I took the train to Portland.
This is not a big deal in the grand scheme of how humans travel. People do this all the time. People take trains across entire continents. People take trains they have to sleep on. People take trains while reading literature in their second language.
I took a two and a half hour train ride from Tacoma to Portland, by myself, to meet my sister and I was treating it like I was about to summit Everest in a pair of flats.
I stood in front of two empty seats for an embarrassingly long time.
There was a man in the single seat to my right. To the left of him, two empty seats, with a suitcase on the floor in front of them. I stood there. I looked at the suitcase. I looked at the seats. I looked at the suitcase. After what felt like an hour and was probably forty-five seconds, the man sighed, got up, grabbed his suitcase off the floor, and lifted it into the overhead compartment.
Yes. His suitcase. The one he had decided to put on the floor in front of two empty public seats on a train where there is no assigned seating. He gave that real estate up only after I stood there long enough that not addressing it became weirder than addressing it.
He muttered something while he did it. I do not know what.
I sat down quickly because I did not know what else to do with my body.
Fifteen minutes later, the same man took a phone call on speakerphone at maximum volume.
I could hear him over my audiobook (Adult Braces by Lindy West. I cackled out loud, which made my seatmate jump over her adult Lunchable). The man’s conversation went on for a while. He had no awareness that anyone could hear him. He had, in fact, no awareness that other people existed.
I sat there marveling.
This man and I were in the same space at the same time, and one of us was taking up exactly as much room as he wanted, and the other one of us was holding a pepperoni stick like contraband.
I want a portion of that. Not the speakerphone thing. I would rather make eye contact with everyone on this train at once than take a call on speaker in public. But the underlying confidence. The complete absence of “am I bothering someone?” The freedom of not asking permission to occupy space.
I was sitting in business class, which apparently came with a two-dollar voucher. I clutched the voucher. I did not move from my seat to grab myself a burger, a bagel, or a charcuterie tray, aka the adult Lunchable.
The thought of walking down the moving aisle, opening the bathroom door, being seen entering the bathroom, being seen exiting the bathroom, then walking back to my seat, then sitting down with everyone’s eyes on me, was significantly more daunting than holding it for the whole ride.
I know how ridiculous this is. Everyone is on their own journey. Nobody actually cares. I am not the main character in anyone else’s day, just like they are not the main character in mine. My therapist is on speed dial.
I drank as little water as possible before boarding. I looked behind me, once, to scope out the dining cart and the bathroom situation. I did not get up.
I unpacked some squished Kirkland Signature pepperoni sticks and a package of strawberry Yoggies from my backpack, which also housed an unused tripod, an unused ring light, an unused microphone, chargers for my computer and my phone, my Kindle, a journal I did not write in even once, far too many tampons for an overnight trip, and my chapstick, which I reapplied every ten minutes.
I overpack when I am going somewhere unfamiliar. I want to grasp onto any comfortability I can find, in case I end up in a situation where I am uncomfortable. The unused vlogging equipment was a different problem. I have been wanting to vlog for a while now and I have no idea where to start, what to say, or what is interesting enough to point a camera at. So I just bring the equipment around with me everywhere. Like a haunted talisman.
By the time we got past Vancouver, I had a bladder situation, a two-dollar voucher tucked away in my pocket, and a death grip on my chapstick.
Portland was cute, quirky, and friendly. Ten out of ten. There were food options on every corner. The architecture reminded me of Seattle but softer somehow. I did not make it to Powell’s because it was closed by the time I got into the city and not open early enough the next morning before I had to leave. It has been over ten years since I have been there. I will be back.
My sister met me at the station and we walked the city until my feet hurt. We stopped in a touristy store where I bought postcards and she bought magnets for the collection she keeps from cities she travels to for work. We discussed going to an Ethiopian restaurant two miles away. We did not go. The Shake Shack opportunity was a brisk walk down the block and over a street, instead of a two-mile commitment, and we took it.
I had eaten one pepperoni stick all day. I had also just started my period. I was famished, and I did not think my double burger with fries could possibly be enough food, so I was already mapping out plans to grab another order of fries and a milkshake for the walk home.
Halfway through my meal, I was not sure I could eat another bite. I was stuffed. My fries went unfinished.
A milkshake was, of course, purchased and devoured on the walk home.
I did not know if I would ever be able to eat another bite of anything again.
Back at the hotel, we could not figure out the air conditioning. The room was hot. I gave up and would sleep on top of the covers in a sweat. My sister pulled out a few sourdough chocolate chip cookies she had baked before her trip, and I started salivating despite being twelve fries too full. I ate half of one cookie using my chest as a table while sinking into the bed as far as I could go. I have never been more comfortable in my life.
Around 9 PM, my son called.
He was crying. His dad was laughing. I could not figure out what was happening for the first thirty seconds because they were both talking over each other. Turns out my four-year-old was upset because his dad, Nick, had announced that he was in charge, and my son was not having it. My son wanted his Gammy and Papa to be in charge, or himself. Failing that, he was prepared to mount a campaign against the entire premise.
I lay there on top of the covers with my sourdough cookie, eating slowly, listening to a four-year-old wage a quiet revolution from another state. Against, I should note, just his dad. Gammy and Papa were not even in the room. My heart swelled.
On the way home, I put my own duffel bag in the overhead compartment.
I want to be clear about how big this was. I am 5’1. My arms are decorative. I have spent my entire adult life watching other people toss their duffel bags into overhead compartments like they are tossing a bag of chips onto a pantry shelf, and I have spent my entire adult life thinking that those people are a different species than I am.
I lifted my duffel bag. I aimed. I got it in there on the first try.
I sat down quickly so that I could process what had just happened.
Nobody clapped. Nobody noticed. Nobody, in fact, was watching. The man across the aisle was on his phone. The woman behind me was eating something out of a wrapper. The train moved.
But I knew.
I also used the bathroom on the train. Multiple times. This was its own act of bravery, because that bathroom was an experience. Every time someone opened the door, the smell rolled out and trailed them back to their seats like the stink lines that float behind a cartoon character. I have never showered faster in my life than when I got home.
But I did it.
That was the trip. The trip started with me standing frozen in front of two empty seats and nursing a full bladder. The trip ended with me fearlessly putting my own bag away and using the bathroom.
I got home and crashed.
I have rheumatoid arthritis and Sjogren’s, and apparently my body had been waiting for me to sit still before it cashed in. I spent the next day in a haze, unable to tie my shoes or unscrew the lid to Stanley.
My sister left me with a portion of her sourdough starter before she flew out. (Her starter is named Sally. Mine has been temporarily named Sue, which I will be revisiting.) She also left me feeling something I have not felt in a while, which is safe. We spent our last night doing eye masks in my son’s bed while she packed. I was a mess that day. The trip was good, but coming back into the swing of my actual life was harder than I expected, and the version of myself that felt strong on a train to Portland had a real moment of “wait, where did she go?” when I got home. That is also a post for another day.
For now: I went to Portland. I did the small things that felt big. I did not redeem my two-dollar voucher.
I put my own bag in the compartment.
I am taking up the space.
Homebody & Heart 
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