Public transit in San Francisco, where the Senegalese food at Bissap Baobab is worth a ride to The Mission neighborhood.
On the Coast Starlight, I met, as I often do on trains, a woman who was recently released from prison, heading home .
Worth a Stop LOS ANGELES TO STAY: The Conrad TO EAT: Kodō TO DO: Academy Museum of Motion Pictures SANTA BARBARA TO STAY: Hotel Californian TO EAT: Flor de Maiz, Andersen’s Danish Bakery and Restaurant TO DO: Santa Barbara Sailing SAN LUIS OBISPO TO STAY: Granada Hotel and Bistro TO EAT: Highwater, Bing Bao Buns, Ebony SLO TO DO: The Spa at Madonna Inn, Downtown SLO Farmers Market SAN FRANCISCO TO STAY: Hotel Zeppelin TO EAT: Kaiyo, Cafe Ohlone TO DO: Museum of the African Diaspora
humming in Spanish as they urged their congregants to accept the Lord. I came across the Senegalese dancehall restaurant Bissap Baobab. People filled the dance floor as I housed African tacos and mustardy chicken yassa with caramelized onions, fresh tamarind, and hibiscus juice. I could live here. But my longing for home was becoming nearly untenable. My laundry was dirty, and I wanted to lie in my partner’s arms, cook lasagna together. This life of endless roaming, of packing and repacking, is rough. Then, I got an email that my train had been canceled in anticipation of the railway strikes. I was stuck in California. Feben, the restaurateur, reached out, telling me to enjoy my extended time. I didn’t know how extended it would be. More frighteningly, I didn’t know how extended I wanted it to be. Amtrak wasn’t operating, so it was a nine-hour Greyhound back to Los Angeles through the agriculture areas near San Jose and parts of the Central Valley. I watched farm workers gather what was left of this year’s crops—which had to be harvested early due to the heat wave—alongside signs protesting California’s water crisis. The freight railroad companies and the workers' unions came to a deal, averting a strike (and an economic crisis), at least for now. I could go home. My new train—Amtrak’s Texas Eagle—left at 10 p.m. I spent most of the day in my hotel room at the Conrad, watching the sun outside my window. Hours passed. I realized it was 9:30 p.m. I was going to miss my train. If I missed it, I could stay. But I didn’t want to; that had finally become clear. With two minutes to spare, I made it on my train, laid down on the bed, and prayed to reach Chicago—and everyone waiting for me ther—as quickly as I could. Just 1,306 miles of overland travel and 63 hours with my travel companions to go.
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