7 things I've learned in 7 weeks of carlessness

1. I hate driving. I guess I was numb to it before, aware on some level it was causing me stress but for the most part just accepting it as a necessary evil. No longer. (I should qualify that -- I hate urban driving. Winding it out on long stretches of open road might still be fun.)

2. I'm no angel. I'm pretty easy to get along with normally, but when I drive around town I turn into a seething hater. When I drive it's because I have things to do -- I have no earthly idea why other people drive, but I'm pretty sure it's to make my life a living hell. They frustrate me, they confound me -- and dammit, they impede me. It's unforgivable. If they were renting their cars by the hour, they would follow my example of lean motoring efficiency. But no.

3. I love saving money. I'm averaging about $200 per month with Zipcar, and it would be a little less if I would give in and commit to the $250 per month plan, where I would get 15% off the hourly rate for every hour I drive, and any extra would role over for 2 months. I'll get there.

Note this is $200 total -- because insurance and gas are included in the hourly rate. Hurricane, shmurricane. There are no hidden costs with the Zip.

4. Other Zipsters can be annoying. To them I say: Feed the &^*% gas tank! It isn't hard. Pull into the station, hand the attendant the fuel card, and fill'er'up. You know the rule -- less than 1/4 tank remaining means get gas. On two occasions recently I've picked up cars with less than 1/4 tank, and although I get some measure of comfort from calling Zipcar to tattle, I still have to use my precious rental time to take care of the previous user's business. The car I drove yesterday had exactly 1/4 of a tank, so although technically they weren't in the wrong, they knew very well I'd get stuck with the job. Grrrr. Oh, and one more thing: In the Element? Unhook the 'biner and let the seat back down. There -- wasn't that easy?

5. Portland actually is a pretty bike-friendly town. When I moved here in '94 I didn't think so. Bike lanes were rather anemic and they seemed to have been grudgingly allotted only the roughest, most debris-strewn bits of shoulder. But yesterday I needed to get over to Hollywood, and I thought just for fun I'd take the suggested bike route up 41st/42nd. It was awesome. I especially loved the markings on the road and the directional signs. One time long ago I tried to take this route and I ended up all confused and turned around, but this time it was a breeze.

I also decided to check out the route going up and down Interstate, just to see. Overall it was consistent and safe, and I got to chat with a couple of the many other cyclists on the road. And it was much faster than I expected.

6. Motorcyclists are not necessarily our brethren. I was Westbound on Broadway last week, and at a red light I was approaching the green bike box, appreciating that the driver in the right lane knew to stop behind it, when the light changed and the motorcycle behind that car jumped over and cut me off to make a right-hand turn in front of me. Dude. I can only imagine how pissed you'd be if a car did that to you . . .

7. Sometimes not having a car sucks. But those times are brief and require creativity and patience to overcome, and those are not bad qualities to exercise.

Check this out!

I've been blogged . . .




I'd better get back to work and start writing. I'm far too much of a grade over-achiever to settle for anything less than a 10.

Ostorozhnah! Dver zakryvatsyah.

Roughly, "Caution! The door is closing."

This is the one phrase I heard more than any other in Moscow. As I stood at the door of the metro train car, trying to look grim and arrogant enough to pass for Russian, I heard it over and over. A friendly, pleasant recorded voice, male on some trains and female on others, announced the closing of the doors prior to departure from each stantsiyah.

Navigating the Moscow metro is surprisingly easy if you know the Russian alphabet and can sound out the station names. It's also easy to just look at the map and count how many stations to your stop, but you still need to be able to read the names.

Although Alexey picked me up from the airport on arrival, he had to go to work the next day and I was on my own until evening. Before he left he gave me a set of keys and showed me how to lock and unlock the four heavy, fairly primitive doors we had to go through to get in and out of his Soviet-era flat. He also gave me a cell phone that had just one number programmed into it -- his. This turned out to be a lifesaver.

That morning I bravely headed down to the Annino station, just down the block from the flat. There is a tiny branch of the Bank of Moscow just outside the station, so I stopped at the ATM to pick up a few rubles. I requested 1000 rubles (about $40USD) but was chagrined to receive a single 1000 ruble note, which I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to use in the ticket machine. I popped into the wee, deserted office and waited patiently for someone to appear. Eventually a clerk did come out, and it didn't take long to establish that we were not going to be communicating verbally. I ended up getting a piece of paper and a pen and writing out " 1000 = 100, 100, 100, 100, 100 . . ." until the little light went on over her head and she disappeared with my note, reappearing a few minutes later with ten 100-ruble notes. I thanked her (the three things you absolutely must be able to say when in Russia, if you never learn another word: "Pazhalustah (please);" "spaseeba (thank you)'" and "yah ne punamayo (I don't understand).") and went happily on my way, flushed with pride at having successfully conducted my first piece of business with a genuine non-English speaking Moscovite.

My confidence quickly ebbed as I made my way down into the station, however. I had naively expected to find a typical American set-up, with automated ticket machines and wall and pocket maps of the metro system. But alas: There were no maps, anywhere, and to my horror there were no ticket machines. Rather, there was a bank of stern, middle-aged Russian women behind thick bullet-proof windows dispensing tickets by hand. I stood there, trying not to let my increasing anxiety and consternation show, thinking that as much as I hated to bother Alexey at work it would be really awesome if he could tell me what to do right now -- when I became aware of a funny feeling behind me, which turned out to be the cell phone vibrating in my backpack. I pulled it out, and lo -- it was Alexey, calling to see how I was managing. I explained my dilemma, and although what I really, really wanted to do was to push the phone under the window and let him tell the scary lady what I wanted, he insisted on giving me instructions. Give her 200 rubles, he said, and hold up 10 fingers. She'll understand you want a pass for 10 trips.

It was clear throughout my trip that I was succeeding with the mask of grim arrogance, because people kept speaking Russian to me in a way that suggested they expected me to understand them. The intimidating lady behind the window certainly did. At this point I was too shy to bring out my "yah ne punamayo" (although by the end of the week I was tossing it out with abandon, using it to extricate myself from every uncomfortable or bewildering situation), so I just shrugged my shoulders and looked stupid. She muttered to herself and shook her head as she shoved my pass and change under the window with disgust. I felt a little embarrassed but I had my pass, so what the hell.

(In my defense, on the language issue: No matter how badly they butcher a word or mangle a phrase, I can always deduce what my Russian friends are trying to say as they struggle for fluency in English. However -- they absolutely insist that if I utter one word in Russian that does not sound exactly as they expect it to, they will have absolutely no idea what I'm trying to say -- none, nope, not a word, not at all. Before I left for Moscow, Artem told me I shouldn't even bother trying to learn any Russian, as I would never be able to communicate with anyone anyway. Definitely not a confidence builder. Toward the end of the week, when I wanted to get a metro pass for five trips, I asked Alexey: "If I give her 100 rubles this time and say p'yot, will she understand what I want?" No, he said, she would certainly not understand. She might, however, understand if I said p'yat, but since I can't say that, I should just hold up five fingers. I looked at him in disbelief. The CDs I studied with clearly said p'yot, for one thing, and for another, how does this differ from when you guys say, for example, nature-all instead of natural? I understand that! How hard can it possibly be? But no.)

To be continued . . .

I would have missed it if I'd been driving

Overheard while walking past Gold Door -- tatted, pierced, shaggy-black-haired hipster in skinny jeans and chucks, to similarly attired peers:

"I saved a whole bunch of money by switching to Geico!"

In which I am accused of selfishly depriving my child of the necessities of life

I was shocked -- and offended -- when it was suggested that my silly obsession with living a carfree life would unfairly deprive my daughter of the normal childhood she deserves. This was followed by a generous offer of a loaner car -- in case I wanted to, for example, take her shopping for school. OMG -- I knew I was forgetting something! My daughter needs food, clothing and shelter! What was I thinking?!?!?

Glacier without a car, Part I: Amtrak gets it right

So we were basically car camping without a car, and we had an extra backpack and 3 bags of food (one big Trader Joe's bag, one smaller Fred Meyer bag, and one very cheap cooler bag from Fred's that leaked, didn't keep food cold much and eventually came apart at the bottom such that we had to run a strap around it to hold it together). Our third party was meeting us at Union Station and there was no way Isabel and I could carry all this along with our own packs, so we ended up taking a cab to the station. At the time it seemed like a well-deserved and unusual luxury; little did I know it would be just the beginning of an extensive draining of the ole checking account . . . but I digress.

The only other time we had traveled on Amtrak was in 1994, and it is not an entirely pleasant memory. Seating in coach was a complete free-for-all. We would start the line an hour or two before departure time, but as soon as they opened the doors people would push around us and run for the train. The challenge, we soon learned, was finding seats that were reasonably close together and fully functional. We did not always meet the challenge.

So I had a bit of anxiety about this when we got to the station; I hate competing for resources and I wasn't looking forward to fighting for seats. This worry was temporarily set aside when I saw the sign claiming that carry-ons were limited to 2 per person and they had to fit within the dimensions shown on the sign. I looked at our pile and felt a chill of fear. I had asked about the availibility of vegan food on the train, but I hadn't asked about baggage policies. But then I looked at the family behind us and their numerous baby-grand-piano-sized bags -- if we were going to be hassled, they were certainly in for it. They assured us they had no problem on their way out to Portland, and they didn't expect any trouble this time either.

So with that off my mind, I went back to worrying about seating. I was delighted when the conductor announced they would be boarding families and parties of 2 or more first, and even more so when we got to the car and it was divided into one side for singles and one side for multiples. For extra measure they had signs up stating certain seats were reserved for parties of 2 or 3. We got the best possible seats -- they were kind of the anti-bulkhead, in front of the stairs/water cooler/emergency supply cabinet, with a big space behind us where we could store lots of our stuff. There was a ton of leg room and our seats all reclined and had working leg rests. Score!

Overall, I was pretty impressed. The train ran on time and the conductors were efficient and professional, keeping track of seating and getting everyone settled as they boarded. Other than the usual all-night struggle to stay warm and find a way to approximate horizontality for sleeping, the trip was flawless. (Helpful hints: Sleeping bag liners make very compact and satisfying blankets for train travel. If you are desperate to lay down flat, you can take your liner or sleeping bag to the lounge car and sleep on the floor; they won't kick you out.)

Next: Are we really the only people on earth who need to get from the West Glacier Amtrak station to Apgar, don't have a car, and have too much crap to carry for 4 miles? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Our week of going to Glacier carlessly

Just back, so much to tell . . . must sleep . . .