I had to transfer to another train in the city of Stockton. While I was waiting in the train station that was nearly empty, I noticed a young
woman in her twenties sitting in a seat near me and speaking to someone on her cell-phone. I could guess, judging by her facial features, that
she was of Asian descent. She was somewhat beautiful and reminded me of my friend Rae from Hefei. Before I went to China, I wouldn’t have
had a clue about which Asian country she was from, but after my experiences, I was able to make out that she was speaking Mandarin to
whomever was on the other line. After she hung up, I looked at her and asked, “Are you from China?”, and she answered affirmatively. I think it’s
interesting that a trip to somewhere else can open up so many other new doors. I was now able to speak to her when before, in my previous state
of cultural ignorance (not that I know it all now), I wouldn’t have had any specific reason to talk to her and probably wouldn’t have even paid
much attention to her. It was almost like there was something purposeful about meeting her there even though we didn’t talk about anything so
profound.
       The train arrived and we both boarded. There weren’t any single-seat sections on the train, only tables with couch-like seats facing each
other like it was just a commuter train. I saw the Chinese girl who I just met sitting by herself after I searched for a seat. “You mind if I sit with
you?” I asked. “OK, go ahead,” she said. I could hear a nosy couple that looked like they were in high school sitting behind me making some
comments about sitting with strangers. They had no idea that I had already met and talked to her at the train station before. They probably
thought I was just trying to pick up a nice-looking girl, but that was not my intention. A lot of people in China showed me how friendly they can
be to strangers, and I thought I would return the favor to a Chinese who was now in my home country. We talked for a while about cities we had
been to in China and the United States. The nosy youngsters behind me once again made some inaccurate comments. The young man said, “I
think he’s a spy or something. He keeps talking about Shanghai.” I guess he watched James Bond too many times. After a while, the young
Chinese woman decided she wanted to get some sleep and offered to give me a pillow since I didn’t have one. Lights out, but it’s still day time.
       After some time, we arrived at the young woman’s stop. I said goodbye to her, and I heard the boy behind me once again. “Guess you’re not
gettin’ laid this time,” he said. He crossed the line with that one. As if that’s what I was trying to do in the first place. Next time I went to the
bathroom, I made sure to stop and give him a glare to let him know his commentary was not appreciated. He is an example of how we
Americans are stereotyped by many other people in the world, as arrogant, unintelligent sex-fiends. A lot of people judge us by what they see on
American T.V. and films. Many groups of people, such as the Chinese in general, have no idea about what life is really like in the U.S. They
think it’s just a nice place to make money and do whatever you want, but they don’t know about the violence and discrimination that happens
there. They believe that everyone has a gun in America, but they don’t understand the full impact of street violence since it is usually very mild
in China and not so common considering the number of people there. Everyone in China has black hair and black eyes with “yellow” skin as they
say. There isn’t a lot that people can discriminate with, except I heard that it’s hard for a girl with darker skin to find a boyfriend in China because
the Chinese idea of beauty is having very light skin, which perhaps comes from the old idea that people who have darker skin are homeless or
poor because they are out in the sun laboring all day or have no shelter. That is why women always have their sun umbrellas when the sun is
shining fiercely. For men, skin-color doesn’t matter.
       I sat back down in my seat and continued to look out of the window at the California landscape passing by. We were close to our next
destination where I would have to change trains again and board a train that would take me all the way to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I was
looking out the window, when suddenly I heard a sound and felt a slight tremor run through the train, and something also flew past the window. I
thought we must have hit a cow, but then I remembered that cows don’t burst into flames when you hit them. That was a tire and some flaming
pieces of metal that flew past the window. The train slowed to a stop and the train conductors announced that we hit a car. We hit them while
going full-speed. I wasn’t sure how someone could survive that. Some police and paramedics arrived to see what they could do for the person.
We waited for about 30 minutes or more waiting for some kind of answer. One of the conductors got back on the train and said, “That guy’s
gonna be hurtin’ for a looooooooong time!” But I was pretty sure that his pain was already over. Hard to believe anyone could survive a hit like
that. I’m sure he just didn’t want anyone to panic by telling the truth.
       The accident delayed us for nearly an hour. Some people were going to miss their trains, so at the next railway station, they decided how
they could send people to different locations to be there when their trains arrived. They sent me and less than a dozen others to a small city
called Victorville by coach. When we arrived at the train station, it was dark and very cold because it was a November night in the California
desert. The bus driver dropped us off and drove away immediately. There was no shelter for us. We had to stand outside next to the railroad
tracks and wait. There was one woman who had a small child and a baby to take care of. The child was crying, and the other adults weren’t
feeling so comfortable either because of the extreme cold weather. There was one guy who looked like a slightly smaller and less intense
version of Strongest Man in the World champion Pudjianowski who said, “They ain’t right for leavin’ us out here like this! That bus could have
waited until the train came!” Most people were quite vocal about their discomfort, but there was one heavy man with a moustache, cowboy hat,
and glasses that was rather quiet, but not in a suspicious way. He was the only one who didn’t seem to be too affected by the situation. It was too
much for me to bear watching them all suffer like this, especially the children, so I decided I was going to the nearest gas station to see if I
could find something for them. Another young man who was an Albuquerque native named Henry decided to come with me. We walked across
the street to the gas station and discovered that they served hot chocolate there. We bought enough for everyone and walked back. Everyone
was still shivering and having a miserable time, but Henry and I gave one cup of hot chocolate to everyone. After that everyone thanked us, and
their attitudes changed from victims to survivors. The hot chocolate was enough to turn the whole situation around. The guy who looked like
Pudjianowski put out his hand to me and introduced himself as Steve. He told us that he had to wait for his train in the morning an extra three
hours. I said, “Man, these guys didn’t do anybody right today!” One man was most likely killed, and others were herded like sheep into a dark and
quiet place to freeze for more than an hour before the train came. Finally the train did come, and we were all glad to get onboard. At least we
were still alive, but it seemed that there was a touch of bad luck in the air trying to claim as many victims as it could. I fell asleep on the train
knowing that I’d be back in my favorite U.S. city in about eight hours.
       The next morning, I woke up and decided to enjoy the view of the passing desert from the lounge car. Henry was there, as well as about six
other guys sharing stories. As we were weaving through the mountainous New Mexican desert, we passed many small towns that were surrounded
by the lifeless desert as everything zipped past the many large lounge car windows. The guys were talking about humorous youthful drug
experiences and bar stories, and I was just having fun listening and laughing along with them. One guy, a tall and heavy guy with blonde hair
was drinking beer and talking about his life. He had lived in many different U.S. states, around two dozen, but he was born in Albuquerque.  He,
along with Henry and others, was returning home for a period of time. Then suddenly, I heard the man with the beer say, “There it is …” as the
Sandia Mountains finally came into our view at least 15 miles ahead as we steadily approached the city. I was quite familiar with those
mountains, and seeing them again brought back some old memories.
       When I was 16 years old, my father and I went down to Albuquerque on our way to California to visit an old friend of mine named Cameron
who had moved there a year earlier. We took the tram, the largest tram in the world, to the top of the Sandia Mountains where my father instantly
encountered one of his old friends named J.R. waiting in line to get on the tram going back down the mountain. “I never thought I’d see you on
the top of a mountain in Albuquerque!” my father said to him as a few people who were listening could understand the irony of the situation and
laughed. They had a visitor center on top of the mountain, and we could see some people hang-gliding far off in the distance. That was my
happy memory of the mountain, but I also had a dark and perilous experience years later.
       In October of 2004, I came back to Albuquerque to live when I still didn’t have any life goals, to experience a new city for a while and gain
a new perspective on life. Madison just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. Albuquerque was a great city I thought. The climate was nice and dry,
and people were very hospitable there. It seemed like there was no competition for anyone to try to be the best, and no one was sitting higher
than anyone else. A lot of the people were either Hispanic or American Indian, and a lot of the men there had the southwestern mustache. Most
of the people I met treated me as though I was their brother. There was a time when I wanted to make a phone call at a pay phone, but after
reaching into my pockets, I realized I didn’t have enough change. A woman walked past me and saw, and without even asking, she reached into
her own pocket and pulled out a quarter for me. Even the gangsters and drug-addicts were kind to me, but they were definitely not the people to
make angry, as I found out, and this was just what I learned from working at the Sara Lee bread plant. Every day on the news, at least two or
three people were shot, and meth labs were being busted all around town. I accidentally moved into the place that people nicknamed “The War
Zone” but they said it was better than it was a few years earlier. I only heard gunshots outside my apartment once. I still enjoyed living in
Albuquerque very much. Sometimes I think it’s not the place but rather the attitude one has about where they live. But sometimes we need
encouragement from new places to be able to develop new attitudes.
       I didn’t have so many friends in Albuquerque, and I often used to go for walks alone at the base of the Sandia Mountains in the morning or
afternoon when I had the time. There were many twisting trails of sand and dirt surrounded by cacti and rocks, exactly what anyone could
expect from the southwest. On the right of me were the mountains, and on the left was the city, with the main road Central Avenue sloping
downhill into the center of the city which was visible at least five or six miles away, and then uphill again past downtown. Once or twice, I heard
a group of coyotes howling as the sun was setting there. I wasn’t sure if I was safe or not, but they were a bit further up into the mountains. One
day, I decided to hike to the top of the Sandia Peak and find the tram that I went on eight years earlier with my father and friend and take the
easy way down. Sometimes I am ruled by nostalgia that causes me to visit old places. I wasn’t prepared for the harsh journey. I thought it would
be as simple as hike for two hours and get back down quickly. It was November of that year, but it hadn’t snowed or shown such great signs of the
coming winter yet, so I just wore a thin hooded sweatshirt and a t-shirt and went up into the mountains. When I got high up, I could see some
snow and some tracks in the snow that were hard to judge exactly how old they were. It got colder and colder as I got higher. Finally, I got to the
top, but it was almost too cold to tolerate, and the snow came up to my knees, making each step a workout. I couldn’t see that it was snowing in
the mountains from the ground, so I had no idea to expect this. To make matters worse, I had no food or water, and I couldn’t see the tram
station anywhere. I couldn’t see anything except snow on top of the mountain, and that’s just about all there was. It was a cold and dead place. I
looked over the side of the mountain and could see the city below spread out across the valley, knowing there were thousands of people down
there that couldn’t help. Even my friends didn’t know I was up there. The desert stretched seemingly infinitely into every direction as far as I
could see beneath the horizon. So much beauty, yet it was only survival on the mountain that I could think about. No time for relaxation and
enjoyment of the scenery. I continued walking through the deep snow, but the path seemed to go on forever. I was running out of energy, I had
no gloves and I was poorly dressed for these cold conditions. The high snow made it very difficult to keep walking. I decided I had enough of this
trial that I was baited into by an old memory. There was no way for me to go on. I lied down in the snow thinking that it’s not such a bad way to
die. “I’ll just fall asleep and won’t ever wake up again. Someone will find my body eventually.” I thought to myself. It was somewhat peaceful on
top of the mountain up near the clouds away from all the noise of the city below. Clearing my mind of the wonderful life I had, I closed my eyes
and prepared to accept my fate as the snow began to cover my body.
China Dispatch/Andrew Gramling
Train ride brought memories