Planes, Train, but no Automobiles

German trains are not always on time; that is a myth. Granted, a German train might only be late by five minutes, as compared with a five hour delay on Amtrak, but clockwork timeliness is not always acheived. That award would go to the Swiss.

Still, the train system is a marvel. Bold yellow placards display the daily arrivals at each station, and locals start to peer down the tracks with just a hint of angst in their stolid expressions when a train does not appear precisely when expected. Waiting by the tracks, I practice my own look of nonchalance, hoping to seem nothing more than the average daily commuter.

Inside, however, I am not always so suave. Despite the thoroughness of the German rail system, I have already managed, since my arrival Tuesday evening, to make more than one blunder. First: choosing the wrong train at the Frankfurt Airport station. What can I say, the train I was supposed to take followed almost the same route as the one I mistakenly boarded while neglecting to check the number posted clearly on the side of each car. I point the blame squarely on having just completed around 13 ours of flight time, not including my layover in Heathrow. It was to be expected that I wouldn't be quite with the program, right? Fortunately, being familiar with the region (and, more importantly, being familiar with how to read the transportation system maps clearly posted in the local trains featuring clearly labeled routes in clearly defined lines, not to mention the clearly visible digital updates and occassionally clear verbal announcements prior to each station) I realized my mistake as soon as the train headed back across the Main River. I waited to disembark until the appropriate station where the two train lines converged again, then caught the train I should have taken in the first place heading in the opposite direction.

But then there was yesterday. Without having first checked the schedules online, I headed to Mainz Hauptbahnhof, certain I would find a direct connection leaving for Baden Baden sometime soon. As a matter of fact there was one leaving... right this minute! I turned and ran to the stairs, only to see said train pull out of the station a mere two seconds before my feet landed on the platform. This train was definitely on time. But no problem: I only had 50 minutes to wait before another one. To pass the time, I headed out to take a few photos with the sun almost shining through he whiteness overhead. I was back at the station with time to spare.

Just how much time I had to spare wasn't immediately discernable, but I began to feel suspicious when, with only five minutes left before the scheduled arrival, the sign on platform four still remained blank, rather than listing the oncoming train information. I hopped nimbly up the stairs to the main hall to check the supersized arrivals board, only to find that my train wasn't even mentioned. Huh?

Too proud to ask for help when I figured I still had few minutes to remaining and could spare myself the embarassment, I scrutinized the yellow departures sign back down by the tracks. It was then that I noticed the tiny asterisk below the train number. Whatever this meant, it couldn't be good. There, below the full listing of stops the train would make once leaving Mainz, small italics noted: 29, 30 Dez. This train, apparantly, only ran on December 29th and 30th. How convenient. Every other day of the year, I realized when I scrolled further down the listing searching for my next option, it left Mainz one hour later. I had another 60 minutes to wait.

Still, the train showed up on time, and I had a wonderful afternoon in Baden Baden, with time to addmire the wonderfully efficient German city bus system, where each stop has a name, all routes are cleaerly outlined at every stop, automatic machines issue tickets and provide change, and LCD screens even illustrate where the bus is headed once you are on board. Seattle, you have a long, long way to go.

These Boots Were Made for Walking

The best purchase I made in 2009? Rubber boots! Thanks to rubber boots, my feet stayed dry both heading to and from work in what proved to be a very wet bus commute. Rubber boots, you're the best!

And second best? Thanks, black button-up $25 cardigan from H&M. I wear you almost every day and your button-up collar even keeps my neck protected in the cold. It's like having a scarf without having to carry it around. Plus, you go with everything, over shirts and under coats.

It's friends like these that make the winter commute bearable.

Athens Ahoy!

After a relaxing ferry ride (note of advice: when riding Greek ferries, bring card games, books, and bakery treats from town to make the time pass quickly) on Sunday, we left the laid back islands behind for Athens. From the moment we stepped off the boat, it was clear we were is a different world. Far from shutting down for the season, the port of Piraeus was hopping with black market vendors, cab drivers soliciting the new arrivals, and swarms of dazed-looking tourists. We headed straight for the metro station. Hotel Tempi, where we would be staying for one night only before joining the Rick Steves' tour, was an easy, direct metro ride away on line one, and we were eager to get settled in.

But, as with many of our transportation experiences in Greece, it wasn't quite so simple. Point in case: for two days only, most of metro line one was closed. We arrived on one of those two days.

After checking the advice of a ticket counter clerk and a random man-on-the-street, we decided to hop the metro and take it three stops - the end of the line for the day. According to man-on-the-street, from there we could catch a bus to Monastiraki Square, a short walk from our hotel.

Things started off well. We managed to fit (but only just) on the bus heading into the center of town from the last metro stop. When I literally fell into the back door as the bus rounded a corner, I was kindly offered a chance to squeeze in to the one remaining seat in the back. Now all I had to do was keep an eye out for Monstiraki; how hard could that be?

Dang near impossible, it turns out. It finally dawned on me we must have overshot our mark, so I asked the woman sitting across from me on the now half-empty bus, "Pou ine Monastiraki?"

My Greek was apparently good enough to encourage the woman to discuss with me, and then another woman one seat up, in great detail about the location of this place in relation to the bus. Throughout the conversation, I could occasionally make out the word, "Monastiraki," but not another syllable. Fortunately, I did correctly deduce that we should get off at the next stop, which turned out to be about a mile down the road from where I'd first asked the fateful question. No doubt about it, we were far, far away.

But the fates were on our side! The next stop was conveniently located at an entrance for metro line two, and before long we were on a speeding underground train, emerging at Omonia Square, and walking down the pedestrian street to our hotel. Athens, here we come!

When Reality Sets In

Fall has come, and I find myself ill prepared. Yesterday evening found me shivering on the sidewalk in a skirt with bare legs and sandals, desperately waiting for the light to turn so I could cross to Target and the warmth of the indoors. But how was I to know? When I left to catch my morning bus, the skies had been reassuringly sunny. Heading to work with only a cardigan over my little black top seemed only natural.

Today I fear I'm out of excuses, although I could claim that the discovery, a mere fifteen minutes prior to departure, that my wallet was nowhere to be found threw me off my game. Just in time to catch the 41, I ran down the road with a pocket full of pennies for bus fare and still only a cardigan on my back. Thus it was that I spent this evening's commute running through the rain bareheaded from one bus route to the next, all of which were late; I guess we really don't know how to drive in the rain in Seattle. At least this time I was wearing pants.

By the time I arrived home tonight, the reality of the season had sunk in, and I could see endless dark, damp nights stretching ahead of me. The three bus commute can be a joy in summer, but the winter waiting is merciless.

But who am I to complain? Next week at this time I'll be in the Greek islands, where the weather report promises sun and temperatures in the mid-seventies, enabling me to blissfully ignore reality for one more month. I can hardly wait.

The Best Laid Plans

Sometimes I really hate taking the bus.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I leave work at 5:14, one would think that it would be reasonable to travel the twelve miles between Edmonds and Lake City and arrive home prior to 7:25, no? Sometimes, such expectations are apparently too high.

Fact: I typically leave work at 5:15 or 5:45, run to the bus stop, and wait for three to five minutes before the bus actually arrives. True, this may be because the bus runs late 99% of the time, but today, for the third time ever, I missed this bus, despite leaving work one minute earlier than usual. I ran down the street, only to see the bus turn the corner ahead of me. Breaking into my closest approximation of a sprint did no good; I could see the 131 shrinking in my field of vision as it drove away, leaving downtown Edmonds, and me, far behind.

Fact: This is Murphy's Law of Buses. I had plans, you see. BIG plans, grandiose plans for a night of unbelievable, unprecedented - well, OK, I just had plans to go downtown with Michael for a movie followed by a late night happy hour dinner at Boka. In the scheme of things, this is not exactly earth-shattering. And besides, I only had half an hour to wait for the next bus. I should still be home by 6:45, just in time to peel Michael out of bed, get him to slap on some clothes, and head out the door. I made the later bus, and everything seemed like smooth sailing when I caught the 331 at the Aurora Village transit center, heading for Lake Forest Park and my third and final bus of the day.

Fact: OK, this is really Murphy's Law of Buses. When you have someplace to be and are running late, or perhaps just barely on time, you will miss your bus. The next bus, the law continues, will be late. And in the meantime, you will be driven absolutely, bats-all-up-in-the-belfry, bees-busting-out-of-your-bonnet insane. Because wouldn't you just know it? Already half an hour late and, what's more, apparently the 375 isn't running because it's one of the only buses in town that appears to be operating on holiday schedule for Presidents' Day, and you somehow missed that 522 in Lake Forest Park, and now you're standing alone at the bus stop where the light doesn't work simply pleading, praying, and swearing that a bus had better come now... or maybe now... or, some day, right? A bus is going to come? Pretty please?

But ultimately, that's life. So we didn't get to go out tonight, after all. I'm sure Michael benefited from the extra sleep anyway, and I found that leftover Thai curry that I'd made last week in the fridge and managed a decent meal out of it.

And Earl Grey tea really does have a wonderful soothing effect. Maybe I should try bringing a thermos full along on my next commute.

It's the time of the season...

...for comfort food. What was an exceptionally beautiful October in Seattle has turned into a typically dreary November. By the time I leave work darkness has already descended, with only dim streetlights reflecting off a patchwork of puddles under a starless sky. Huddled under an awning, awaiting the bus, I strain my already myopic eyes attempting to read. I need something, after all, to keep my mind off the damp evening chill. Ultimately, it's the thought of a warm meal at home that makes it all worthwhile.

Tonight, after a quick stop at Fred Meyer, I had everything needed to make a comforting batch of pasta e ceci - pasta and chickpeas. While I hate to plagiarize Jamie Oliver again, I do have to give credit where credit is due, and this recipe is adapted from his Italy cookbook.

Gently sautee finely chopped celery, garlic, onion, and rosemary in a pot. When soft, add two cans of drained and rinsed chickpeas (or, as I did tonight, you can also substitute beans - such as cannellini - for some of the chick peas) and 2 1/4 C. broth. Simmer very gently for about half an hour, then use a slotted spoon to scoop out about half of the chick peas. Puree the remaining chick peas and broth, then add the whole chickpeas back to the mixture along with about 3-4 oz. of soup pasta such as ditalini. Continue to cook, stirring frequently and adding more broth as needed, until pasta is cooked. Season to taste, and drizzle over some olive oil if you like.

Mmmm.... Food like this almost makes November worth it (and Michael was much happier to have pasta e ceci to take to work rather than beet salad, let me tell you).

Easy as Pie

Today was supposed to be a busy day. I needed to bus to the U District Farmers' Market to buy hostess gifts for our upcoming trip and vegetable for the coming week, make a pie, walk Lucy, bake some bread, get some final things cleaned up around the house, help Amy V move in, and go to a BBQ with some church friends. On paper, so to speak, it sounds like quite a list.

In practice, it was actually a fairly relaxing day. For me, that is. I'm sure it was an extremely busy day for those more involved with the moving. As it turned out, Amy & Co. arrived later in the afternoon than I (perhaps naively) had anticipated, so in the end I didn't feel especially useful. Perhaps I can make up for that this week by applying felt pads to all the furniture that will be moved upstairs.

But while I was home baking, I realized that although baking is time consuming in the sense that several hours must elapse from the time one begins until the product is ready for consumption, rather little is required of one in the meantime. Still, one can't really leave the house when baking, as there tend to be short periods of downtime sandwiched between small tasks, and everyone knows better (I hope) that to leave something baking in the oven unattended.

There is a certain satisfaction that comes with baking that sets it apart from simple cooking. Perhaps it's the transformation of flour, yeast, and milk into a chewy loaf of sandwich bread. Or perhaps it's the fact that everyone loves pie, and mine, despite being incredibly messy and soupy, was still a hit at the BBQ.

I did have one moment of near panic today, however. Loaded down with bottles of fruit wine and veggies, I saw my bus pull up to the stop across the street. I didn't make it in time; the bus had pulled away from the curb by the time I got to the stop. But I am hard pressed to give up on a near bus connection, and was soon in hot pursuit, bags flailing wildly (and dangerously) at my sides. It was all worth it when the driver actually stopped to let me board. And he was even pleasant about it! That's more than one can expect from your average Metro driver, let me tell you. Some of them are real sticklers. This one was definitely deserving of piece of pie, or maybe a bottle of fruit wine. All I can hope is that the rest of his day was as pleasant as mine.

This Is the Way of the Modern World

Sometimes I feel as though I am standing stock still in the midst of a blur of movement. You know the scene, perhaps from a special effects laden commercial or film: one person slowly taking in their surroundings in the midst of a busy intersection - maybe Times Square or Tokyo - everyone else a flurry of neon as they go about their daily business, lost in technology.

At Bumbershoot one year I saw a short film with a creative take on the speed of modern life. The protagonist, a relatively unambitious slacker (or at least that's what his ex-girlfriend would have us believe) suddenly finds himself living at a pace that is literally slower than that of the world around him. Simply due to the fact that his movements, although seemingly normal to him and us as the audience, are so slow, he becomes invisible, completely escaping the notice of all those around him. To him everyone else has become an undeciferable blur.

Of course, he meets another girl living life in the slow lane, the kind of perfect match one always finds in the movies.

My life in the slow lane isn't quite so literal, but throughout the past several weeks I have felt a slowness seep in to my daily routine. On almost any given night I am at home, making dinner, walking the dog, maybe watching a show on the TV before Michael heads in to work. I have time to take the bus or walk rather than drive, time to make a meal from scratch, time to houseclean without having to squeeze it in. Where did all this time come from? On the one hand I feel blessed to be able to do these things. How many people would say they have the time to cook every night, or to juggle reading four different books in two weeks?

At the same time, I feel, well, a little bored. Life in the fast lane was never my aspiration, but life in the slow lane can start to feel like stagnation. I don't want to be stuck in first gear forever. While I'm proud of the fact that I can typically track my entire schedule in my head, without so much as writing any of it down, this does give me pause.

Ultimately, however, I know that the time I have now won't last forever. As of next weekend, my life will be picking up the pace, and I'll soon busy myself with packing and finalizing details for our road trip, scheduling when to visit friends I haven't seen in awhile, helping our new housemate settle in, and planning for parties and small group gatherings.

With that in mind, I'm content to stay in the slow lane for a little longer... just a little.

A Day in the Life

You know, there just hasn't been much happening these past couple of days. It's just the same old routine, but hey, why not write about that? Some day I will probably look back fondly on these carefree, low energy times. Well, maybe.

So what do I do each day? I wake up, get out of bed, drag a comb across my head... OK, so those may not be my own words, but that's pretty much the way it starts. What's that? Too much detail? Yeah, yeah, I get it. Here's my day in a nutshell:

Lucy, our mini-lab mutt, jumps to attention as soon as I make a move to get up. She's rearing to go - encouraged, no doubt, by the fact that breakfast is nigh and, as a lab mix, she is truly all about the food. By the time I leave the house, she's already settled into her "pad" on the basement sofa; the little princess likes to lounge.

I'm running out the door to my first bus. It's about a ten minute ride, then I'm off the bus and running again, this time for about two miles, at which point I'll stop to wait for my second bus of the morning. What's that, you say? You run two miles between buses? Why, yes, I do this nearly EVERY week day morning. Without getting into the boring details, let's just say this is the one way I've found to get between buses without the possibility of a missed connection. Thank you, King County Metro! I do have to admit, though, I'm thankful for the exercise. Not too many people get to run a couple miles as part of their regular morning commute. Total commute time: one hour 15 minutes. Total commute time if I were to drive: half an hour maximum, door to door.

Bus number two takes me directly to bus number three, which takes me directly to downtown Edmonds and Europe Through the Back Door. In other words, my job. I sit at my cubicle, except on days like today when I work the public desk in front, and spend my eight hour work day talking tours, booking tours, checking on tours, updating tours, and laughing at the funny things my coworkers say. This is what tour divas do when they're not, well, touring.

Off work, it's now time for the three bus commute back home (no running this time, as it's a different route). An hour later I'm home, and Lucy greets me at the door, her tail wagging so hard it looks like she might just actually wag her bottom right off. Of course, she knows this means it's almost dinner time; I can't pretend that the mere sight of me is so exciting.

I'm hungry, so I slice off some pecorino cheese from the huge wedge I bought at Costco. Michael's left a note on the message board saying to wake him at 7:45 - he worked an hour and a half of overtime this morning on top of his night shift. Since we're eating leftover chili for dinner and all I need to make are biscuits and salad, this leaves me with time to, well, what else? I'm writing this as we speak, aren't I? It leaves me with time to blog about my uneventful day! Happy Wednesday!

Blonds Know Best

While waiting at the bus stop in front of the Lake City Fred Meyer last night, a woman told me the following blond joke:

A blond walks into a library.

Blond: I'd like a double stack with cheese, on a sesame bun...

Librarian: I'm sorry, but this is a library -

Blond (whispers): I'd like a double stack with cheese...

Heh. I actually laughed, just a little.

Funnily enough I had the same bus driver both heading to the U District and heading home on the last bus of the night. When I got off coming home he smiled and asked, "Did you enjoy your book?" "It's good," I responded, hopping off. Strangers don't usually say much to each other nowadays, but sometimes, it's rather nice when they do.