Forty minutes before the train departed, I arrived at the Sacramento Valley Station. Everything online told me thirty minutes or less was enough time to board the Amtrak line to Hayward.
The Uber driver dropped me at the curb at 11:15 AM for an 11:55 AM train.
I pulled open the heavy glass door and surveyed the lobby. The waiting area mirrored a scene from an old Western movie. I sat on a long wooden bench and waited for further instructions.
No announcement came on the intercom.
I reviewed the electronic arrival and departure screens and followed an arrow to the trains and buses with thirty minutes to spare. Across the bus terminal, through the concrete tunnel, and up a long ramp, I found Track 4.
A small crowd stood underneath the Capitol Corridor signs. The digital messages indicated an on-time departure to San Jose, and my stop in Hayward was on the route.
While I had taken rapid commuter trains to work almost every day since January, it had been nearly twenty years since I had boarded an intercity train. Despite the unfamiliarity, I had expectations.
I waited for the iconic “All Aboard!” Instead, the conductor said, “Let’s go. Doors are closing. Get on the train.”
Once inside, a set of stairs to the right offered access to the second floor. I sat in a window seat comparable to first-class on an airplane. My bookbag fit in the space below my feet without feeling cramped.
Nine minutes later, another conductor announced the train’s departure. I pulled the printed tickets from my coat pocket, anticipating the request. It came through the train car’s speakers as I pulled down the tray table and opened my laptop.
I put the tickets where I could quickly grab them.
“Hello. How are you? Tickets, please.”
“I’m well. How are you?” I replied as the stout man in a blue uniform wearing a tiny black cap scanned the QR code with my reservation.
“Another day above ground is better than any day below. Thank you,” he said without smiling before scanning the next passenger’s ticket.
Sacramento passed by in a blur as I drifted asleep while typing gibberish. I woke up to lines of “ccccccccccvvvbbnb,” on the screen. My fingers pressed random keys while I napped.
I deleted the string of letters and started again. All writing is rewriting. I remembered the words repeated by multiple writers throughout time.
Swayed by green grass lining the tracks, amazed by vibrant graffiti art on concrete walls, shocked at the homeless enclaves, and filled with awe across bridges, I traveled to Hayward. I took the two-hour train ride to attend a Capoeira batizado.
The steady rocking of the train fostered a creative rhythm. Write, look out the window, think, and repeat. Each sentence followed a similar pattern.
I released the urge to get the next thing done on my list, stayed in the present, and wrote. It wasn’t until later that I connected my experience to something else.
I arrived in Hayward, took another Uber to the hotel, and ordered a meal. After getting settled, I attended the first of several Capoeira workshops. I connected with old friends, learned new movement sequences, listened to histories, and played in circles of Ancestors.
The event was great.
Late Saturday night, I returned home on the railroad tracks that took me from Sacramento to Hayward. A couple of days passed, and I made a connection to my time on the train.
On March 10, 1913, Harriet Tubman passed away. Her courage on the Underground Railroad made moments like last weekend possible. While the conditions of our journeys are incomparable, they merge in the histories of people traveling to get from one place to the next.
Putting Tubman's face on the $20 bill and instituting a National Day of Rest for Black Women are two proposals to honor her contributions to freedom. Advocate for her picture on US currency or do something kind for a Black woman today.
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