From Oregon

Always do the things you can't repeat. That's what my father always told me, so when my best friend asked me to be the best man at his wedding in Oregon, I knew I had to be there. One problem, though. I hate to fly, and since I live in New York, a plane would be the only logical way to get there. I'm not really that logical, though. I am more emotional. Maybe spiritual. Maybe insane. So I took a train. A 3-day train ride across the United States. Both ways, mind you. 

What type of a person willingly decides to abort the "normal" world for a 70-hour journey in a place where time stands still?

Well, there was a science teacher from Chicago who also didn't like to fly, a grandmother from Montana who wanted to relive her childhood, an Amish family who didn't know any other way, a rail travel activist from Boston who was living out his values, and a hiker from the Midwest searching for an experience. 

And me. 

A New Yorker who wanted to avoid the sky and, in doing so, found a sense of clarity in the uncomfortable. A person who found a place where time stops and joy is found in simply existing. Or taking a piss without the train throwing it right back on your leg. Little wins are the key to surviving a long train ride. 

When I finally arrived in Oregon, I stepped out of the train car, as I imagine the first person who stepped on the moon felt, but it was nice to be back on Earth. Now, it was time for the next obstacle. Every time you finish something, at least for me, there is something else to follow. My brain automatically identifies the next thing. In the time leading up to my trip to Portland, Oregon, I would tell my girlfriend things in terms of "After Portland" and "Before Portland," like those who talk about AC and BC.

But now the moment was here, and I had one mission: to nail my best friend's best man speech. That is the Super Bowl of being a best man because I don't know how to throw a bachelor party, and I will not pretend to cry when the newlywed couple says, "I do." In terms of best men, I am an average best man at best, but after 15 years of friendship, I had to nail the speech. 

The best man's speech is delicate. It's part comedy, part pouring your heart out, and part public relations work because you must make your best mate look good up there. I have not been to many weddings, but the last thing I wanted to do was be the sloppy friend who slobbers stories about the glory days.

"Remember that night we had all those beers and did all those things!" 

No, it had to be better than that. I wanted to tell a story. A damn good one, too. So I hit the MacBook and let the fingers dance. After an hour or so, I had a couple of good words and a lot of bad ones. But it was a start, so I moved on to exploring Oregon with my girlfriend. I doubt she ever envisioned our first trip together would be in little old Oregon, especially since most of her friends spend their summers in Europe drinking wines with fancy names in bottles labeled with script letters. 

Our summer was spent at Tillamook Cheese Factory and Never Coffee, where we drank matcha lattes. We hiked in Eugene and spent every night in a shopping center at Dave's Hot Chicken. At the end of the trip, we thought about moving to Oregon, and we still do. Maybe one day, we'll pull the trigger. 

In between late-night gelato sessions and shopping malls, I finished the speech. It was honest, and most importantly, it told a story. The best piece of writing advice I ever received is from a man who barely knows how to read, my father. 

"Just tell the story…" 

Now, I had to deliver the story in a speech in front of hundreds of people. Luckily, my father had one more piece of advice on public speaking.

"Know your first line and know your last line…" 

I got up, tested the microphone, and hit the first line. After that, I fell into the healthy version of comfortably numb—a state of euphoria where time stops and the moment takes over, like a tennis player who runs through a service game with ease. Like a man on a train who stares out the window without thinking of what he had for breakfast or what he'll have for dinner.

He's just there. Literally in the moment because the moment is all that exists. 

When I finally spoke my last line, I was no longer performing. I was no longer thinking, and I walked off a better man. Not the best man, but a little better than average. Now, the speech was over, and a part of me that had anticipated this moment for months no longer existed. 

So what was next? A couple more matcha lattes and trips to Dave's Hot Chicken. Lunch with my best friend, who was now a married man. I walked around the University of Oregon with my girlfriend. A three-day train ride back to New York. 

Life was next. Life was now. More obstacles would come, and new versions of the anticipated me would form. But when they do, I hope he and the train version of me could have lunch. The anticipated version of me may enjoy it.