13 Hours

Home at 2:30Am, up by 7am. Surely I've joined a campaign.

My host family is just fantastic. I've only spent about three house total with them, but they're caring and delightful. Both retired, she a nurse, he a nuclear engineer, they're always buzzing with energy. Fascinated by what we're doing on the ground and curious about my life, they are the perfect hosts for campaign housing. I keep thinking in my head how I'd love to host someone for a campaign, but in New York I can't imagine why I'd ever have to. Also, unless I was sleeping with the person, my studio isn't necessarily condusive to such long term stays.

Today is Dry Run 1. Testing out the systems for GOTV and reporting to make sure all is working like a well organized and well oiled machine 17 days from now.

Pennsylvania is different than most swing states in that there is NO early voting and getting an absentee ballot is not simple. So, it boils down to having 13 hours on election day to motivate, mobilize, and win.

And that's exactly what we intend to do.

Why We're Here

            In my Voter Corps Fellow training today, we all had to share reasons why we joined the campaign.  They were all moving.

            Highlights:

1.     Unemployed master-degreed woman, Chicago native.  “If the President wins, then I win.”

2.     25-year-old woman with a pre-existing condition.  “I’m 26 next year and so longer will I be on my mother’s insurance plan – if Romney overturns the ACA, then I’ll never get insurance again.” 

3.     A New Yorker who was a bit lazy in 2008 because of his love for Hillary.  But the President has done great things, including stating that he believes in marriage equality.  

4.     A Floridian since 3-years old, he moved to PA to help his sisters with their children.  However, if Romney gets elected, his entire family is moving back to their native Germany.  

5.     A middle aged attorney who was living in London for 9/11 and the drumbeat to the Iraq war.  He realized the only way he could change things, even after marching with millions in the countries that later followed the US into Iraq, was to help elect people who wouldn’t do that.  Obama was ALWAYS opposed to the war in Iraq.

That’s just a start.  It was emotional and pretty remarkable. 

            Pittsburgh is interesting.  This office is on Smallman Street in the Strip District.  There are tons of lofts and warehouses down the block.  Grand in their brick and limestone, carved granite and leaded glass windows, there are few sidewalks because it's all loading docks.  Some have been converted into nightclubs, others to local farmers-like markets; some are still active for warehousing and manufacturing.  There’s also Marty’s Market where I got a grilled BBQ tempeh sandwich.  It was heaven.  

Day One: Observations

            The train station was nothing to brag about in Pittsburgh.  People park their cars facing either direction no matter what side of the street they park on here.  Also, it is very hilly; bridges of all styles, sizes, and colors lunge across the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio Rivers. 

Campaign HQ in Pittsburgh is great.  It’s a massive former bar/restaurant that we’ve all floors of.  The old bar is storage for signs, paint, literature, and all things Obama.  Booths double as cubicles for field officers.  And the kitchen remains a kitchen for the endless number of volunteers streaming through the doors to make calls, report numbers, drop off food, or just say hello. 

Today the work begins.  I’ve a three hour training this afternoon and then off to my field office in Monroeville.  My host family is amazing.  Upon arriving at 11:30 last night, they offered food.  When I said I was fine, they quickly insisted on having a beer – I had a few with both of them.  Upon further conversation, it was discovered their son lives five doors west of me on the very same Striver’s Row block in Harlem.

It is such a small and wonderful world.  

Taking Another Step Forward

            I’m on a train, going somewhere.  Nearly four years ago, when the United States elected Barack Obama, I partied in streets of Harlem, reveling in the wonder of a hard fought victory.  The thing was, then, the general election was easier than the primary.  I was a huge Hillary fan and remain one today.  John McCain in many ways handed us the election, but America was hungry to take a step forward.  And so we did. 

            Today, as I ride the Pennsylvanian west to Pittsburgh, with Amish farmers plowing fields alongside derelict steel factories, I think we’re yearning for another step.  So I’m on my way to ensure not just victory for the President here in PA, but to make sure we take another step forward as a nation.

            My fear is that if people see the race going towards Obama, voters will say, “Oh, he’s going to win so I don’t have to vote for him again.”  This is terrifying, as there are also many down ticket races that are critical to the future of this country. 

            Now I’m a party guy, both in terms of politics and socializing. Looking at the map though, there’s going to be some changes: It’s likely we’ll have a new Independent from Maine in the Senate; there’s a tough fight going on in Montana to keep a farmer and fighter in his Senate seat; and even in my home state of Connecticut, a wrestling giant has spent exorbitantly and refaced herself to make her lies and indecency more appealing to an otherwise deep blue state.  Which is why the President at the top of the ticket still matters.  And people need to turn out. 

Other Senate and House races in South Dakota and Virginia, New Mexico and Missouri will be fueled by the large push from the Obama campaign, with hopes of giving the President some coat tails again. We all know the tails won’t be as big as they were in 2008 – a time when 59 Democrats were elected to the Senate, then got 60 when the late Arlen Spector change his party because the Republican party left him.  This will not happen, but we need to hold on, and making sure people turn out to vote is part of that strategy.

I won’t bore you with this crap.  Other blogs and talking heads do that already.  So here’s the deal: I’ll be directing a field office/GOTV operation in Monroeville, one of Pittsburgh’s most populous suburbs.  If you know PA, we win by ensuring big turn out in Philly and Pittsburgh and buttressing that vote with a solid win in the suburbs of those cities.  Scranton’s native Joe will certainly be a boost in the northeastern corner of the state, too.  Now we know the numbers look good here; so good, that after GOP leaders in Ohio begged the Romney camp to step up their game there, Romney pulled staff from PA and sent them to OH.  Which is fine.  The President doesn’t have a path to victory without Pennsylvania, and while not the swing state it was in 2008 and 2004, it is a must win.

So I’ll be knocking on doors, talking to people, hoping they’ll see that this election presents a clear choice to voters: that of an intrusive and hypocritical ticket, one that seeks to go back to the failed policies of the past and throw away for vouchers all we were guaranteed for generations as Americans.  Or the other guy, who is fighting for the middle class.  Who saved the auto industry because it wasn’t just about them, but about the millions of jobs that support that industry.  My dad would have likely lost his job if not for the bailout.  My mom’s business could have closed if not for the stimulus and auto bail out.  And then there’s standing up for women’s rights and healthcare; being bullish and astute on the myriad issues of foreign policy; chipping away at what is the No Child Left Behind Act; putting (a paltry) $8 billion towards rail and high speed rail investment.  All these things were small steps, which fueled the bigger one of putting us on a more competitive edge with the rest of the rapidly changing and developing world.

I see it as simple: I’m supporting someone who supports me.  Who sees me as equal, both as a working class person, and for the first time ever, as a Gay American, worthy of the same rights as every other individual.  That part probably won’t be a big selling point in PA, but it matters at heart, and it’s part of the reason I’m hitting the trail.

Stay tuned for dispatches from the field.  I’m hoping to get some audio up here, too.

Now let’s keep going. 

On to Victory.

Baggage & History: a Preface

No matter how many times you check the fucking list, there will always be something you think you’re missing; something you clearly overlooked or blatantly forgot. That one piece of clothing you love to travel with, have never gone without, and this time around it didn’t make it into the suitcase. No matter the trip, big or small, near or far, packing is, I believe, the bane of a traveler’s existence.

For one of the first times in my life, my comprehensive list – along with self-illustrated maps and icons – provided me with a brilliant blueprint of what would be fitting into my red-wheeler. Granted, a few extra items found their way in, but I managed to have extra room for the return. Perhaps my biggest fear this go round is that for the first time in 5 years, I’m flying without my beloved green and orange Calvin Klein shoulder bag. Call me materialistic, call me shallow, but the bag was fucking brilliant. Perfectly shaped, deceivingly huge, and waterproof, it is the travelers perfect carry-on. But I’ve had it for five years and have lugged it nearly every single day around the City, and on every trip, near and far, since I purchased it. And so, during my recent jaunt to LA and Portland, one of the bottom corners cracked. I refuse to further destroy this accessory. The irony is that I’ve been trying to find a new bag – not a replacement, but a supplement – for probably a year now. That find did not come soon enough. Thankfully, I’m headed to the textile capital of South America, where Toby says there are tons and tons and tons of bags, all shapes, colors, styles and sizes that I’ll be able to choose from. My fingers are crossed.

If you know me, you’ll laugh knowing I have no shortage of bags to choose from. I’m toting a black leather weekender, shoulder strap, which was the first overnight bag I ever purchased in high school for a trip to Florida. It’s practical and sturdy. I just hate that it’s black and leather.

Now that I’ve stupidly rambled about the death of my beloved bag, I guess I should impart on where I’m headed: Medellin, Colombia and the surrounding area. Before my current employ, I worked as a personal assistant for a life-long New Yorker who lives in Morningside Heights. Her name is Toby. You may have heard a story or twelve. The tale of our meeting is as wondrous as any New York introduction: We were sharing a bench in the north garden at the Conservatory Gardens in Central Park. It was my birthday and it was gorgeous outside. She’s an artist, and was busily sketching the freshly blooming crab apple trees, along with all the virginal colors of spring; I had tired of my magazine but stayed to take in rays. She was suddenly flummoxed by a section of her pastel drawing, and I noticed. Being the art lover that I am, and critic too, I guess, I spoke up. I began working for her soon thereafter, and within six months, we were off to Costa Rica. Then I landed my current job and we’ve remained dear friends ever since.

But I digress: Colombia! A shockingly sprawling country in the north of South America, it is the only country on the continent that has coasts on both the Pacific and Atlantic (Caribbean Sea) Oceans. The fourth largest in South America and 26th largest country in the world, it is the welcome land after passing through Panama as the most southern country in Central America. Second only to Vietnam in coffee exports, it also has a booming cut floral industry, as well as textile manufacturing. While known throughout the world for its civil strife and drug trade, Colombia has blossomed in the past decade. Though it still struggles daily with the FARC, guerillas, and para-militaries, many of its cities are safe to visit and indeed benefit from a revived tourist industry. I say this now, not having been there. But Toby has been a few times and has dear friends there. I also know a few folks from Semester at Sea who have visited, and there’s even one there now, whom I’m hoping to grab a beer with.

Medellín, also known as the City of Eternal Spring, lies inland, flanked by two Andean mountain chains: Cordillera Occidental to the west and Cordillera Central to the east. It boasts the only meto-line in the country, as well as a cable car, and elaborate bus system. Its parks are lush and streets brimming with public art because of a City-ordinance that required art be built or displayed when new construction was erected.

We’re staying in El Poblado. It’s the newly chic nabe, safe, and filled with expats and locals, as well as some nightlife and shopping. Toby has already visited a finca (coffee farm) and we’ll be going again. She met someone who has a car we’ll be able to take for day trips apparently, too. There’s also buses that traverse the entire country, so we’ll have our share of urban and rural. After all, as an equatorial wonder, Colombia is home to tropical jungles and grassy lowlands, mountain grasslands, deserts, and scrublands, to name just a few of its environmental categories.

Unlike our last adventure, we’ll know people in the City we’re starting in. Costa Rica is quite a different place, but I think we’ll fare just fine in Colombia. I hear the roads are better, too. Keep your fingers crossed.

I’m heading to the M60 in less than four hours. Will report from Medellín soon!

The Far West

A few hours after Matt and I arrived in Los Angeles, we found ourselves roaming the Santa Monica oceanfront, walking towards the kitschy Pier along a path with houses whose ocean views are blocked by the staircases they installed to get from deck to deck. I jokingly observed, after seeing a long board rider plug his board into a gun-like triggered motor take off down the pathway with his bulldog standing on with him, that we were indeed experiencing one of the most foreign cultures in the world. He laughed, as he always lovingly does, at my outrageous ability to exaggerate a simple oddity of west coast human existence.

But I do not relent on my observation that we are immersed in a foreign culture out here in the Far West. Los Angeles was one thing: With its hiking in gorgeous green parks that abut an urban sprawl cloaked with smog and haze, creating a wildly odd juxtaposition of rural against urban; the ever-creeping encroachment of the wealthy desire to live further and further up the slopes of delicate mountains; and its endless string of freeways and highways that rush cars from one superficial site to another. There is the bohemian delight of Venice Beach where the scent of weed looms in the cool breeze, the hipsters of Silver Lake where I enjoyed a proper martini, and the rather generic and banal surroundings on Hollywood Boulevard immediately neighboring the Grauman Chinese Theater. LA was, nonetheless, fabulous: a great Semester at Sea reunion and a visit with a friend who now lives in a different place than me for the first time in 24 years.

The highlight of our LA jaunt was by far J. Paul Getty’s museums: The Getty Center and the Getty Villa in Malibu. Both brilliant homes for renowned art collections, the Getty Center I found more apt to visit for its gardens and buildings as opposed to its collection; some might disagree. Towering and sharp modern sandstone edifices jumped out from the bright blue sky as undulating walls surrounded formal gardens. The verdant cliff below added to the grandiosity of the Richard Miere structure. Being the antiquities lover that I am, I was in heaven at the Villa, created after a Roman Villa in Herculaneum that was buried and therefore preserved by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Colonnaded walkways and fresco paintings, herb gardens filled with pools and bronze sculptures, and pocket rooms of galleries filled with relics from one of our species greatest cultures. Both were locations of time well spent.

Now we are in another wild world of the Far West, traversing some of the most stunning vistas on the west coast, arguably the globe, on the Pacific Coast Starlight (PCS) train number 14. We have a lovely little roomette on the east side of the train, a delightful cabin steward named Lorna, and a fabulous waiter named James in the dining car. We departed at 12:15pm Pacific Standard Time from Los Angeles’ stunning Union Station. Built in 1939 in a mix of southwest and art deco styles, the station is a beacon of style refinement. Towering arched porticos flanked both sides of the station that looked out onto courtyards with adobe-colored tiles lining the grounds, subtle mosaics in burnt earth tones on the wall panels were complimented by the elaborate signs, lighting fixtures, exaggerated coffered ceilings, and sundry mix of design elements, all exuded a well-refined deco execution. It seems to be one of the last great Union Stations of the country, and its precision in design proves that the styles had been perfected during the nearly 20 years of building—and re-building—some of America’s greatest train stations.

The joy of long distance train travel comes from not being in a rush. We’ll get to Portland whenever we get there. In the mean time, this 27 hour ride is a vacation in and of itself—a moving hotel that provides entertainment and comfort, constantly changing views, and a relaxation that all other types of travel diminish rather than enhance. This is Matt’s first long-distance train trip in the US and he’s thrilled. I am too.

Yesterday we settled into our roomette, taking in the southern California coastline, watching as the landscape morphed from the gritty industrial side of LA and Burbank climbing south to a more pleasant Simi Valley, Santa Barbara, and onto San Luis Obispo as we horseshoe curved along the bluffs of the Pacific Coast. With oilrigs just off shore and the Channel Islands sheathed in a California fog, we toasted our complimentary bottle of champagne and then opened the full size bottle we packed with us. We had lunch and toured the train, with its Parlor Car, Dining Car, and Lounge Car all available whenever we wanted to stretch our legs more than the room permitted. The most exciting part of this train is the Parlor Car. The PCS is the only train left in the country where such a car exists. Great swivel lounge chairs line windows that arch almost all the way around the car and petite dining tables provide sleeping-car passengers with an alternative dining option as well as an afternoon wine tasting of local wines and cheeses. Tasteful train music also fills the air; Van Morrison is playing now, but jazz, classical, oldies, and big-band era tunes have played too.

This morning we awoke to a strikingly different landscape. Pine forests and steep snow-topped mountains encase the two-story train that hums and shakes along. Rivers and frozen swamps fill farmed valleys bespeckled with dilapidated houses and farm equipment; patches of snow dot the orange-brown ground caked in pine needles. A bald eagle flew by earlier. “Ladies and Gentleman, may I have your attention please! Next stop, Chemult, OR. Chemult, OR, coming up shortly.”

We’ll lunch shortly, and wine taste again this afternoon, read and play cards. And perhaps have a sip or two of whiskey before debarking in Portland this evening.

Why this country has forgotten about the joy of train travel is beyond me. The world is eclipsing the United States in rail transit—both generic and high-speed—development and has for decades already. I heard President Obama said this is our generations chance to have a “Sputnik moment” in his State of the Union address (which I also heard was a success). I have no idea what he was referring to, but I think those energies should be directed to investment and creation of transportation infrastructure, with a focus on railways, NOT highways. It seems part of the reason American’s disregard rail is because of a selfish desire to do whatever you want, no matter the cost or consequence. Buy big SUVs to drive one person to work; fly back and forth on short-leg flights that are served just as well by rail; and a forgotten notion that this country should strive to lead in everything—no matter that cost--and that includes rail development. But no. People would rather carry their guns to grocery stores and truly believe that taxes are for bad, when really they’re for public benefit.

I’ll stop there--Our seating time has been called for lunch.

[Writer’s note: Contrary to posted advertisements, the train did not have wireless. This is being posted from a couch in Portland.]