We take our seats aboard the train car and I notice that someone has left a copy of the Oakland morning paper on the cushion. The front page contains story after story of the San Francisco quake and fire. More than six hundred persons are either known to be dead or missing. At least a thousand are injured. Most of these have been transported to hospitals outside the fire section, but some are still being treated at refugee camps like Golden Gate Park and the Presidio. Tens upon tens of thousands of evacuees do not have homes to return to, and five hundred city blocks—four and a half square miles—have been destroyed. I also read that San Francisco is not the only city damaged. North of the peninsula in Santa Rosa there is as much damage relative to the size of the city as in San Francisco, perhaps more. And at Stanford University the roof and ceiling at the memorial church collapsed. More than one hundred patients and hospital staff died inside the destroyed Agnews State Hospital closer to San Jose. The movement of the earth was felt by people as far north as Oregon and as far south as Los Angeles.

I set the newspaper aside as the train chuffs away from the station. I don’t want to read any more about how terrible the quake and fires were. I know well enough what they did, and what I hope they did. The upholstered seats are far more comfortable than the pews we lay upon last night, and in no time at all, the four of us have fallen asleep.

An hour later I awaken as we are pulling into San Jose. There is evidence in its downtown of crumbled buildings and structure fires, no doubt caused by broken gas lines. But the burned-out sections are contained and small. San Jose’s firemen clearly had access to water. We change trains to head back up the peninsula to San Mateo, some thirty miles away. As we ease out of the city, the view outside our window changes from cityscape to rolling hills and pastureland. The sight of such simple, natural beauty is almost too much for the eyes after so many days looking at ruin and loss. I was annoyed that our only way to get to Belinda’s home was such a meandering, complicated process, but the pastoral sights outside the glass as we get ever nearer to her inn are calming.

When we enter San Mateo, I can see bits of crushed brick and stone at the foot of some buildings from fallen chimneys and fascia, and as we pull into the station, there is a wooden building off to the side of the depot that has caved in. All of this is evidence that the earthquake shook this town, too. Still, I am reminded a bit of Donaghadee as we step out onto the small platform. There isn’t the salty tang of the Irish Sea, but the feel of the town—peaceful and unhurried—is the same. Belinda told me minutes before that she went to secondary school here, and that it’s where everyone in San Rafaela goes to shop if not within the pages of the Sears, Roebuck and Company catalog. We step inside the none-too-large station, and out again to the street to see about hiring a carriage. Belinda has money at the inn to pay a driver, if he will just get us there. I still have found no implement with which to pry open the strongbox to see if there is cash inside.