April 28, 2015

Yesteryear
One year ago today: April 28, 2014, many topics.
Five years ago today: April 28, 2010, tinkering with FireHow.
Six years ago today: April 28, 2009, many topics.

MORNING
           Where is there no Internet access? The Amtrak. And I’m on my way to somewhere. Hint, they have an annual motorcycle show that attracts a lot of sidecars. I’m here for the ride. I like the train more than most of the destinations. I even took a chance and left my scooter overnight in the Amtrak lot. Why? Because it takes an hour [for me] to walk to the train station, but two hours and fifty minutes to go the same distance by city bus. That’s correct, you have to be at the bus stop at 7:00 AM to catch the 8:44 AM train.

           Here is my semi-profile gawking at the downtown Deland Opera House 1910. Yes, I made it to the university town of Deland, where I toured Stetson University, the same guy who made his fortune selling the cowboy hats. This town was established around 1900 at the end of the navigable portion of the St. Johns River. That’s the same river as the famous sidecar ferry crossing on the way to Savannah.
           I’ll present the full story over a couple of days, but in keeping with my travel documentary style, I will tell you what the trip costs. As far as I know, I am the only contemporary writer who tells the full costs, what it actually dollar for dollar hits you for. This trip was a piddling $238,64, including the motel. Rather than my [strict] hour-by-hour style, I’m going to try a more storybook recount, but this was definitely the adventure of 2015. Hands-down.
           Bottom line remains this is not a travel blog, but a record of the most “superlative” of anything that happens in my day. So darn tootin’, when I’m out of town, that’s my big event. And the trip is often more fun that the destination. Not so this time around. I’ll take my time getting to that. First I got out of the station in gloomy cloud and a surprisingly smooth ride. As usual, there is little to see but cement plants until you reach Ft. Lauderdale.
           I had an immediate spat with Amtrak. I know the system now and there are some things I don’t blindly accept. One is seating. The only fair way to assign seating on public transport is first come first serve, which I fully admit does not allow for different levels of involvement. So imagine my reaction when as the train pulls up, I notice the cars are mainly empty. This signals a guaranteed window seat.
           Not so fast. I know the numbering system and instantly objected to being assigned an aisle seat. I got a lame retort that later on some family groups “might be boarding” the train. I’m like, so what? The Amtrak literature said nothing about any identifiable group getting any special treatment. I was able to successfully argue that I was a family group of one, but Amtrak, you are, well, rocking the boat.
           But I was lucky. They bought it.

NOON
           9:44 AM. If insisting on a window seat sounds pushy, hey, they started it. I doubt I would ride a train without a window seat unless I had no choice. I’m not pushy at all, I am against the preferable treatment of any sub-group even where such a policy would give me a personal edge. It just is not right. If the family wants to sit together, let them pay extra for that. However, this is just one of several things Amtrak changed in the past year that I’m not too keen on.

           10:44 AM. The weather worsened to sloppy rain by Sebring and then cleared by Orlando, my longest train ride yet this century. We ran a half hour late due to a siding while an even later southbound had to roar past and a huge line of 150 people boarded at Orland, funneled through a single Amtrak gate. None were family groups and the train remained 2/3 empty. It was now noon and sunny as we reached Deland, a spot I picked on the map.
           2:44 PM. Amtrak lies. The train station is nowhere near Deland. I found myself in an isolated stretch of forest miles from any habitation. And no bus or phone service. I met some university students on the train, but note one of them had ever been to the trains station before. Later, their ride was taking them in the opposite direction.
           However, momentarily and as luck would have it, an assisted living van showed up for some of the luggage. The pretty lady looked at me and said she would give me a lift into town. Bonus! I was dismayed as she drove east mile after mile down winding, empty country roads, assuring this was the direct route to Deland. About six miles, far beyond walking distance even if the road would have had a shoulder.
           Wait, there’s more, she was an assisted living director and had collected a big bag of used, but contemporary novels donated for seniors. She let me help myself to some John Gresham novels. Then informed there are no hotels right in Deland proper. The nearest were in Orange City, another six miles south.
           To me, this only adds to the adventure. I had her drop me at Woodland, the main drag. Within minutes, I was chatting up an utterly gorgeous twenty-year-old babe, talk about perfection. We talked for nearly a half-hour and she mentioned she was on her way to apply for a job at a candy store. She certainly looked the part. Talk about drop-dead gorgeous.
           3:44 PM I walked another ten steps and saw the sign, “Cool Stuff Cheap”. Well, this shop knows how to get me in the door. It turns out to be one of my favorite establishments. A used book store with a manager, Cliff, who knows the town. He even drew me a map. There was, he recalled, an old hotel in the “Artisan” district five blocks away. The most organized bookstore I’ve ever seen. I bought three research paperbacks.
           4:44 PM. It was a hotel, but only with “boutique suites” starting at $251. More than I had on me. Remember, I have no credit cards. They gave me directions to a bed & breakfast, a long hike. That business did not answer the doorbell or the phone, so screw them, I decided to walk back downtown.
           5:44 PM. It was warm and I was struggling past the post office when this dude come out the door. A quick question about Stetson U, and he drove me over there and through the campus. Wow, small but talk about tidy and efficient looking. JZ, there is no way you’ve seen this place. It reeks of money and turns out it is not the law school, which was moved to Tampa years ago. Return later for pics, I still need a place to crash.

AFTERNOON
           6:44 PM. North of the university, on the northern outskirts of town, I found the “Orange Tree”. You would not stay there, it was run down. The room, $73, was large, but you get one light bulb and one bar of soap. But I’m not there to move in, I showered, changed into my spiffiest outfit and walked back to town. Just over a mile. None of the locals knew there was even a motel there, yet it was right next to a Burger King.

           7:44 PM. I waited at the first bus stop I found, although several people told me there was no bus system. They were partially right. If you wait over a half-hour at a bus top just after six at the stop across from the university, and no bus arrives, then no, you don’t have a bus system. Call it many things, but it isn’t a bus system. The good news is I can walk that far.
           At this point, I spent an evening on the town. First stop was a locally famous deli called Bellini’s, but I cannot recommend it. Here’s where I feel it important to make a point. Guys, 20 year old women are legal. Many don’t like it when a man my age makes time with them, but as far as I’m concerned, they are just a bunch of jealous bastards who have lost their touch.
           My point is that I remember exactly what it is like to be twenty and I know precisely how women that age think, both how and why. If I didn’t, these women would not for a moment talk to me. If I was any hint of a dirty old man I’d be in trouble. If there was even one molecule of wrong in what I do, these women would not flock to me. The place was empty when I walked in and within a few minutes, all five twenty-year-old waitresses were surrounding my table, sitting down, giving me free coffee.
           I am not about to argue with anyone who calls me a liar because I have too many irrefutable witnesses who have seen me do this many times. I have no fear of rejection, but that is something I just like to say because in reality, I have only rarely been rejected. I’m not out to score with these young women, but even if I just go through the motions to prove I’ve still got it, that is not anyone else’s business. Not anyone.
           Certainly not the concern of that fat, ugly, stupid-looking 300 pound hippo freak behind the counter who scowled at me for an hour. I wanted to walk over there and ask him what his fucking problem was, but I already know. Another bitter tub-of-lard fat bastard envious of me moving in on five young women at once. Well, all I go to say to you, Mr. Pig-Blimp, is eat your heart out. Mr, Hair Dyed Jet Black. Fuck you. That was some kind of New York reject prick if I’ve ever seen one. I found out later across town his name was “Scott”. And after I while, I was purposely making "sexy talk" with the girls just to get his goat.
           Was he the owner? How the hell should I know? Listen, Fatboy, you stick to running your stupid little pizza parlor in the middle of nowhere and keep your snout out of a real man’s business. We all know how much the world misses small-town pizza cooks when they die in obscurity.

EVENING
           It being a pleasant evening above the frost line, I walked through the entire downtown area. I stopped at a pub called McCabe’s, which all the locals called McKay’s. Not an error on my part, my hearing is 20/20. Nice, but extremely rough and loud clientele, I had to leave. Sharp barmaid named Liz and many other people in the service industry all told me there was no such thing as a club with live entertainment on a Tuesday.

           Ah, but I know small towns. I kept walking and heard definite live music down an alleyway. It is called the Da Vinci “Drink & Dance” and there was an eight piece jazz orchestra. Or should I say folk-influenced blues-jazz. Which to me sounds alike, but I’m on a mini-holiday and I would have settled for a dog show. I bored of it quickly and transferred over to the barstools inside at the back.
           In no time at all, the local ladies quickly spot that I’m not local. Face it, you don’t see many yokels in a pub writing in a scribbler. By their reaction, they must not encounter many men who can write at all. I had one telling me I was the spitting image of the mayor of Deltona, shown here. Myself, I don’t see the resemblance. But I do have to admit this well-groomed chap is a handsome lady’s man and does, indeed, cut a dashing figure.
           Other than the color of his beard, I see very little likeness. But you may rest assured about one thing. I no not and never will own a tie like that.
           The band quit around 10:00 PM, whereupon I quickly played a half-hour of country music on the jukebox and met someone. Or, more like she met me, and we wound up spending the rest of the evening chatting each other up. A very accomplished and educated lady, definitely the artistic type. I know what you are thinking and so was I: artistic women set off my alarms and rightfully so. But we got along well enough and I am definitely going to see where this leads.
           She has no idea how many yeses (plural of yes) she was getting from me while my mind was urging caution. She’s got parrots and a house full of art, all of these things I like overly much because women who care for things are fundamentally better and live more decently than the wrong sorts. Things were very high on the compatibility list and when we got together for breakfast next morning, she was beginning to see the effect on me. I must stay down to earth and keep telling myself not to rush a thing here. Right now, the huge distance between us will be the first test.


Last Laugh

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