"As many of my friends would attest, my imagination and vocal excitement for future events is pretty...uninspiring. To be completely honest, before leaving on this trip I was preoccupied with logistics and being OCD about everything lining up correctly and going smoothly. Mostly, I was just looking forward to the new experience: I've never taken an extended train ride like this before so I tried my best just to be present in the moment and be observant to the events that would inevitably unfold before me -- no matter how grand or mundane.

On the train there was a designated car that had basically floor to ceiling windows down the entire length. It was meditative in many ways to observe the gradient of cities dissipating and rural expanses appear. To catch moments of city life as well as uninterrupted or disturbed nature felt like a quiet story unfolding before me, like a little secret that is confided to only those who take the time to sit and look. I think what surprised me the most was the general atmosphere and demeanor of passengers. We can forget how normalized the efficiency of flying is. Thinking about it, who's ever told you about their great time at the airport or on the plane? It's a Bingo game every time -- take your pick: crying baby, armrest hogger, frantic sprint to make a connecting flight, unabashed coughers and sneezers, and the people who stand up in the aisle the moment the plane stops. Within the first 10 minutes of taking my seat on the train, there were conversations between strangers of where they're going, what they do, talks of family and seeing friends.The impression I had was that the tension and anxiety one often feels when flying was relatively absent in the train. That physical and mental claustrophobia was replaced by a general casualness.

Even though the trip afforded me several stops all along the Pacific West Coast, it felt like it'd be inaccurate to pull imagery for the artwork from just one city. While the final stop was Vancouver, that's just where my ride ended. Reminding myself that I spent essentially half of my time on a train, I returned to my first day sitting in the viewing car and just watching the scenery change. It was a calmness that I don't often afford myself. But with book in hand and headphones on, that stillness was captivating."

Friday, May 13, 2023

LA > DAV

As the train passes San Luis Obispo, drifting slowly away from the Pacific coast after meandering along the shoreline, I return to my assigned seat five hours into the ride as the wedding party that had invaded the observation car over the course of the past two hours finally succeeded in conquering the space both in level of noise as well as overwhelming physical presence one seat at a time. Aware that I may be drifting towards being the “disgruntled passenger”, I found it to be a particularly opportune time to reflect on what has been a quite reflective ride.

I boarded the Amtrak this morning with as much expectation of what the train would be like as the little amount of restraint a fellow passenger exercised as she barreled past me onto the train. A quick share of a smile and a nod between the train attendant and I reassured me that this may just be an oddity, and that the trip was to be a pleasant experience. With ticket checked and seat assigned, I'm directed “upstairs and to the right”. So begins the thirteen hours.

Much like a plane, carry-on luggage is placed above and backpacks at your feet. Not soon after I was settled in the familiar process and yet new surroundings, was the immediate conversation struck up between other passengers. And ones far more intimate than you'd expect between strangers; not five  minutes into waiting for departure, were questions of where one was from or where they grew up, quiet recollection of the loss of a sister, and billowing laughs shared over a silly photo of the dog they had to leave at home. As a man of many words, I of course shared a wordy exchange of “how's it going” and “good” with my seatmate.

What differentiated travel by train and by plane that allowed such open conversation? The more familiar method of flying is overwhelmingly, in my experience, described by others with connotations of stress and anxiety. Contrastingly, a much more casual atmosphere can be found here. Maybe it's because flying is all about efficiency: you're only there to get from point A to B. Surviving that journey is really the only goal. On a train? As played out as the saying goes, and as much as I'd like to refrain from using it: “It's about the journey and not the destination.” I can't think of another way to describe it. I mean, what would be an hour and a half sprint on a plane is a thirteen and a half escapade on the train.

To elucidate on that sentiment, I'll include an excerpt from the book I spent the first couple hours or so reading: The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin. He initiates the chapter titled Intention with a story about an old man who draws water from a well with a clay pot, lowering it slowly by hand, careful to not let it hit the sides, and raising it slowly again: “a focused, time-consuming act.” A traveler notices this and proceeds to show him how to use a pulley system, remarking on the quickness, ease, and efficiency of this method. In response:

The old man looked at him and said, “I think I'm going to keep doing it the way I always have. I really have to think about each movement and there's a great deal of care that goes into doing it right. I'd imagine if I were to use the pulley, it would become easy and I might even start thinking about something else while doing it. If I put so little care and time into it, what might the water taste like? It couldn't possibly taste as good.”

Could the old man be stubborn? Sure. Is there something wrong with “easy”? Can't say that for sure. I think the greater takeaway is emphasized in the pondering of the taste of the water. Ultimately, we often evaluate purpose and value through function and utility. The purpose in drawing water was not to quench thirst, but to experience good tasting water. The value of the work is not determined by its ease or difficulty, but to experience care, focus, and diligence – which as wild as it may seem, could, for some, affect the taste of the water.

Before leaving on this trip, I was finishing Haruki Murakami's Novelist as a Vocation. In it, is a passage sharing a sentimentality similar to the one in Rubin's story. I don't have the book on hand with me, but I'll summarize Murakami's analogy as best as I can:

There are two types of people who visit Mt. Fuji. There is the one who arrives, takes a photo of said mountain, and says, “That is Mt. Fuji.” The other, arrives and, almost in their own obliviousness, hikes the mountain, and upon descent says, “That is Mt. Fuji.”

Again, we need not glorify difficulty, or ponder the usefulness of hiking Mt.Fuji. The fact of the matter is that through the experience of hiking Mt. Fuji – to experience care, diligence, and focus in stepping, breathing, and resting – is to experience a different flavor of Mt. Fuji. What do you want Mt. Fuji to be – to you?

Circling back to Mr. Rubin: “The creative energy exists in the journey to the making, not in the act of construction.”

It's been about five hours, currently 8:13 PM. With three hours left until arriving in Davis, the tiredness sets in and I struggle to find a connection to what I wrote before. “What's a good message to end with?”

Initially, I had written here about the conversation about photography with my seatmate, that was struck up probably due to me inconveniencing him one too many times getting in and out of my seat. I then wrote about the pleasant conversation I had with the snack car attendant; who expressed how it was nice to talk to someone who is also Asian, and how dark meat is much better than white meat. Following that was the dinner I had with three strangers: one worked in public health, another was a former prosecutor, and lastly a bicyclist who visited eleven missions from Sonoma all the way down to San Luis Obispo, and was just now returning from his week long ride.

I say initially because after writing about them for a while, it all seemed superfluous. Not in the sense of lacking importance, but I felt like I was just listing facts and details. In the end, the matter of substance is this: what happened around me at the very beginning of the ride, conversation blossoming between strangers, happened to me as well. Going into this trip, as I've said before, there was not much expectation, nor did I have any idea what it would entail. However, I was able to let the surroundings dictate my activities, and thus, could focus on my own stepping, breathing, and resting. I experienced the train as I would Mt. Fuji.

Overly romantic? Maybe. Probably. But how else would I survive a thirteen hour train ride? I suppose I didn't need to. I was at whim to the unfurling of mundane events shaken loose by the ever-present rumbling of the train car.

I arrive Davis at 11:08 PM. A short walk to where I'm sleeping and I'm out. At 1:15 AM. The photos won't edit themselves.

Saturday, May 14, 2023

Davis. I'm reminded as I woke Saturday morning that the last time I was here was at least twelve years ago. I was visiting friends who attended UC Davis. It was a frat party. I don't know if there's much more to add that'd be of any particular substance even if I tried. Chalk it up to simpler times.

See, when people would talk about Davis back then (and I'm ashamed to say, even now), it always coincided with...well, nothing. “What's there?” “There's nothing to do there.” “There's cows.” As much as a connoisseur of dairy products may enjoy their time here, I too find a bit of difficulty in filling my itinerary with activities of interest. I apologize ahead of time to any staunch denizens of Davis.  Luckily, a friend from college has graciously offered to spend the day with me. No, he was not from the frat. But he is married now. And has a child. Congrats! We've all grown up.

As I recall these  memories, I find a strange similarity to my experience looking out the window on the train the day prior – specifically, the slow disappearance of human, we'll call it, intervention. Or is it the growing presence of what a fellow passenger called “undisturbed land”? Either way, they seem to be competing forces. And as I watched Downtown LA turn into Burbank, into Van Nuys, and onwards, where the metropolitan sprawl seemed to disappear and the aforementioned “undisturbed land” began seemed like a sudden transition – just as I find myself in Davis now a dozen years later post-frat party. Seems like yesterday.

Nothing has changed. My friend, that is. It always seems that way, doesn't it? Same old jokes brought up again. Old memories relived. We grabbed lunch and I met his daughter Mary. She calls me Neh. Though that is also the only sound she makes. We just sat and talked. Afternoon crawled to evening. Dinner was ordered. Sushi. Evening crawled to night. Before long, I was dropped back off at the Davis Amtrak Station. And again, just as quickly as I arrived, off again. Goodbye, Davis. It's 11:21.

Touching on the point from before, on the seemingly sudden passage of time and space, I suppose that is simply what this trip is meant to highlight: the space (and time) between. I said yesterday, “It's about the journey, not the destination.” Okay, what is the journey then? What is the in-between that I see out the window? Looking closer than just the city planning, closer than the organizational structure of neighborhoods, closer past the structure of a building, beyond the individual rooms, down to simply where an item is placed – these are the spaces in-between.

At a stop where we experienced a short delay, I spent my time watching a man drink his coffee while stacking boxes in a small shed. A small sip, cup placed down, box moved, cup picked up, sipped, placed down, another box moved.

I was reminded that these are the small actions, built hundreds, thousands, millions of times upon one another that make up our surroundings. And when I'm on the train, often my surroundings are experienced for just a second as they whiz by the window; it all just gets blended into the blur. And sometimes, sometimes not decided by ourselves, sometimes the opportunity presented to us, we are able to be present and find romanticism in a man drinking his coffee and moving boxes.

I hope I made some sort of sense. It's a bit after 2AM: tiredness has since long past and deliriousness is certainly here. It's only small orbs of light zipping past my window now. I've been lucky enough to get a roomette on this leg of the trip to Seattle. 20 hour this time. Let's hope I can sleep through 8 of them now.

Sunday, May 15, 2023

DAV > SEA

A bit of a unique start to the day today. Since I've been afforded the luxury of a roomette to sleep in on the train, I awoke to the light blinding me through the open curtains of the window. As if it were his green light to go, the attendant promptly announces over the speakers that breakfast is now available to be served. It's 6:30 AM and I find myself in Oregon.

There are a lot of trees out here. Checking my location in Google Maps, I guess that's expected; we're passing through Umpqua and Willamette National Forests. The novelty of the vast landscapes outside still persists. I find myself transfixed to the passing woodlands. I wonder how often the presence of a park ranger or hiker graces the presence of some of these trees. I also begin to wonder if the appeal of nature is the actual greenery, or is it that solitude is an increasingly rare commodity in our modern surroundings?

I'm someone who enjoys solitude. As much of an experience the first leg of the trip from Los Angeles to Davis was, conversations between strangers and wedding party delights, I find comfort in the enclosed space of my roomette. The soft horn from the distant front of the train, the steady hum of the AC, the scattered creaks and hissing of the train car and wheels, the steady clunk, clunk, clunk, as if counting the railway beams.

I find that the need for productivity is an urge I constantly need to quell. Like a strike of lightning suddenly setting the trees that sit quietly outside ablaze, the thought prompts a quick anxiety that there must be something that comes from this. That is, that this trip needs the photos, the memories, the stories, the souvenirs. I clutch my camera and look for something photo worthy outside. Still trees. More trees. After tree...I dunno...a thousand? The anxiety wains. Thankfully, the solitude helps. As does the reminder that there are 6 more hours to this ride. I have the time. And the space.

In regards to tapping in to what Rick Rubin calls “creative thought”, he responds to the question of how to tune into the surroundings that serve as our inspirations:

“The answer is not to look for it. Nor do we attempt to predict or analyze our way into it. Instead, we create an open space that allows it. A space so free of the normal overpacked condition of our minds that it functions as a vacuum.”

On this twenty hour train ride, I think I found that open space. At least for a while. It was within the confines of a roomette no larger than a twin size bed. This ride felt much different than the one a day prior. Despite less space, the space was still my own. And that was great.

We passed through Salem. Eugene. Other smaller towns I can't remember. When Seattle arrived, all that was left was a quick dinner with my cousin, and to finish some work. Onto Vancouver tomorrow. 

Monday, May 16, 2023

SEA > VAN

As much as the endless trees from yesterday's ride into Seattle were a calming and welcome sight to behold, the feeling of sereneness from looking out toward the ocean is unmatched for me. The 7:50 AM train I boarded headed to Vancouver follows the coast of Puget Sound for it's initial departure. Puget Sound is a large estuary that eventually empties into the Pacific. Not quite the ocean, but equally serene.

As some of my close friends know, the open ocean freaks me out; it instills in me a deep fear. Maybe because it mimics the feeling of the “void” if I understand it correctly.  I'm not sure if it's the feeling of the unknown or the knowledge that there are miles of emptiness below me, but I don't particularly enjoy it. And yet, sitting on the beach and lookout out toward the ocean doesn't bother me at all. Maybe the ground is....well, grounding. Something about the steadiness of the waves or the expected randomness of the lines they draw in the sand is soothing. I find a calming emptiness in my mind.

“BALD EAGLE.”

My seat mate sits up suddenly and looks eagerly out the window. My eyes wander to look as well, fingers still resting on my laptop keyboard. I don't see it. Or rather, I may have been distracted by the waves. You know how sometimes someone standing or sitting next to you is a little too close for comfort but not close enough for you to say anything? That's it right here. Eventually, I fell into a quick sleep at this point, bald eagle unseen.

Unfortunately, though my sleep lasted only twenty minutes, I awoke to find that the seascape was replaced by unending farmlands. I think normally I'd harbor a bit of disappointment. But what had filled that void was the eccentricity of my seatmate. I don't know if this has been going on for a while now, but from my point of view was an absurdly large pair of binoculars being whipped out and a long breath held as something caught his eye. I turn to look: still farmland.

I caught myself wondering about what the excitement was all about, only to recognize that whatever answer I would come up with, as I stared blankly out the window, would be insufficient because it didn't matter. Whatever “it” was, sparked a perked back, a sharp inhale, and giant pair of binoculars. Maybe I'm a bit envious.

It occurred to me now that I've probably spent too long talking about my ride into Vancouver than the city itself. To be transparent, that may be because I find most metropolitan cities to hold the same basic essence. Of course, there are unique qualities to each city, each with their own personalities comprised of different people, but in the end, I don't really have a “wow” moment.

So with not too much to say about the city itself, sure, yeah, Vancouver's nice. The mountain line seen across Vancouver Harbor and past North Van is the most impressive to me. I have planned a hike up in those mountains tomorrow morning. Looking forward to that.

I got a great view of said mountain range standing in a dog park with fellow artist Scott Sueme. He is not only based out here, but has also been sent on a trip by The Jaunt a year or two ago. We spoke mostly about art making, work-life balance, what it's like to be an artist in Vancouver, and other things as his dog ran circles around the other couple dogs there at the park. I don't mean to glaze over our conversation; I enjoyed it thoroughly and it's not often I have the opportunity to speak about painterly things with another painter. I just figure this isn't the place the air that all out.

The rest of the day wasn't particularly eventful. Again, same ol' city stuff. Snazzy coffee shops, niche clothing and sneaker boutiques, restaurants, tourists, weed shops, cars, buildings, etc. etc. and then the homeless guy openly smoking something out of a glass pipe. Yeah, very cynical, I know. I don't want to diminish the fact that I found Vancouver pretty nice. But I think that's more thanks to Scott showing me around and the small, mundane moments that really flavored my experience here. My last day is tomorrow, but my flight's at 9 PM so...more Vancouver stuff to talk about tomorrow.

Tuesday, May 17, 2023

JAUNT / VAN

Before this trip began, I knew that I wanted to do a hike at some point if I found the time. While working on my itinerary, this morning on my second day in Vancouver was the only chance to do so and, thankfully, no hiccups. I woke up at around 6 AM and, after spending an unnecessary amount of time trying to figure out what to bring with me and what to pack away in my luggage, I left at 7. Later than I usually like for hikes, but off we go.

The hike I had chosen was the Baden Powell Trail. For all my Vancouverans (Vancouverites? Google says Vancourverites), my start point was Lynn Canyon because there was a bus that dropped me off not too far from the trailhead and it ended in Deep Cove. I heard it's very beautiful.

Details aside, hiking for me achieves a very similar, if now the same, fulfilment I get from art-making. Generally speaking, the journeys are often difficult, long, and challenging. You can research as much as you want into what the trek will be like, but it's all peripheral almost superfluous details because the real experience comes from your shoes in the dirt and spiderwebs in your face. Yes, that happened a lot on this hike. What's up with all the webs?

The one benefit to hiking is that things can be planned for. Resources like AllTrails will provide you the exact route so you don't get lost. It also affords you a certainty that there is an end to the beginning. You can look up the weather and you know that you need to bring x, y, and z. A jacket, hiking shoes, running shorts, etc. It's a contained bubble of safety.

You don't get a lot of that in art-making. Often, decisions are made with just an educated guess or, at best, the recommendations from close confidantes. Our ability to make progress is constantly affected and upended by our emotional or mental state from situations out of our hands that life just throws at you. It's like hiking with a thick fog; from the peaks, you might be able to see other peaks representative of where you want to end up, but, ultimately, the “how to get there” is shrouded. You just gotta start the journey and fight for dear life that you're maintaining some sort of positive trajectory.

I can complain on and on about the difficulties of art-making (and I know I'm starting to sound really jaded), but in the end I, as well as many other artists, find themselves back at the proverbial drawing table because, as shitty as it can be, creating is fulfilling and, best of all, we enjoy doing it! There's nothing like reaching the flow state where, while challenging at times of course, step after step lands firmly, confidently, and almost without effort.

Long story short, that's what draws me to hiking. When you reach a certain point of exhaustion, all that's on your mind is where to place your feet next in the path immediately in front of you. It drowns out the inner voice that tells me to be productive, to work more and try harder, that there's that email from three days ago that I need to respond to, and that paintings need to be made. And what better environment to add context and atmosphere to this journey than endlessly thick nature? The tranquility is sublime. Just silence, colored only by the crunching from my footsteps and the distant chirping of birds. Flow-state.

I ended up covering a little over 11 miles in about four hours. I took the bus back downtown and, all thanks to the graciousness of the hotel for letting me shower after my check-out time, have been here at a cafe down the street for the past three hours finishing my last thoughts on this trip. As nourishing as the egg sando and two coffees served my body, the fatigue in my legs persists and serves as a reminder of this morning's activities.

I suppose that's what Murakami meant in the analogy about Mt. Fuji. For those who missed it a few days ago, I referenced a passage from Haruki Murakami's novel Novelist as a Vocation. As I mentioned before, I don't have the book on hand with me, but I'll summarize his analogy as best as I can:

There are two types of people who visit Mt. Fuji. There is the one who arrives, takes a photo of said mountain, and says, “That is Mt. Fuji.” The other, arrives and, almost in their own obliviousness, hikes the mountain, and upon descent says, “That is Mt. Fuji.”

Vancouver, to me, wasn't about the stores I stopped into, or the coffee shop I'm writing this in, nor the hotel I stayed at, or the station I arrived in. Same goes with Davis and Seattle, or the Amtrak train in general. It's the persisting ache in my legs, the floating thoughts still present from my conversation with fellow artist Scott Sueme, the clanking of the train that I sometimes think I hear but upon recognition know it to be just a ghost of a memory, the quick but meaningful dinner with my cousin, and the warmth from seeing my college friend's first baby daughter.

Man. I definitely feel like a really sappy guy sometimes. I find myself being overly romantic about certain things – painting included. But just like the dude with the binocular on the train from yesterday, if we can suspend our initial judgment of certain...eccentricities, maybe we'll find the vigor that keeps these people going. Like coal to a train's furnace. Do trains still work like that? I watch too many cartoons.

I don't know how to end this, but I'm thankful for the experiences that I now have the opportunity to cherish, and thankful to The Jaunt for facilitating the journey. The stops and destinations could have been any city in my mind. Until next time.