TRAIN TALES
I take the Gold Line in to work each morning from Pasadena to Downtown. A few years ago, I took a bus in.
The Gold Line is different in that it considers itself "light rail." Actually, I'm not sure that the trains themselves think this—after all, they are not like the cars that one sees in the ads in SoCal which admonish children to not cross the street because "the car may not see you." That's always brought a chuckle.
Anyway, the Gold Line is really a lovely way to go because it's built where the houses are not, for the most part. And so the way is wooded and pretty for a while, then you enter quaint little neighborhoods, both good and bad, and then into the woods again. You travel across the Los Angeles River (which, if your imagination is good, you can think of as a real river instead of a storm drain bearing graffiti) and on into Union Station.
I have heard New Yorkers laugh and criticize because they are used to hundreds of miles of trains that run on time with no problems. Well, we're new to the train systems here and we have problems all the time. NY has had at least a century of trains and theirs bang on whatever the situation. I think we may still be a bit protective of the new cars and stations.
The past week has brought loads of rain, and lots of thunder and spectacular lightening. It's not really cold here, but to see the people at the stations you would think it was -20. They have their umbrellas over their heads (no rain during the day to speak of), and down jackets and woolen head coverings. I felt underdressed in my sweatshirt and jeans. As soon as I reached the office, I took off the sweatshirt.
I must explain that my office, engaged in the practice of corporate litigation only, is very "laid back." Our name partners wear shorts and T-shirts or Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops. They really don't care what we all wear, only that we get the job done. The only bad part about all of this is that some people simply don't know when to quit. We had an attorney who, until the past couple of years, tended to run around in tank tops and speedos. I expect he really was too warm much of the time as he could readily have been mistaken for game—shot and mounted. Or perhaps made into a rug.
The other thing is that many of the young women here are on the zoftig side and they persist in wearing what we used to call "Hip-Huggers" with tops that are really too brief. So they resemble little stuffed kielbasa that have been sort of broken at various places with bits of sausage hanging over the bottoms and the tops. I think they are laboring under the misapprehension that they look good.
But back to the train. The ride really is most beautiful in the fog and mist. Everything is mysterious and if someone rode out of a dripping glade on a horse, you wouldn't blink once. In the spring, the area is a plethora of color—real wildflowers with birds and bees and the good smells of the earth!
This morning when I emerged from the underground train station, it actually smelled of fried potatoes, onions, and coffee. It's only 55 degrees, on it's way to 75 degrees, but in SoCal, it's winter.
10:29:31 AM 
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