The Last Hoorah
The photos shown below were created by Damian Gadal based on this page in flickr. These photos are not related to the story. Damian's photos are here to add some much needed color to my gray text: Thanks for your support, Damian! |
12:35 p.m. I'm writing these words at the "Thinking Spot" in Capilano Suspension Bridge Park, located in Vancouver's North Shore, across the Burrard Inlet. The nifty SeaBus transported me across the water and the #246 bus delivered me to the park.
Dangling 230 feet above the Capilano River in North Vancouver, this swaying wood suspension bridge is 459 feet long and held up by sturdy wire steel cables that are imbedded into massive blocks of concrete.
The temptation to sway the bridge is great and a young lady is posted by at its entrance to warn visitors, not to engage in such juvenile behavior. The walk across the bridge was breathtaking, but also exhausting and I'm sure I'll feel it in my leg muscles later.
It cost me $8.51 Canadian to experience this private park but I managed to get a $5 discount from the full adult ticket price by showing my student pass from the university.
There are many authentic Totem Poles placed around the visitor area. They are over 60 years old and in perfect condition because they have been well-maintained. The park has sturdy wood walkways that lead to some very lovely vistas along the nature path. I am surrounded by towering Douglas Firs that reach high into the heavens and in the background, I hear a waterfall and the call of birds.
1:15 p.m. I'm seated in the back seat of a very comfortable bus that will return me to the Seabus and Vancouver. Capillano Bridge was a great way to kill time and riding the Seabus is a hoot.
The weather could not be more perfect: Blue skies and sunshine, lots of pretty houses to look at along the way surrounded by neatly manicured lawns. And unlike the packed bus that was heading to Capillano Bridge, this coach is only half full.
3 p.m. A gas clock that doesn't tell the right time is one of the highlights of the Gastown District. And if you stick around that very same clock will blow its top on the half-hour, an event I didn't have the patience to experience.
I did, however, have the patience to discover one of the best bars in Vancouver B.C: The Irish Heather. Locally owned and operated by a fellow from Limerick, Ireland, they feature the best local beer in the Universe: "Red Boar Organic Ale."
"Everything in the ale is grown on certified organic land and all by-products of the brewing process are fed to their livestock. The beer is made from organic potatoes, giving it an earthy flavor and rich dark body," said the bartender.
7 p.m. I'm aboard the Amtrak Cascades train heading to Seattle and crossing customs was pretty intense. Fortunately, the fellow examining me was from Albuquerque and he let me waltz through the process without much scrutiny.
The coach car on this single-level train has nice big windows, comfy cushions, and a dynamite view but the tracks are in really bad shape and for the life of me, I can't figure out how to make my seat recline.
These trains are manufactured in Spain by the Talgo company and according to their website and differ from Amtrak's traditional design in that the coaches are held together with articulated unions that deliver a more comfortable and modern railroading experience.
But having said this, the Talgo is still a single level train, lacking the inherent robustness, roominess, and American brawn that categorizes Amtrak's iconic, homegrown Superliners. (Some safety issues have entered the conversation about the Talgos, which I will not explore today.)
When everything is said and done, these trains are lighter than most American long-haul passenger trains and weight does make a difference. This is not your typical American "heavy Chevy, man."
The bathrooms are small, but well supplied and configured. I had a full dinner of beef stroganoff, clam chowder, and coffee for $16 including tip but was disappointed with the cheap plastic dishes. No salad came with the meal but the food was good.
Bald eagles can be seen flying outside the window of the train, hanging out on the rocks, huge creatures with white necks. Lots of people bathing on the beach.
9:45 p.m. We are fast approaching Seattle and despite the condition of the tracks (some of them are in good condition, in all fairness) I am dazzled by the beauty of the surrounding country and oceanside. I am amazed at how quickly the tides advance and the beauty of the sunset is overwhelming.
Watched an interesting Kevin Costner movie, "Dragonfly" on the monitors, and listened to the dialogue through the headset. I'm getting used to the cramped seating but most definitely would not want to ride on these so-called Talgo cars for a long-haul ride.
Incidentally, I spent about $6 Canadian on bus tickets and none were ever checked. It's the honor system in Canada and I'm impressed with the honesty of those around me. Hell, I'm impressed with my honesty (I guess it rubs off)!
I barely made it back to the train station on time because I neglected to transfer on the SkyTrain and ended up exactly where I started. Then I had to run across the street to find a bathroom because there weren't any at the SkyTrain station --- so I wasted an hour going around in circles just to find a place to pee.
Security was intense at the Vancouver Amtrak station and I was glad for that: it's about time!
I was able to watch the progress of the "Talgo Train" on TV monitors as it made its 467-mile way from Vancouver BC to Seattle, complete with projected arrival time, current time, temperature, and its next stop. In the meantime, I find that my pen is running out of ink and my stuff, as usual, is scattered all over the place. It's time to gather myself together because I have a big night ahead.
Tuesday, June 2, 9:30 a.m. King Street Station, Seattle. Why are hostels so smelly? Merciful God in heaven, the stink is straight out of the most inner circle of Dante's Inferno, particularly in the dorm rooms.
But I guess that's what $25 a night will buy you in "The Emerald City." This hostel, unlike the one in Vancouver, had no elevators and instead of four beds to a room, they had ten!
One very big plus was that they had lockers in the lobby large enough to accommodate my massive bags and they were relatively new, unlike the lockers at the Vancouver main station that were on their last leg.
My Talgo train arrived in Seattle about 20 minutes late and after I wearily checked in to the hostel and locked away my two bags in the lobby, I went straight to bed.
The fellow at the front desk had given me some sort of weirdly sewn bed liner that I spent a good five minutes trying to crawl into. I soon gave up, shed my clothes, and climbed into the lower berth of my assigned bunk bed. I draped my arm over my pants because it contained all my money, tickets, etc. And then I drifted off into a deep sleep, waking at around 6 a.m.
After getting dressed I explored the nearby waterfront and then the historic market area, complete with cobblestones and a myriad of delightful stalls that sold flowers and seafood. The vendors were beginning to arrive and stock their shelves and I felt privileged to witness the awakening of this historic, revived marketplace, though somewhat sad that I would not see it in full force. I wondered if this place was like the "Maxwell Street" my dad used to talk about in the Chicago of his youth.
At 7 a.m. I found a nice restaurant where I ordered French toast and coffee for $7.25 and had a pleasant conversation with a 46-year-old English chap named John who shared the room in my hostel with me.
I was pleased to discover somebody my age who chose to travel frugally and we discussed this subject at length. We also spoke about education and life in Manchester. At 8 a.m. I returned to the hostel, checked out, retrieved my bag, and called a cab that took me back to the train station where I sit now.
This place is about to undergo a major renovation, returning it to its classical 1906 look. For some reason somebody covered up the ornate ceiling with lowered tiles, to retain heat, I suppose. Soon, the crappy fake ceiling will be removed and a new day will arrive: The renaissance of train travel (please God!) and the coordination of municipal transportation systems.
10:30 a.m. Very comfortably situated in a coach seat of the Coast Starlight en route to Los Angeles. Since I know the ropes quite well by now, I was the very first in line and the first to enter the coach where it was open seating.
I grabbed the only seat that had an electrical outlet, intent on soothing my aching muscles with my heating pad. Regrettably, I noticed at the last moment that I had picked the "wrong side" of the train ̶ that is I took a seat that will not be facing the ocean. I suppose I can watch the ocean from the observation car, though.
One of the very most important things about traveling by train is keeping one's hygiene up and I am feeling refreshed after having cleaned myself up with "Wet One's" antibacterial moist towelettes.
Four towelettes are what it took to clean my entire body and it does make all the difference in the world. I have my Sunday paper yet to read and I've brushed my teeth and powdered my balls with Gold Bond, the powder with a methyl tang, yeah!
I neglected, however, to change my underwear and hope to take care of this once we head out of the station at Tacoma, Washington. Quite a few passengers were waiting at the platform and I am pleased to say that the seat next to me remains empty.
The car attendant is a stern taskmaster and I have managed to stay out of his way, except when I first entered the train and inadvertently blocked everybody's passage to the upper coach level. And you know what they say: First impressions are lasting impressions.
I was concerned that he would get even by making me change my seat, away from the electrical outlet, but he has not done so and when I asked him, quite directly, "Are we all right?" he said "yes."
So I took this as a general affirmation of my situation and existence in general. I am removing everything from my bulging suitcases and settling in for the thirty-hour ordeal to Los Angeles.
I am hopeful that we will arrive in Los Angeles in time for me to catch the last bus to Pasadena. Contingency measures are sort of in place, should I miss the bus, with a very last resort: An expensive taxi ride to Mom's retirement home.
8:45 p.m. Somewhere in Oregon. Almost twelve hours into the train ride and feeling pretty good. Just enjoyed a pleasant dinner with our two tour guides whose delightful and edifying explanation of the sights was cut short by an announcement that the movie "Ocean 11" was about to be broadcast on the monitors in the sightseer lounge car.
Our other dining companion was a 28-year-old biochemist from South Carolina who is studying a way to take the buzz out of drinking alcohol. This did not make a whole lot of sense to me, but I'm always glad to see the youth of America gainfully employed in scientific research.
I'm getting a bit nervous about my toothpaste situation. At the rate I'm going I figure, if I'm really careful, I just might make it to the final leg of the journey (three meals left).
Wow! A freight train just passed us with 85 cars and five engines!
Darkness is slowly settling in with only about 24 hours more to go. Thank goodness the scenery is so pretty and the cars are so comfortable . . . I just might not get bored!
Monday, June 3. Oakland. 8:45 a.m.
It took two sleeping pills to knock me out last night after spending an hour trying to find a comfortable resting position in a coach seat. I actually had two seats to myself and I eventually found a restful position, but I had to wear my sleep masque to get to LaLa Land. I got eight hours of sleep and now I feel refreshed.
I was delighted to meet the New Zealand man and his white wife who I had met earlier on the Talgo train to Seattle. They were now making their way back home and we exchanged our experiences and tales of our adventures.
I had a pleasant breakfast in the dining car, but am always amazed at the way they consistently overcharge me for my meals. Yesterday they charged me $6 for my pie a la mode that cost $5 and they charged me $2 for a bowl of soup that never quite made it to my table. And this morning they charged me $2 for a side of bacon that I did not order.
Oh well, I still give the dining car attendant a good tip, but I'm not foolish enough to pay for something that I did not receive.
It's a bit chilly and overcast. The Japanese girls on the other side of the aisle (who I thought were mocking my every movement) have detrained and I have joyfully taken their seats.
So now I'm on the oceanside of the train and I should find it quite enjoyable since the best scenery is about to come! Only twelve hours to go and I feel great. I'm all clean and well-fed. And now the conductor tells me there is a phone in the lounge car. I have to go check this out.
10:30 a.m. The train filled up in Oakland and nearly every seat in the coach is full and I'm getting more than a little stressed out. Downstairs an old lady is very upset upon discovering that the bag she had left in the vestibule was missing. She is very distraught and I spent some time trying to help her locate it to no avail.
I found myself surrounded by people speaking Chinese: Loudly, emphatically. To secure my own seat, I pulled out a Playboy that had a very graphic picture of Miss June on its cover.
I opened the magazine to a section that shouted out the headline, "Who Owns Your Sperm?" in heavy 72-point Bold San Serif type.
As people were searching for a seat I read the article feverishly, fully aware that people have difficulty minding their own business. In the end, some middle-aged Indian fellow took the seat, but he has a family in another part of the car and he is spending his time with them.
It is so bizarre that in this permissive day and age, a tame Playboy magazine can generate such concern and raise eyebrows. I bought it second hand at a newsstand in Albuquerque and even the young college-age lady who sold it to me seemed intent on putting it in a brown paper bag. No, I insisted, I'll just carry it out, I said. Strange timeus we live in when a person has to hide a great publication like Playboy from people's eyes.
All this talk about a young naked woman displaying her finer features distresses me. Those tired-looking feminists call it "objectifying" and "degrading." That's because they're jealous and don't have much to look at.
A young lady can easily make three thousand a day, if not more, modeling for a photographer on the East coast. Hey, if you've got it, flaunt it! I'll buy into it. No problemo. Here's the cash. Show me the money, honey.
Tuesday, June 4, 6:30 p.m. Aboard the Southwest Chief. Sitting at the back of the train, awaiting its departure from Los Angeles Union Station.
I'm listening intently to the cell conversation of the lady sitting next to me. She has a very distinct voice, one that projects well. It's a mystery to me why people think they can carry on a phone conversation and that it does not disturb others. Recent research has shown that such conversations subject the rest of the cabin with dangerous electromagnetic frequencies.
This woman has lost her credit card and is running out of money. Perhaps this is divine justice for her obnoxious phone habits.
I really screwed up last night. The Coast Starlight arrived in Los Angeles at 8:35 pm, almost one half-hour ahead of schedule. Instead of calling Mom or my sister, I headed to the bus stop, almost five blocks away, schlepping all my stuff on my handy cart.
When I arrived at the bus stop, I was greeted by the sight of my bus, the 401 North, leaving without me.
I've learned to be philosophical about the sudden departure of buses. There's really not much one can do about them, so why fret? I figured that the next bus would be coming along in an hour and I would just wait for it to arrive.
In other words, when it comes to public transportation, I subscribe to the immortal words of G.K. Chesterton, ""The only way of catching a train I have ever discovered is to miss the train before." (Who says you can't end a sentence with a preposition?)
Since I was essentially stuck on a busy street in the middle of downtown LA, a half-mile away from the station, and no payphones to be found, waiting seemed like a sensible solution (remember, these were the days before I had a cell phone).
Unfortunately, as I learned later, the 9:30 401N bus to Pasadena broke down, so I waited for two mortal hours before the next bus arrived....at 10:30 p.m.
In the meantime, the folks at home were getting worried and Selma jumped in the car and searched for me in the proximity of Union Station. Regrettably, 95 percent of the buses do not pass by Union Station, so she must have been roaming the streets a few blocks away from where I was anxiously waiting.
So, instead of spending a lovely evening with Selma, I spent the evening at a bus stop in an unsavory part of downtown Los Angeles. Thank God a bus driver finally did show up. A soulful man, he recited poetry and chatted very pleasantly with the local natives in Spanish. I enjoyed his company and rode to Mom's retirement home in one piece. When I finally appeared at her door at 11 p.m., the inquisition began.
"We were so worried about you, why didn't you call when you got in?"
"I thought the plan was for me to take the bus."
"Selma said you agreed to call her . . ."
"Yes, if I got in trouble. But I thought she was going to be on the other side of town. I didn't know the bus would break down."
Anyway, I screwed up. I should have used a payphone to call Mom or Selma the moment I arrived in LA. That would have saved me a lot of trouble and prevented hurt feelings.
I keep imposing my obsession with taking mass transportation on the lives of other people. I assume I am doing them a favor by not making them pick me up. The reality is that Los Angelinos don't think twice about jumping in a car. Sometimes I think they enjoy having an excuse to do so.
There's something else haunting me. These so-called sleeping pills that my doctor prescribed, these Ativan, are affecting me in strange ways. They don't so much as put me to sleep as cause me not to think right. They don't even put me to sleep. They sedate me. They make the muscles in my legs unresponsive.
I may be an Ativan junky. Although I have tried to be moderate in their consumption, I have become dependent and gradually increased my dosage when I noticed they didn't kick in readily.
This whole escapade of not phoning home when I arrived at Union Station might be an indication that something is going terribly wrong in my head. And I'm sure that my tendency to mix the pills with alcohol has not helped the situation. Oh my God, what have I done?
Maybe I should dig deeper, beyond the pills.
There are times I think, when I am around my family my self-esteem plummets to the absolute depths of the ocean. I feel like I have disrupted something important, that I am somehow in the way. Not around Mom, of course, and not around Linda and Paul. Not even so much around Selma really, just around her husband, Ace. He's a good fellow, really. But I just can't be around him for very long before I feel like I'm somehow in the way.
And so, here I am, returning to Albuquerque feeling refreshed but a little sad after last night's screw up. Well, things can't always work out perfectly and I assumed total responsibility for the mess and apologized to Selma (on her answering machine).
I know it sounds crazy but the resolution of this misunderstanding took place entirely on the incoming tapes of Selma and Mom's answering machines, as though the devices were some kind of electronic mediator.
I think we were both a bit angry, irritated, and disappointed by the events (or lack thereof) last night. But somehow, despite the potential for this simple misunderstanding to totally flare out of control, the fire has been contained and extinguished. A few glowing embers remain, but on the whole, I think everything has resolved itself quite neatly.
I feel much better having written about this and I regret the boredom that the gentle reader must feel in reading these words. But I needed to write them down. I need to vent in a way that I do not normally vent. I needed to try to understand the complex dynamics between myself and my family.
Anyway, when I got home to mom's retirement hotel, after being properly reprimanded, Mother fed me, I took a shower and after watching a little TV, went to sleep.
I slept late into the morning and then listened to a message Selma had left for me before her departure on a plane to Mexico. She was sorry we did not connect, regretted my disastrous bus experience and told me she loved me, several times. She said it like she meant it and I believed her.
I called her and left a message on her machine, explaining to the best of my ability, what happened and why. I apologized, showed remorse, all while Mother was listening and nodding in approval. And so the matter was officially and forever CLOSED.
Next, we threw a couple loads in the washing machine and headed off for lunch at our favorite Chinese restaurant. I ordered spicy seafood and Mom ordered sweet and sour chicken. It was very pleasant.
Noteworthy was my fortune cookie that read, "The love that you seek is within you." Mom's was something pragmatic, about financial planning.
Following lunch, we gathered our stuff together and she drove me to the corner where I caught the 401 South to the general area of Union Station.
Now I'm sitting on an absolutely packed Southwest Chief Amtrak train bound for Albuquerque. I stationed my very graphic "Playboy" magazine in the mesh pocket of the seatback in front of me, for all prospective passengers to see. Eventually, I landed a pretty mellow guy who just plopped down next to me.
I must say, I am getting a kick out of displaying my Playboy magazine and Miss June for all to see. Conductors and ticket collectors don't seem to be shocked by it. But the young women don't seem to like it at all. Oh well!
Wednesday, June 5, 12:45 p.m. The Southwest Chief is running about 45 minutes late. The Sandia Mountains loom in the distance and it's about time for me to pack it up and get ready to detrain. I ate pancakes for breakfast but skipped dinner and lunch because I know the menu backward and forwards and I'm sick of it.
Half the train got off in Flagstaff so they could connect with the bus that goes to the Grand Canyon. I headed down to the lounge car where I met up with my seatmate, Jeff. We drank two bottles of red wine together and talked about women.
Later, I grabbed my sleeping role and bunked down on the soft leather bench seats of the ground level café car and swallowed two sleeping pills. I found it hard to get to sleep, being so close to the tracks and the bench was narrow.
Next time I will definitely sleep on the sightseer car, one floor overhead. Perhaps that will hold the key to a good night's rest.
Well, it has been an excellent trip. Hope the three rolls of the film I took turn out all right. This vacation had a few setbacks, but all relatively minor. Now it's back to work tomorrow.
But first I will take a nice bath and then a good night's sleep.
When I arrive in town I grab a couple newspapers and am delighted to see that a couple editorials that I had written to editors actually made it to print. A happy coincidence indeed!
* * *
Letter to the editor
Long Train Runnin'?
By Charles Reuben
Don't you just feel a chill run down your spine every time you see Amtrak's Southwest Chief pull into the downtown station bound for Chicago or Los Angeles?
I gave up flying altogether five years ago and have been traveling long distances exclusively by Amtrak ever since. We are truly blessed to have the train run right through the center of town.
Traveling by passenger train is a fascinating experience from a technical standpoint, as well as ecologically (the Sierra Club loves it) and financially (it's dirt cheap). Train travel has also taught me that people are in way too much of a hurry to get from A to B. I mean, what's the rush?
Unfortunately, if you have never traveled cross-country by Amtrak, you may never have the chance; Amtrak is in danger of becoming extinct.
You may never know what it is like to eat outstanding food served to you on linen tablecloths by attentive waiters in the dining car. You may never know what it is like to lounge in the observation car and watch the scenery pass you by.
Amtrak is very much on the chopping block this year. Although it may manage to survive on the East and West coasts, its long-distance routes are in jeopardy.
The High-Speed Rail Investment Act (S.250) is now before Congress and if it passes, Amtrak will have the means to stay alive and improve its service. Senator Bingaman is a member of the Senate Committee on Finance to which this bill has been referred and would like to hear from you.
Senator Domenici wrote me a personal letter on June 13. He said, "I recognize the importance of Amtrak to our nation, and to New Mexico in particular. Amtrak provides many Americans with a viable alternative to air and highway travel."
"In addition, as America continues to grow exponentially, we must have the necessary infrastructure to utilize different modes of travel, including rail transit."
"Amtrak serves as a safe, energy-efficient mode of travel, providing transportation for Americans of all levels of income."
In the U.S., taxpayers spend more money on road salt than they do on passenger rail travel. Consider the numbers: Last year we spent 33 billion dollars on highways. We also spent $14 billion to support air transport. But we only spent around $500 million on passenger rail.
Amtrak ridership has been going up dramatically in the past few years thanks to its low fares, its "satisfaction guarantee" (the only guarantee of its nature in the travel business), and its new frequent rider program.
The revenue generated by Amtrak has also gone up. Furthermore, Amtrak is now diversifying its services to carry mail and freight as well, which will further cut its costs. So why on earth would we want to disband Amtrak?
Highways and airports do little to generate money that will support their own infrastructure. They contribute to urban sprawl, congestion, pollution, and the mortality rate. They are also the most fuel-inefficient means of transportation.
Write, e-mail or phone your Senator or Congressperson right now and tell them that you want to see long-distance passenger train travel continue and flourish in this country.
Because if you haven't traveled by Amtrak, you just don't know what you're missing. Start your journey at www.amtrak.com.
* * *
Editorial
Lamenting the Loss of the Southwest Chief
By Charles Reuben
When people ask me, "What brought you to New Mexico from Chicago?" I say, "The Southwest Chief."
I'm talking about that coach-sleeper-dining-sightseer-baggage-freight-combination that makes up the best damn train ride in the continental United States. (And don't forget those four massive 4,200 horsepower GE locomotives, each capable of generating enough electricity to light 800 homes!)
I am talking about one of only 16 surviving long-distance, overnight national treasures that the politicians in Washington want to kill. When Amtrak, our national passenger train system is gone, the only way we'll be able to get out of town will be to hop on an airplane or jump on the freeway.
In 1920 there were 254,000 miles of passenger rails covering the USA. At last count there were 21,400 miles of surviving passenger rails spread out over 44 routes. And Amtrak actually owns only 623 miles of that track!
I don't give a damn if the locks on the bathrooms of those '70s-era Streamliner coach cars open by themselves. I don't care if the ride's a little bumpy because the roadbed is pulverized by freight trains. And I don't care if the Southwest Chief travels at only 90 miles per hour.
I think Amtrak runs a helluva fine railroad with the crumbs Congress throws its way and it would be a crime if they gave it the axe. And it looks like Amtrak will die in October 2002, unless a miracle happens soon.
Did you know that Amtrak spends about as much to keep its 21,400-mile intercity passenger rail system running as San Francisco spends on its 95-mile Bay Area Rapid Transit system? Or that Amtrak serves more than 500 communities in more than 45 states?
Did you know that more than 23,000 people get on the train in Albuquerque every year and 22,000 people get off?
Last year, Amtrak served more than 23.5 million people: The rich, the poor, the handicapped, tourists from home and abroad, all enjoyed the tiny subsidy taxpayers enthusiastically invest in rail transit.
Those oilmen in Washington actually think somebody would be crazy enough to buy the Southwest Chief and run it in the place of Amtrak. Do you know any buyers? England spent the last five years privatizing its railroads and all it got out of it was spectacular train wrecks, skyrocketing ticket prices and bankruptcy.
Let's face it: When the Southwest Chief is gone, intercity train travel will be gone and the U.S. will be the only industrialized nation without a national passenger train service.
As it is, I know I can buy a $120 round trip ticket to Los Angeles and visit my Mom or go to Chicago round trip for a couple hundred bucks. Along the way I'll eat gourmet food served on a white tablecloth in the dining car and watch a nimble waiter pour a hot stream of coffee from two feet high and not spill a drop.
Where else can I kick back in an observation car with a bottle of wine, meander through pristine wilderness and watch a buxom Amish woman attempt to control her impish children? Where else can I get a seat in coach next to somebody like Albuquerque-based massage therapist Martha Hillegass, become the best of friends and end my long voyage with a free Hawaiian Lomi Lomi treatment?
Fact is, I can't just jump on a jet fuel-guzzling plane like the rest of you. First, I've got to go to Lovelace Hospital and subject myself to a macabre $1,000 operation where the surgeon implants little "pressure equalization" tubes in my eardrums. Having done that, my eardrums won't perforate when the plane lands, causing me to scream and frighten the other passengers.
But the tubes are more trouble than they're worth: They fall out after six months and cause infections. That's why I gave up flying five years ago.
Yes, the Southwest Chief brought me to New Mexico when I was a gangly 14-year-old on my way to the Philmont Boy Scout Ranch in Cimarron. And it brought me to Lamy, New Mexico when I was a know-it-all 18-year-old on my way to St. John's College in Santa Fe.
In the last six months alone, I have traveled 11,679 miles on Amtrak, from Vancouver B.C. all the way to Miami, Florida. And I loved every single mile of it.
But unless a miracle happens, long-distance train travel will no longer be regarded as basic, affordable transportation for the American public. Passenger rail will go the way of the ocean liners: Only for people with money to burn.
I have written my congressmen, published letters in the paper, and driven my friends crazy discussing Amtrak: I am an Amtrak activist, and I am praying for a miracle.
However, I am also beginning to see the writing on the wall and am preparing for the worst.
Thank you for visiting Chucksville.
Please sign my guestbook.
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