So I just got back from Montréal (where I got to practice the same French phrase over and over again: "Pardon, mais j' ne parle pas francais"; I am not even so sure this is how you are supposed to say it) and came to the conclusion that something hideously insidious happens every time I am going to fly anywhere. There was a girl in high school who I once hooked up with but then mistreated afterwards. For fear that she may be reading this one day, let's call her
Patty. So apparently, Patty must now work for US Airways. Every time she sees that I have a flight booked, she apparently sends a gigantic bean burrito to whoever will be in the seat next to me. Every. Single. Time.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
I wrote the following travelogue in 2004, but it is still one of my favorite pieces of writing, and maybe inspiration to write some more? We'll see...
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This past Christmas, I needed to catch a train to meet my wife and children (who had left town earlier) in Richmond, Virginia. One of my co-workers came into my office as I realized all of the coach seats were sold out on the train I wanted, and the only seats left were in sleeper cars. I remarked that (1) I thought it couldn't be worth the extra $124, and (2) an Amtrak sleeper car had to be the most disgusting box people would pay to sit in. So he said he would pay, provided I wrote up my experience.
The train itself was delayed by twenty minutes — pretty good for a train to Richmond — but the bottle of water I drank on my way to the station started catching up with me, and I was looking forward to getting to my combination bedroom/bathroom to take advantage of the latter part. When the train finally pulled in to the station, there was an old African American woman and her mother (who was in a wheelchair) waiting to get on the same car where my Viewliner Roomette room was. The red cap was setting the walker in front of the wheelchair so the woman could walk on to the train.
At this time, the attendant on the car — Dave — walked over to me on the platform to check my ticket. “9112 — that’s right here. Follow me,” he said, apparently oblivious to the red cap, Woman, Mother, wheelchair, walker, and luggage between us and the door. He scooted through them, looked back, and with a little surprise on his face gave me the “okay-we’ll-just-wait” look. Mother made it clear after about a minute of standing in place that the walker was just a show piece, so she was helped back into her wheelchair by the red cap to be wheeled over the gap onto the train. Dave saw this as an opportunity to sneak me through again, and gave me a sad look when I said, “I can wait.” Woman, Mother, wheelchair, walker, and luggage all made it on, and I followed them.
Remember, I needed to pee.
Dave cheerfully told me, “Room 12 is around the corner and at the end of the car on the right.” Corner? Really? Anyway, I walked down to the car and dropped my bags and large box (a Christmas gift for my wife) in the room and looked around. Ahh. There it was, the glorious in-roomette potty. So I closed the door and...
Oh, shit. The door has a window in it. And so does the wall. Are you serious? Do train travelers really not care about privacy? Do potty-users just all sit down to do their business and pretend that they are watching the TV screen at the other side of the roomette? Good heavens I had to pee. Hmm. There was nobody in the room across the way (as I like to think of it, the Peeping Tom room), and nobody was walking in the corridor. It is because of people like me that people like me think sleeper cars have to be gross, but I had to go. So I checked the corridor again, lifted the toilet cover, checked the corridor, and then peed. While I was peeing, I noticed the privacy screen handles at the tops of the two windows. Now that makes sense.
After finishing my business, I decided to give myself a tour of the room. There was the potty that I already knew, a fold-down sink, small TV screen perfectly situated opposite the potty for that better-than-home set-up, two seats that would flatten to make a bed, and another bed right up against the ceiling that could be released by a handle, presumably to break the neck of anyone standing underneath in a macabre form of railway humor. There was a table that would fold out between the lower bunk seats. It had a checkerboard on it, and was so sticky that I decided I would indeed have to shower when I left the room. Fortunately, I was right across the hall from the shower room(ette?), so this wouldn’t be too hard to do.
Helpful Dave came down at the end of my self-led exploration of my box, and asked where I was going. I told him (Richmond), and he said something to the effect of, “You’re an old hat at this.” Actually, Dave, this is my first sleeper car experience. “Really? It doesn’t show. Let me show you around.”
Around? I can touch every surface in the roomette without moving my feet (though I recommend this to nobody). What is there to show me?
The thermostat, but it doesn’t work. The TV, which has programming on channels 4 and 5, but not on the other 4 channels. They are just videos on a loop, and the feed cuts out sometimes. As it turns out, the videos have been looping so long, the VCR heads have worn out, so you have to make out Cuba Gooding as Radio through the jumpy snow. I thought I was watching scrambled porn for the first fifteen minutes it was on. Knowing I needed to write down my trip details for the sake of my upgrade Benefactor, but having forgotten to bring any paper, I asked Cheerful Dave for some. He looked through the itinerary he was holding, ripped off one sheet, and gave that to me. “Do you need any more?” I had to say no. I was afraid he wouldn’t know to get Woman and Mother off the train at Savannah.
Lunch was included in the upgraded accommodations, so I next went to the dining car and took my ticket with me, realizing it was also my meal ticket. There were table cloths and waitresses, and I had to wait in line for a table. The waitress came over to seat me and placed me at a table with a heavy man with a too-thin mustache. We greeted each other, and then rode on in silence for a while. Finally, he asked where I was going.
Me: Richmond. How about you?
Him: Richmond. (awkward silence)
Me: ...my in-laws live there, and I am going there for Christmas.
Him: My parents do. (awkward silence)
Me: ...did you get on in Philadelphia?
Him: No. (awkward silence)
I let that silence envelop us. Service was, surprisingly enough, mediocre. The company sucked. I decided not to stick around for coffee and pie, so I left the table and placed two bucks down under my water glass as a tip. “Have a good trip,” I said to my new friend as I left the table. “Mrnhh,” he kindly replied.
I looked back over my shoulder as I was about to leave the dining car, just in time to see my traveling companion slide the two ones out from under my water glass to place them under his. I think I would have preferred if he pocketed it. Just goes to show – you can’t trust people who get on the train anywhere other than Philadelphia.
As I was walking back, I bumped into Manic Dave. “Hey! Do you want me to bring some lunch back to your room?” No, thanks, I just finished lunch. “Wow, that was quick. You know, it’s included with the room?” I know. I put it on the room. “Okay. Do you know where you’re going?” Yes — around the corner and straight back on my right.
I got back and the piece of paper I had procured from Dave was missing. Maybe he needed it back. Now I feel bad that I let him give it to me in the first place. I sit down to try to make out a little more of Radio when there is a knock at the door, and a tiny Asian woman in all white wearing an Amtrak badge is standing outside. She asks if I want a massage. This really is the first-class method of train travel. It felt odd, but for journalistic integrity, I felt I had to. She told me it was $40 for 30 minutes, so I said sure. She had me stand in the corridor as she converted the seats to a bed, and then told me to go back in and get undressed, but leave my pants on. I got in, closed the shades (making me look old hat, I suppose), and stripped to my boxers. Laverne knocked and then slid the door back. “I told you to leave you pants on!” she shouted. You mean my jeans? “Yes. Your pants. What you think?”
I thought I had made it abundantly clear what me think. But what do I do now? Call the whole thing off? Close the door in her face to pull on my jeans? Do it with her standing right there? How had I so badly screwed up my first train roomette adventure? As my grandmother always says, “Oy.”
I said, “I am so sorry. Let me put them back on,” and I closed the door. I had mixed emotions — ashamed, amused, and a little afraid I had broken some widely-known Amtrak taboo. This after my peeing-in-plain-view incident. Was I some kind of latent exhibitionist? Before I could answer, Laverne was banging on my door. I opened it up, and she told me to lie face down. No prelude, no soft Indian music, no lubing up her hands — she just dove right in. At 4’9”, Laverne packed more power per cubic inch than anyone I had ever met. It was so painfully deep, I was sure she was getting some payback for my offensive jean-doffing incident. After kneading my back for 20 minutes, she told me to roll over. One big problem, though. After finally relaxing and enjoying myself a bit, I had, um, the kind of thing happen that sometimes happens on a massage table. (Okay, so not a big problem, but a perfectly adequately-sized problem.)
“I’m okay right here,” I said, as I tried envisioning starving Ethiopians from the Sally Struthers ads of the late 80s. But Laverne said no, I had to turn over now. I tried adjusting as I did, but to no real avail. Laverne looked at me once I was settled and said, “We’re done. $50, please.”
I was torn between saying, “The fee was supposed to be $40,” or saying, “You didn’t finish the job we agreed to; I’m not paying anything.” Instead, I went with the far more effective, “Uh, here’s $60. Thanks. Mrnhh.”
Much like the Bobby Ewing death season of Dallas, it turns out the entire massage thing was just a poorly sketched out dream. In reality, after lunch, I just sat in my roomette and wrote this whole thing. On my Blackberry, though. Dave really did reclaim his paper.
The train was due in at 4:00, but I already knew it was running at least 20 minutes late. I just stood up to stretch my legs and get my stuff together (it is now about 4:00), and Gleeful Dave is standing right outside my window with a huge grin on his face, looking down at the handle but paralyzed from actually opening the door to my roomette. So I open it for him. “About another 1/2 hour,” he sings out, and then bounces down the corridor.
It’s now 5:20. Smiling Dave is standing in the window again, looking eager to invade my space. This time he is bold enough to open the door himself when we make eye contact. “Sorry about that. I really did think it would be another half hour.” Any idea now how much longer it will be? “I’ll go check.” He comes back soon after to say we are on the outskirts of Richmond, and, sure enough, we pull in ten minutes later. I lug my stuff back up the corridor (and around the corner), and follow the $2 thief down the platform to my waiting family.
It all sounds kind of bad, but certainly tolerable. My alternative (which would have cost, uh, the same and taken, umm, less time) would have been to fly. I found out later, though, that flying may not have been so pleasant. A pilot “misjudged” his turning radius at Richmond International Airport, and drove off of the runway, getting his jet stuck in six inches of mud. Over one hundred flights were delayed or canceled. Kind of nice to be sitting pretty in my Viewliner Roomette while that was happening.
And then there was the return trip. I figured this would be the easier, or at least cleaner, leg of my journey. I was slated to leave at 3:40, so I checked with Julie (Amtrak’s automated voice-response information system) to see how the train was doing. With three girls, a wife, two dogs, a brother-in-law, parents-in-law, and a grandmother-in-law all chatting in the house, it was nearly impossible to get a word in edgewise with Julie. She heard all of them, too, and kept saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand you. I think you wanted the status of a train leaving from San Bernadino. Is this correct?” So I stood outside chatting with Julie to learn that, indeed, my train was an hour and eighteen minutes late, but trains can make up time en route. I should expect to leave at 4:42, an hour and two minutes late.
Just to make sure I didn’t foolishly show up too early at the train station, I checked again around 4:00. The train, I was told, was running an hour and eighteen minutes late, but trains can lose time en route. I should expect to leave at 6:12, two hours and thirty-two minutes late. Hmm. Not the news I was looking for, Julie.
Julie had similar news for me at 5:20, so I left for the station. On the board at the train station, Train 90 simply said, “Delayed.” I checked with the desk (it was about 5:45), and asked how long it would be delayed. “That train won’t leave here until about 6:00.” I quietly smiled and patted myself on the back for showing up with such good timing. Well done, Todd.
At 6:00, I went back to the desk to see if there was any news, since nothing had been announced. “That train won’t leave here until about 7:15.” D’oh! Foiled again by the re-check. Apparently the last fifteen minutes had not been good to Train 90. I hope it hadn’t turned off of the track and into six inches of mud. There was still hope. Train 66, a Regional to Boston that was due to leave at 6:00, was a mere 25 minutes delayed. I could hop on that one, if they had any open seats. The teller checked, and indeed, there was an open seat. I asked if I could exchange my ticket for that seat, and he said it would be no problem.
Of course, he was the same guy that originally told me that the train would be leaving at 6:00. He just needed to see my ID and my ticket. As it turns out (thank you, Mr. Murphy and your stinkin’ law), my driver’s license expired exactly one week before this train trip. Since I had no valid ID, the teller had to “run this one up the flag pole.” You see, a woman was there right before I was and had the same situation, so the teller had to be consistent. “What was the outcome with her?” I asked, hoping for some indication of whether I would get this ticket now, or have to walk over to the Quik Tik ticketing machine to purchase the ticket without showing my ID. I got no answer; he just stared at his boss waiting for him to hang up the phone.
“We really can’t let you get on our trains with an expired driver’s license. Don’t you have any other form of identification?” asked the gruff supervisor. Now, this was perplexing. If I promised not to drive the train, could I get on? Maybe I needed to take the train because I didn’t have a valid driver’s license, so I couldn’t drive. The picture was clearly a picture of me. My Blockbuster® card didn’t seem to do the trick. No, this was all I had. “Well, in the future, we won’t be able to let you. But today you can.” Whew.
“Regional” is Amtrak code meaning “Slower than Frozen Shit.” We left Richmond at 6:30 or so, and made the hour-and-three-quarter trip to DC in two hours and forty minutes, flat. The train was crowded, and we were regularly reminded to remove any baggage from seats. “We’re gonna’ need ‘em all tonight,” they taunted us. So things were slow, but there were no problems.
Then we got to DC. There was the usual cut-off of power to change the locomotive (something about using electric north of DC and diesel south, probably some vestigial remnant of slave-stoked engines or something), and I expected to sit in darkness for the next fifteen minutes or so. Then the conductor came through in a bit of a tizzy saying we all had to move forward two cars. The ones we were on were being removed from the train. So, like cattle, we all grabbed our stuff to stomp forward a couple of cars and cram an already full train with two more cars of people. I found an empty seat (from someone who had gotten off in DC), which was nice, and settled in, careful not to put my bags on the other seat. Then a family of six came down the aisle, and parked the middle daughter next to me. No problem – she was 80 pounds soaking wet, so she would be an easy seat companion. Then they loaded all of the packages, gifts, bags, and packs of cigarettes for mom, and there was not so much room any more. The girl was jammed up against me, but I was happy to just turn up my MP3 player and ignore the world around me.
I was listening to Sinéad O’Connor. At the beginning of her song “Kyrie,” I hear a whisper in my right ear… “Fuck off.” I spun so fast on this 12-year-old girl, she looked at me with what I can only imagine was the fear that her mother left her sitting next to a delusional psychopath. Then I heard Sinéad whisper profanities about the Catholic church, and realized it was just the juiced MP3 player that was offending me. I am not sure if it was related, but the girl, gifts, bags, cigarettes, and family of six all found another seat soon after. How she got the message to her mother is beyond me.
When I pulled in to 30th Street Station, I started to walk to the regional trains to get a ride home, but realized they don’t run after midnight. Hmm. So I caught a cab to go home. Apparently, this was a driver who has learned that driving in the tracks of the car in front of you is the best approach to handling snow, so he drove in the left track of the car in the right lane and the right track of the car in the left lane – certainly two cars had to be better than one. And keeping his speed below 40 MPH the whole drive made for safer travels. I just wished he had a bed in the car.
_________________________________
This past Christmas, I needed to catch a train to meet my wife and children (who had left town earlier) in Richmond, Virginia. One of my co-workers came into my office as I realized all of the coach seats were sold out on the train I wanted, and the only seats left were in sleeper cars. I remarked that (1) I thought it couldn't be worth the extra $124, and (2) an Amtrak sleeper car had to be the most disgusting box people would pay to sit in. So he said he would pay, provided I wrote up my experience.
The train itself was delayed by twenty minutes — pretty good for a train to Richmond — but the bottle of water I drank on my way to the station started catching up with me, and I was looking forward to getting to my combination bedroom/bathroom to take advantage of the latter part. When the train finally pulled in to the station, there was an old African American woman and her mother (who was in a wheelchair) waiting to get on the same car where my Viewliner Roomette room was. The red cap was setting the walker in front of the wheelchair so the woman could walk on to the train.
At this time, the attendant on the car — Dave — walked over to me on the platform to check my ticket. “9112 — that’s right here. Follow me,” he said, apparently oblivious to the red cap, Woman, Mother, wheelchair, walker, and luggage between us and the door. He scooted through them, looked back, and with a little surprise on his face gave me the “okay-we’ll-just-wait” look. Mother made it clear after about a minute of standing in place that the walker was just a show piece, so she was helped back into her wheelchair by the red cap to be wheeled over the gap onto the train. Dave saw this as an opportunity to sneak me through again, and gave me a sad look when I said, “I can wait.” Woman, Mother, wheelchair, walker, and luggage all made it on, and I followed them.
Remember, I needed to pee.
Dave cheerfully told me, “Room 12 is around the corner and at the end of the car on the right.” Corner? Really? Anyway, I walked down to the car and dropped my bags and large box (a Christmas gift for my wife) in the room and looked around. Ahh. There it was, the glorious in-roomette potty. So I closed the door and...
Oh, shit. The door has a window in it. And so does the wall. Are you serious? Do train travelers really not care about privacy? Do potty-users just all sit down to do their business and pretend that they are watching the TV screen at the other side of the roomette? Good heavens I had to pee. Hmm. There was nobody in the room across the way (as I like to think of it, the Peeping Tom room), and nobody was walking in the corridor. It is because of people like me that people like me think sleeper cars have to be gross, but I had to go. So I checked the corridor again, lifted the toilet cover, checked the corridor, and then peed. While I was peeing, I noticed the privacy screen handles at the tops of the two windows. Now that makes sense.
After finishing my business, I decided to give myself a tour of the room. There was the potty that I already knew, a fold-down sink, small TV screen perfectly situated opposite the potty for that better-than-home set-up, two seats that would flatten to make a bed, and another bed right up against the ceiling that could be released by a handle, presumably to break the neck of anyone standing underneath in a macabre form of railway humor. There was a table that would fold out between the lower bunk seats. It had a checkerboard on it, and was so sticky that I decided I would indeed have to shower when I left the room. Fortunately, I was right across the hall from the shower room(ette?), so this wouldn’t be too hard to do.
Helpful Dave came down at the end of my self-led exploration of my box, and asked where I was going. I told him (Richmond), and he said something to the effect of, “You’re an old hat at this.” Actually, Dave, this is my first sleeper car experience. “Really? It doesn’t show. Let me show you around.”
Around? I can touch every surface in the roomette without moving my feet (though I recommend this to nobody). What is there to show me?
The thermostat, but it doesn’t work. The TV, which has programming on channels 4 and 5, but not on the other 4 channels. They are just videos on a loop, and the feed cuts out sometimes. As it turns out, the videos have been looping so long, the VCR heads have worn out, so you have to make out Cuba Gooding as Radio through the jumpy snow. I thought I was watching scrambled porn for the first fifteen minutes it was on. Knowing I needed to write down my trip details for the sake of my upgrade Benefactor, but having forgotten to bring any paper, I asked Cheerful Dave for some. He looked through the itinerary he was holding, ripped off one sheet, and gave that to me. “Do you need any more?” I had to say no. I was afraid he wouldn’t know to get Woman and Mother off the train at Savannah.
Lunch was included in the upgraded accommodations, so I next went to the dining car and took my ticket with me, realizing it was also my meal ticket. There were table cloths and waitresses, and I had to wait in line for a table. The waitress came over to seat me and placed me at a table with a heavy man with a too-thin mustache. We greeted each other, and then rode on in silence for a while. Finally, he asked where I was going.
Me: Richmond. How about you?
Him: Richmond. (awkward silence)
Me: ...my in-laws live there, and I am going there for Christmas.
Him: My parents do. (awkward silence)
Me: ...did you get on in Philadelphia?
Him: No. (awkward silence)
I let that silence envelop us. Service was, surprisingly enough, mediocre. The company sucked. I decided not to stick around for coffee and pie, so I left the table and placed two bucks down under my water glass as a tip. “Have a good trip,” I said to my new friend as I left the table. “Mrnhh,” he kindly replied.
I looked back over my shoulder as I was about to leave the dining car, just in time to see my traveling companion slide the two ones out from under my water glass to place them under his. I think I would have preferred if he pocketed it. Just goes to show – you can’t trust people who get on the train anywhere other than Philadelphia.
As I was walking back, I bumped into Manic Dave. “Hey! Do you want me to bring some lunch back to your room?” No, thanks, I just finished lunch. “Wow, that was quick. You know, it’s included with the room?” I know. I put it on the room. “Okay. Do you know where you’re going?” Yes — around the corner and straight back on my right.
I got back and the piece of paper I had procured from Dave was missing. Maybe he needed it back. Now I feel bad that I let him give it to me in the first place. I sit down to try to make out a little more of Radio when there is a knock at the door, and a tiny Asian woman in all white wearing an Amtrak badge is standing outside. She asks if I want a massage. This really is the first-class method of train travel. It felt odd, but for journalistic integrity, I felt I had to. She told me it was $40 for 30 minutes, so I said sure. She had me stand in the corridor as she converted the seats to a bed, and then told me to go back in and get undressed, but leave my pants on. I got in, closed the shades (making me look old hat, I suppose), and stripped to my boxers. Laverne knocked and then slid the door back. “I told you to leave you pants on!” she shouted. You mean my jeans? “Yes. Your pants. What you think?”
I thought I had made it abundantly clear what me think. But what do I do now? Call the whole thing off? Close the door in her face to pull on my jeans? Do it with her standing right there? How had I so badly screwed up my first train roomette adventure? As my grandmother always says, “Oy.”
I said, “I am so sorry. Let me put them back on,” and I closed the door. I had mixed emotions — ashamed, amused, and a little afraid I had broken some widely-known Amtrak taboo. This after my peeing-in-plain-view incident. Was I some kind of latent exhibitionist? Before I could answer, Laverne was banging on my door. I opened it up, and she told me to lie face down. No prelude, no soft Indian music, no lubing up her hands — she just dove right in. At 4’9”, Laverne packed more power per cubic inch than anyone I had ever met. It was so painfully deep, I was sure she was getting some payback for my offensive jean-doffing incident. After kneading my back for 20 minutes, she told me to roll over. One big problem, though. After finally relaxing and enjoying myself a bit, I had, um, the kind of thing happen that sometimes happens on a massage table. (Okay, so not a big problem, but a perfectly adequately-sized problem.)
“I’m okay right here,” I said, as I tried envisioning starving Ethiopians from the Sally Struthers ads of the late 80s. But Laverne said no, I had to turn over now. I tried adjusting as I did, but to no real avail. Laverne looked at me once I was settled and said, “We’re done. $50, please.”
I was torn between saying, “The fee was supposed to be $40,” or saying, “You didn’t finish the job we agreed to; I’m not paying anything.” Instead, I went with the far more effective, “Uh, here’s $60. Thanks. Mrnhh.”
Much like the Bobby Ewing death season of Dallas, it turns out the entire massage thing was just a poorly sketched out dream. In reality, after lunch, I just sat in my roomette and wrote this whole thing. On my Blackberry, though. Dave really did reclaim his paper.
The train was due in at 4:00, but I already knew it was running at least 20 minutes late. I just stood up to stretch my legs and get my stuff together (it is now about 4:00), and Gleeful Dave is standing right outside my window with a huge grin on his face, looking down at the handle but paralyzed from actually opening the door to my roomette. So I open it for him. “About another 1/2 hour,” he sings out, and then bounces down the corridor.
It’s now 5:20. Smiling Dave is standing in the window again, looking eager to invade my space. This time he is bold enough to open the door himself when we make eye contact. “Sorry about that. I really did think it would be another half hour.” Any idea now how much longer it will be? “I’ll go check.” He comes back soon after to say we are on the outskirts of Richmond, and, sure enough, we pull in ten minutes later. I lug my stuff back up the corridor (and around the corner), and follow the $2 thief down the platform to my waiting family.
It all sounds kind of bad, but certainly tolerable. My alternative (which would have cost, uh, the same and taken, umm, less time) would have been to fly. I found out later, though, that flying may not have been so pleasant. A pilot “misjudged” his turning radius at Richmond International Airport, and drove off of the runway, getting his jet stuck in six inches of mud. Over one hundred flights were delayed or canceled. Kind of nice to be sitting pretty in my Viewliner Roomette while that was happening.
And then there was the return trip. I figured this would be the easier, or at least cleaner, leg of my journey. I was slated to leave at 3:40, so I checked with Julie (Amtrak’s automated voice-response information system) to see how the train was doing. With three girls, a wife, two dogs, a brother-in-law, parents-in-law, and a grandmother-in-law all chatting in the house, it was nearly impossible to get a word in edgewise with Julie. She heard all of them, too, and kept saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand you. I think you wanted the status of a train leaving from San Bernadino. Is this correct?” So I stood outside chatting with Julie to learn that, indeed, my train was an hour and eighteen minutes late, but trains can make up time en route. I should expect to leave at 4:42, an hour and two minutes late.
Just to make sure I didn’t foolishly show up too early at the train station, I checked again around 4:00. The train, I was told, was running an hour and eighteen minutes late, but trains can lose time en route. I should expect to leave at 6:12, two hours and thirty-two minutes late. Hmm. Not the news I was looking for, Julie.
Julie had similar news for me at 5:20, so I left for the station. On the board at the train station, Train 90 simply said, “Delayed.” I checked with the desk (it was about 5:45), and asked how long it would be delayed. “That train won’t leave here until about 6:00.” I quietly smiled and patted myself on the back for showing up with such good timing. Well done, Todd.
At 6:00, I went back to the desk to see if there was any news, since nothing had been announced. “That train won’t leave here until about 7:15.” D’oh! Foiled again by the re-check. Apparently the last fifteen minutes had not been good to Train 90. I hope it hadn’t turned off of the track and into six inches of mud. There was still hope. Train 66, a Regional to Boston that was due to leave at 6:00, was a mere 25 minutes delayed. I could hop on that one, if they had any open seats. The teller checked, and indeed, there was an open seat. I asked if I could exchange my ticket for that seat, and he said it would be no problem.
Of course, he was the same guy that originally told me that the train would be leaving at 6:00. He just needed to see my ID and my ticket. As it turns out (thank you, Mr. Murphy and your stinkin’ law), my driver’s license expired exactly one week before this train trip. Since I had no valid ID, the teller had to “run this one up the flag pole.” You see, a woman was there right before I was and had the same situation, so the teller had to be consistent. “What was the outcome with her?” I asked, hoping for some indication of whether I would get this ticket now, or have to walk over to the Quik Tik ticketing machine to purchase the ticket without showing my ID. I got no answer; he just stared at his boss waiting for him to hang up the phone.
“We really can’t let you get on our trains with an expired driver’s license. Don’t you have any other form of identification?” asked the gruff supervisor. Now, this was perplexing. If I promised not to drive the train, could I get on? Maybe I needed to take the train because I didn’t have a valid driver’s license, so I couldn’t drive. The picture was clearly a picture of me. My Blockbuster® card didn’t seem to do the trick. No, this was all I had. “Well, in the future, we won’t be able to let you. But today you can.” Whew.
“Regional” is Amtrak code meaning “Slower than Frozen Shit.” We left Richmond at 6:30 or so, and made the hour-and-three-quarter trip to DC in two hours and forty minutes, flat. The train was crowded, and we were regularly reminded to remove any baggage from seats. “We’re gonna’ need ‘em all tonight,” they taunted us. So things were slow, but there were no problems.
Then we got to DC. There was the usual cut-off of power to change the locomotive (something about using electric north of DC and diesel south, probably some vestigial remnant of slave-stoked engines or something), and I expected to sit in darkness for the next fifteen minutes or so. Then the conductor came through in a bit of a tizzy saying we all had to move forward two cars. The ones we were on were being removed from the train. So, like cattle, we all grabbed our stuff to stomp forward a couple of cars and cram an already full train with two more cars of people. I found an empty seat (from someone who had gotten off in DC), which was nice, and settled in, careful not to put my bags on the other seat. Then a family of six came down the aisle, and parked the middle daughter next to me. No problem – she was 80 pounds soaking wet, so she would be an easy seat companion. Then they loaded all of the packages, gifts, bags, and packs of cigarettes for mom, and there was not so much room any more. The girl was jammed up against me, but I was happy to just turn up my MP3 player and ignore the world around me.
I was listening to Sinéad O’Connor. At the beginning of her song “Kyrie,” I hear a whisper in my right ear… “Fuck off.” I spun so fast on this 12-year-old girl, she looked at me with what I can only imagine was the fear that her mother left her sitting next to a delusional psychopath. Then I heard Sinéad whisper profanities about the Catholic church, and realized it was just the juiced MP3 player that was offending me. I am not sure if it was related, but the girl, gifts, bags, cigarettes, and family of six all found another seat soon after. How she got the message to her mother is beyond me.
When I pulled in to 30th Street Station, I started to walk to the regional trains to get a ride home, but realized they don’t run after midnight. Hmm. So I caught a cab to go home. Apparently, this was a driver who has learned that driving in the tracks of the car in front of you is the best approach to handling snow, so he drove in the left track of the car in the right lane and the right track of the car in the left lane – certainly two cars had to be better than one. And keeping his speed below 40 MPH the whole drive made for safer travels. I just wished he had a bed in the car.
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