Railroading 6

Railroading 6

We’re pulling into LA, 30 minutes early after being 30 minutes behind schedule, because Amtrak pads the last segment to make up for lost time! It’s a 30-minute trip they schedule as an hour. Last night we met the only disagreeable person on the trip, a guy who sat at our table, had an opinion on everything, and asked me why I wasn’t in the army when I was younger! A real twit, I’d guess ex-marine, as flexible as a brick wall, a black hole of personality.

The ribs were pretty good and the red wine passable. The company was rancid.

And so I’ve tipped Angee and everyone else in sight, and I’ve alerted our limo company of our actual arrival time. So, as I’m watching Fullerton breeze by at 7 am, what are my feelings about this trip?

Maria and I agree that it was one of those neat experiences we have (e.g., flying the Goodyear Blimp, driving through the Alps singing Doo-Wop, sailing on the Queen Mary II), but this one we don’t need to do again. Amtrak does the best it can with old track beds, dated cars, and freight priorities, but the restrictions are often too much for it.

The crew, amazingly almost all 20-year and above railroad people, from Boston to LA, is efficient, but their souls are meshed with the rhythm of the rails. Just as the train can’t deviate more than fractions from its destiny, the crew performs tasks with a rigorous sameness, day-in and day-out. (Angee works five days going cross-country and back, then has five days off.) They are pleasant and smiling, but their routine comes first, announcements must be made, food served a certain way, linen collected at a certain time, no deviations.

Angee gets us a red cap immediately by hauling us downstairs early (otherwise you have to wait for him to return) and on still another crazy cart we are driven around the tracks, down a ramp, THROUGH Union Station as people scamper out of the way, and right to our limo at the curb. When I give these redcaps $10 they act as if they’ve hit a lottery number.

The limo gets us to one of the most fabulous suites we’ve ever had in the Peninsula in Beverly Hills. We’ve come from ridiculous to sublime. Watch for my next postings.

What about the trip overall?

We saw the vast empty oceans of American land, which lured settlers and explorers before us. It’s daunting in its sheer size from track level on both sides of the train. We were voyeurs into people’s backyards and private lives, looking at the flotsam and jetsam of society. We saw American industry, tens of thousands of trucks on thousands of railed cars carrying the nutrients of American life, and huge farms larger than some counties in the east.

I would judge most people on the train to be middle class, some afraid of flying, some looking for bargains, some unable to reach their destinations any other way, and some simply in love with trains. I tried to imagine America in the late 40s and early 50s, before air travel brought faster speeds and less romance. I’ve often wondered about the supper clubs in New York before television, luxurious train cars to travel to Florida or the west coast, and generally great conversations before everyone was distracted, self-indulged, or playing games.

This is one of the tiniest last vestiges, not unlike a coelacanth still roaming around, reminding us of prehistoric fishes, or birds connecting us to dinosaurs. Somehow, when I watch a cardinal on my feeder, I can’t reckon up Tyrannosaurs Rex, and taking the Southwest Chief I can’t quite relate to the great ceremony surrounding a coast-to-coast train departing in that other world.

But I did see Sinatra in his prime, and watched Koufax pitch, and sailed on the original Queen Mary. I do provide some connections. Maybe I’m the missing link.

© Alan Weiss 2012. All rights reserved.