On the train, I ended up choosing the side that didn’t get a view of the ocean; the east side of my southbound train. From here, I could see the underbelly of Los Angeles as it sped through. I chose a buisness class ticket because I knew it would be much quieter and also give me the chance to plug in my laptop and do some CD-ripping that had been backlogged.

Also, unreserved coach costs just as much as the taxi ride from my house in Thousand Oaks to Moorpark, and I didn’t feel right about that being the same cost as the train trip from Moorpark to Oceanside. So I upgraded. I called Amtrak’s automated reservation system (“Julie”) and secured a reservation number and boarding number. However, when the conductor came by to check tickets, I told them that I reserved on the phone and would pay cash now; no identification check, no request for a boarding number, no nothing.

The whole trip takes about two and a half. It was standing-room only once the train reached Union Station in Los Angeles, so stress-free travel was worth the upgraded fare. In fact, I had a four-seat table (with pairs of seats facing each other around this table) all to myself until Fullerton, when a family of four needed a place to sit. Now here’s an interesting conundrum: all of the seats facing the ocean were now taken. The two kids sat down at the table and began playing with their Legos on the horizontal surface. The two parents, though, sat in a pair of unoccupied seats across the aisle from them. The woman had already sat down while the man expressed a desire to see the ocean. I naively offered to give up my sit so that I could sit next to him but still keep a spot at the table. (I still wanted to keep the laptop plugged in so that I could keep typing away at this entry, for instance, and rip CDs in the background.)

It never occurred to me to give up the whole table to them. I really never thought about it until a few stops later. But then I thought to myself that the husband and wife still get to sit next to each other and next to their kids. If I were already sitting next to a stranger, the stranger and I would never simultaneously agree to move to a different pair of seats so that the whole family could sit together. I mean, individually we might come to that conclusion, but we’d never actually vocalize that intent.

And so they sat while I sat, the kids sat, and there was still the empty chair next to me where I offered to move in case the husband really wanted to see the ocean. Seriously, I was planning on sitting next to him, and it took me a moment to realize that he wasn’t going to take me up on his offer. And why should he? Wouldn’t he prefer the company and proximity of his wife?

I rationalized to myself a couple of cities later (we were all still sitting) that no matter where the pair sat, they’d always have the company of each others’ company. Meanwhile, if I had moved, I would be deprived of whatever nominal pleasure I could derive from having my window seat and having my laptop plugged in and (the laptop, too, sat) on the table. I didn’t separate the family: the kids still talked to their parents all the same, separated by about two feet as opposed to a foot and a half.

The night before, I was flouting my freedom and sitting in a bar with a few coworkers, enjoying some beverages. At one point in the evening, one of my coworkers bought a round of drinks for he and my other buddy, as well as three total strangers. It was originally supposed to be just the two of them plus this chick they met. Well, the chick ended up tricking my drunk coworker into ordering two more for some other guys she knew. I was watching from afar, and I could tell right away what was what and who was who. Look, I just didn’t like the idea of buying a drink for a girl who would rather you buy two drinks so that she could have a drink with someone else. Honestly, it was despicable. But you gain judgment through experience; while gaining experience through exercising poor judgment, and I let him make his own mistake. Sure enough, she ended up leaving the table and hanging out with other people as soon as she was done pounding the drink.

Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have cared. Hey, as long as you’re having a good time in one moment, it cancels out all the regrettable times later. Okay, so I don’t think that way anymore, rightfully, and I often marvel at the fact that I thought that way at all. You see, I was primarily interested in maximizing my life, consequence-be-damned. I’m not going to get all new age and say that I’ve learned that life is all about the total experience. I’m not. It’s just that I’ve learned to derive pleasure in long-term maximization, instead of maximizing for the moment.

But because I’m thinking in broader strokes, I learned not to sweat the small stuff, including the pangs of niceness that seems to sometimes burden me. I’ve learned to be more selfish in the past year or so. Minus the arrogance, plus egotism. Fair trade, or just a conversion of one form of vanity to another? Or perhaps I just liked my seat and didn’t want to give it up. I’m like the asshole version of Rosa Parks.

After my CD finished ripping, I packed up and offered the husband and wife the opportunity to sit with their kids. The train had been barreling through Orange County until then, and really, both sides of the train were fairly equivalent. But once we got to the stop before San Clemente, I knew that the vista would change, and that, having travelled up and down this coastline numerous times, I thought it best to let a vacationing family have a view and the pleasure of each other's company. Me? I slipped on my iPod, and was instantly comforted.