle, which is blown almost constantly while in the Commonwealth of Virginia, for whatever reason. Still, I was free to move around, to take a walk if I wanted one, to buy souvenirs and snacks, to stop at any seat and chat with anyone I recognized from the dining car or my last trip, to use my tray-table to read or write or watch DVDs on my computer, or to sit in a seat wider than I am and only stare at the motion beyond the glass while I wove new plans or reconfigured old dreams. There are bigger compartments available that would be worth trying. After arriving in Washington less than an hour late, I checked a monitor for the next commuter train and discovered that I had no more than three minutes to get past about six gates and then find the correct track. Approaching the train at the blazing speed of my quickest shuffle, I held up a hand to the conductor, who I believe held the train a few seconds for me; at any rate I was the last one to board. On home town turf in twenty minutes, I was greeted by that most beautiful sight of all journeys, a friend who had missed me. The visit was a good one. Carol is doing quite well, and so am I. I may stay home for more than the week I’d planned so I can fit in a church group meeting and help my neighbor in the first few days after his DBS surgery, but I’ll be on some kind of transport to Kentucky again soon.