The (Not So) Great American Train Ride
As a graduate student in the mid-1990s, I held tight to the idea that the world was a place of infinite excitement, certain that adventure and a fulfilling life would be mine if I was willing to“put myself out there.”
I believed an important part of school, in addition to the education, was personal growth. I was eager to connect with new people through conversation and shared experiences, certain these opportunities would help me become the best and most complete person I could be.
The final year of graduate school was busy with my master’s thesis coming together, classes to teach, and one final course to take. While I had time for activities outside of school, I stuck close to home and caught slivers of adventure and connection as time allowed.
While I was thriving in school, it was demanding, and I looked forward to a break; something equal parts exploration and relaxation. Wanderlust set in, and that’s when I began thinking about a long-distance train ride.
Years of movies and books depicting the swanky Oriental Express and the grandeur of Pullman cars had cemented the romance of train travel in my mind. I envisioned overnight rail travel to be a delight, a chance to enjoy the scenery of our vast and diverse nation, build camaraderie with other travelers, and get the chance to do nothing more than sit back, relax, and watch life go by. One train ride would provide exactly what I was looking for.
As fall semester wore on, the idea of crossing America from sea-to-shining-sea grew. I thought of an Italian phrase la dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing, and as I rolled those words around in my mind, the idea became more majestic, the trip became a must. A passenger train still ran out of Laramie, where I attended University of Wyoming, so I could embark on a trans-American train ride not far from my home.
I hatched a plan to take my much-anticipated voyage during the break between semesters. My travel itinerary involved sharing a ride to the east coast to visit family for the holidays and taking the train from New York City to Laramie for my return. While I wasn't looking forward to the car ride, I was stoked for the long train trip. I had visions of carefree days filled with rousing card games and a posse of instant friends to engage in deep, mind-expanding conversation.
~
The car ride went as planned; the holidays were the holidays. My cousin Carolyn and I caught Phish's New Year's Eve show at Madison Square Garden, and a few days later, I headed to New York City’s Grand Central Station to catch my westward caravan. The pinnacle of my winter break had arrived; the great American Train ride was upon me.
The Lake Shore Limited would take me from New York City to Chicago and the Pioneer Route, which ran from Chicago to Seattle, would drop me off in Laramie. Day one had me departing New York City in the evening. Day two called for a late morning arrival in Chicago where I had a three-hour layover. After transferring, I was scheduled to arrive in Laramie late morning on day three. We left New York City as scheduled, and I took my seat, an oversize denim blue armchair that reclined to an almost flat position. It wasn’t overly comfy but appeared luxurious when I compared it to an airplane seat. There was something freeing about being on the train, not only the bigger seat but the ability to get up as I pleased, to walk around, and to avoid the awkward elbow tango with my seat-mate. By the time we pulled out of the station I was certain this was the way to go.
I boarded on a dark January evening so item one on the list of reasons to ride a long-distance train, enjoying the scenery, was not to be. I would not get the chance to gaze upon bucolic upstate New York as we rolled through the landscape. Not that I cared much as I had passed through the area many times and still had the second reason to look forward to, meeting people. The dining car was the logical place to go. There, travelers were scattered throughout the booths, some hunched over their books while others stared into their drink. Many sat by themselves while others sat in silence with their travel companion.
Seated at a table was a young woman in a gauzy broomstick skirt, a colorful sweater, and a chunky wool socks-and-Birkenstocks combo. Outwardly, she wore my uniform and could have been a kindred spirt; someone who shared my love for jam-bands. Perhaps she was at the Phish show a few nights prior.
“Now the difference between Hinduism and Buddhism,” her shrill voice boomed to her silent table-mates.
She spoke with the grating authority of a know-it-all as she rambled on about major world religions. I wanted to ask if she had just finished a comparative religion course but getting a word in was impossible.
“Is this your first long train trip?” I asked a middle-age man in a red and black flannel shirt with a scruffy blonde beard.
“Trains are the only way to go,” he said. “I don’t fly in airplanes. Never had. Never will. And don’t think me less of a man because of it.”
“Some of us fear flying,” his travel companion said. “Got it?”
Those words stung and shut me up. I lost interest in in the dining car and returned to my seat where I looked forward to the third reason to embark on a transcontinental journey, taking time to relax. Clarissa Pinkola Estés tome on female empowerment, Women Who Run with the Wolves, was a gift my mother called the perfect book for my trip. I was enthralled with the idea of the wild woman archetype and finding my pack, but the excitement of the day had drained me and after a few pages, I grew droopy eyed. I reclined my seat and was lulled to sleep by the metallic, rhythmic motion as the wheels rolled along. During the night, I woke up a few times and each time we weren’t moving. Hmmm….I guess the stopping motion must be waking me. Sleep came easily, and I didn't think anything of it.
The night passed, and I awoke to the wet-slate hue of dawn. Here, western Ohio offered an Anywhere-USA panorama of high schools and ball fields, sleepy suburbs and shopping malls, storage units and car dealerships. I headed to the quiet and mostly empty dining car where I ordered overpriced, weak coffee and ate a mushed granola bar from my backpack.
As the morning wore on, much of the same crew from the night before joined me, and some people were privy to a crazy rumor that was circulating. Once again, the religious studies girl dominated but now it was more of a conversation, as others were contributing to the exchange.
“The train was delayed for hours in upstate New York” said a young man seated at my table. “Crazy how those snowmobiles were zooming right alongside us last night.”
“Yeah, some folks were, like, playing a snowmobile game that involved, like, dodging the train” said a petite redhead with cat-eye glasses. “And, well, like, the game didn’t go as planned.”
“Frickin’ a,” said another young man.
Yikes! What was I to believe? Had someone died? We were behind schedule, no other rumors circulated, and no announcements had been made. I realized this was why the train was stopped last night.
“When something like this happens,” said the religious studies girl. “There’s no way to reconcile what you’ve done with The Universe. The driver is so screwed. This sort of karma will say with you FOR-EV-ER.”
We were six hours late. I was going to miss my transfer by three hours. Laramie isn’t easy to get to. Would I ever make it take to get back to Wyoming? A creepy, pit-in-my-stomach feeling set in. This was before the days of cellphones so how would people find me if things continued to go wrong? Was it foolish for a young woman to embark on a long solo trip? Maybe this was karma I had coming to me for a prior misdeed.
Before arriving in Chicago, an announcement instructed passengers with connections to head to the Amtrak customer service center where they would receive further information. At the counter, I was handed a file with instructions for my ongoing travel. Outlined were directions to a shuttle, an airline ticket to Nebraska, and directions to another shuttle that would take me to my train.
I had three hours to kill, but I didn’t want to venture out in the biting Chicago afternoon. I explored the Beaux-Arts style Union Station. With looming ceilings, long oak benches, arched limestone pillars, decorative chandeliers, and elegant light fixtures, Union Station had the grandeur of an elegant train station you’d see in a movie. At one end of its Great Hall two statues stood tall representing day and night, a nod to travelers passing through at all hours of the day. It was an idyllic setting, but I was starting to get antsy and couldn’t revel in the moment.
24 hours after I left New York City, it was time to catch my shuttle to the airport. There, I checked in with no problem, but found it surreal to be boarding a flight in the middle of my train odyssey.
As I entered the puddle-jumper, I ducked my head to avoid hitting the overhead bin and jammed into the narrow, barely-reclining seat. Sharing the flight with me were a posse of Nebraska football fans decked out in blocky scarlet and cream Cornhuskers sweatshirts.
“I want to welcome the Nebraska football fans,” the pilot said as people boarded. “Congratulations on your big Fiesta Bowl win over Florida.”
The football fans were fueled by these kudos and started woo-hoo-ing and fist pumping. When the noised quieted down, I turned to talk with my seat-mate, a matronly Cornhusker with rosy cheeks. “I’m in the middle of a cross-country train trip,” I said.
I wanted to tell her about the snowmobile game and the delay and the way Amtrak worked to accommodate me. Maybe mention the people I met and explain la dolce far niente. I wanted to talk about the adventure that was supposed to shape me and was hoping for validation that what I was doing was adventurous. Instead, she gave me a quick smile before turning to face a football fan across the aisle.
After take-off instructions, the pilot repeated his words of congratulations.
“Way to kick stomp those Gators,” a dude called out to assorted hoots and laughter.
Everyone seemed to look right through me. All anyone wanted to do was revel in their victory. Didn’t anyone want to connect with their fellow travelers?
Upon landing, the pilot repeated his announcement. The fans were still ecstatic, beaming with pride, ensconced in a cocoon of scarlet and cream companionship. And I sat there alone, feeling out-of-place, and dejected. I couldn’t wait to get back on the train.
Once off the plane, I found shuttle number two where I rode solo with the driver. As we drove, the sense of being in the middle-of-nowhere became more palpable. If it were daylight, I imagine I would have seen endless cornfields filling the countryside.
Without having to ask, the driver waited with me at the platform where I was the lone passenger to catch the train, the same one I had missed half a day earlier. Even though I had done nothing more than wait in a fidgety state of uncertainty all day, I was exhausted. I found my seat, settled in, and crashed for the night.
By morning, my enthusiasm was waning, and the dream was fading. If I wasn’t so determined to keep my fantasy alive, I would have accepted this a long time ago.
A young man on his first trip across the country was riveted to the large picture window as we passed the buttes, bluffs and mesas of western Nebraska. The train dipped into the eastern plains of Colorado before heading north to Wyoming. Mountains appeared in the distance, and he stared wide-eyed at the snow-capped peaks, a soft gasp escaping from his lips.
“Are those the Rockies,” he asked.
I said yes although I didn’t think of them as the Rockies, they were just the mountains, something I had come to love and identify with during my time out West. That meant I would soon be home.
Exactly as planned, I arrived in Laramie late in the morning on day three of my voyage. Stepping off the train was the most magical moment of the trip. On this crisp Wyoming day, the ever-persistent Laramie wind was still, and a pristine cobalt sky hung overhead. The train stopped downtown near Coal Creek Coffee, the Buckhorn Bar, and other favorite pubs and restaurants, and a handful of blocks from my apartment and campus. There, a friend was waiting to pick me up after 1,800 miles, ten states, and 40+ hours of travel.
I had journeyed from the Big Apple to the Gem City of the Plains. The fleeting moments of inspiration made the trip something worth doing despite the discomforts and mishaps, and I credited myself for handling it with aplomb. Although it wasn't enjoyable, it was an adventure albeit not the one I had anticipated. I had survived a (not-so) great American train ride and while I’m not alone in that accomplishment, how many people can say their trans-American train trip also included travel in two vans and on a plane?
~
Over 20 years later, I still smile when I tell this story. It is joyful to recall the optimism that exuded from me during graduate school. Today, I remind myself to remember my youthful spirit, which becomes harder to muster as I move through middle-age. I try to channel this energy and remain open to new people and experiences, even when it’s more appealing to stick with familiar, comfortable routines and the company of long-time friends. I still believe experiences and connecting with others are part of the growth process, a journey that doesn’t end with school but continues throughout life.
As for another great American train ride, I’m not sure if that’s in my future. With passenger service dwindling in the United States, chances to travel across the country on a train are limited. I experienced an overnight train once in America. Maybe that’s enough?
Of course, Amtrak's Empire Builder route runs from Minneapolis to Seattle and makes a stop in Whitefish, Montana, near Glacier National Park. The romantic in me thinks that sounds quite idyllic. Perhaps I'll take the chance and board another a long-distance train. Who knows what sort of adventure awaits?
~
Everybody loves a train story. Here are a few others:
- Overnight train in the Balkans: http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2013/08/riding-810-pm-night-train.html
- Here is the earliest version of this story: http://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-not-so-great-american-train-ride.html
No comments:
Post a Comment