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!

March 13, 2003, Albuquerque Station 1 p.m.

I'm sitting in the coach seat of a double-decker Superliner Amtrak train, preparing for its 1:12 p.m. departure. Destination: Chicago, Illinois.

Lately, my travels have taken me to California to spend time with my aging mother but this trip is purely self-indulgent: I plan to visit my boyhood friend, Blaze, and spend a week with his wife Lilly and his children Brian and Ashley.

I didn't even have to pay for the ticket! I got it for free by redeeming 10,000 Amtrak Guest Reward points. I earned some of those points by traveling aboard Amtrak, but most of them were collected using my Amtrak Guest Rewards credit card. I get one point for every dollar, and it adds up quickly.

I travel by train quite a bit. I gave up flying over five years ago, and train travel is the only way I can get out of town besides boarding a bus.

The train has not left the station, and I'm already witnessing a crime. Two police officers have boarded the train and are interviewing passengers. Meanwhile, I am settling into a window seat, hopeful that nobody will sit next to me. My stuff is sprawled everywhere, and nobody has even asked to look at my ticket yet.

The police just asked a fellow to show his identification and ticket stub. He was not able to come up with either and the cop insisted that he deboard. The more the passenger argued, the worse it got until he was finally escorted off the train.

It turns out that the passenger climbed on board without a ticket and locked himself into a bathroom until the train left the station. Then he settled himself onto a seat and acted as though he belonged there.

The attendants finally figured out that something was wrong, and they contacted the police.

As usual, I am wearing my striped engineer hat bearing the logo for Canadian National Railroad. CN is a freight train company that boasts over 20,000 miles of track spanning Canada and Mid-America, connecting three coasts: the Atlantic, the Pacific, and the Gulf of Mexico. And since my mother was born in Montreal and my sister lives in Ottawa, I wear the hat with great pride.

An announcement was made that all people without a ticket must "get off the train now!" --- so I guess it is only a matter of time before we leave the station.

I'm so glad to see security on the train! This must be a first, and it is about time! With terrorism rearing its ugly head, it is only a matter of time before something awful happens.

I have a row of two adjoining seats to myself, and that is a beautiful thing.

And I know one of the people in this coach car! His name is Ray Wylie and he is seated a few aisles in front of me. We worked together in the composing room of The Albuquerque Journal during my newspaper days, and he went by the name "Wylie" or "Wylie Coyote."

Wylie always acted kind of crazy, but he had a good heart and was well-liked by everybody in the shop. After I gave up the newspaper game to attempt to become a teacher, Wylie hung on for a while at The Journal but was eventually fired.

Those daily newspaper years were a very lucrative time for me back in the '80s. I was by no means wealthy, but I could support my dog Sheba and her growing medical bills, and I was able to buy a tract home in Rio Rancho.

But the '90s brought in automation and that's when I decided to call the newspaper game quits. There really wasn't much to do in the composing room at the end of the day except collect an obscenely high paycheck and try to look busy. But that was life in the International Brotherhood of Typographers, or IBT, back in the good old days before they merged with the Communications Workers of America and signed their death warrant.

The old-timers threw us young printers under the bus by calling in the National Labor Relations Board. The alte kakkers voted the union out in exchange for the promise of job security....from an industry that was preparing to go onto life support.

Well, Ol' Wylie was proof positive that job security does not exist in this dog-eat-dog back-stabbing capitalistic world of ours.

The composing room had become paginated. Instead of the headlines, articles, and pictures being physically cut and pasted with straight edges and Exacto knives onto the newspaper grid sheets by human compositors, they were cut and pasted on a computer screen by editors in the newsroom. The monetary savings to the publisher were huge.

Wylie and I worked together in the composing room during the 4:30 p.m. to midnight shift. The foreman seemed to either like him or feel sorry for him, so they kept giving him a paycheck even though he was hopelessly incompetent.

The only job he seemed to be good at was working the dump, and that meant Wylie would retrieve the type as it exited the film processors. Then he would carry the developed, dried film (black type on white photographic paper) to a desk where he would cut off all the white borders around the type.

Then he would take the neatly cut film and place it on another table where some other old-timer would paste it onto a grid sheet, along with photographs and ads.

I used to work the dump quite a bit but given a choice, I preferred to paste-up the pages under the watchful eyes of the editors who would magically appear on the floor at deadline.

The editors would be clutching their handwritten dummy pages and we would obediently paste up their pages. We printers were proud members of the International Typographical Union and our contract clearly stated that the editors were not allowed to touch the type under any circumstances. So for a while there, we had job security.

That job security fell by the wayside after the union voted to decertify. This means that we voted ourselves out of the union. And the reason we did it was that the old-timers (the "alte kakkers") thought they would get a better deal by negotiating directly with management.

Five minutes into the shift
Neil was "already sick of this shit,"
But that did not stop him
From singing a song,
He sang country music all night long.

And when we got rowdy
His voice filled the shop,
"Hode it down!" he cried
And the yelling would stop.

(He taught me paste-up
From the start:
How to cut the heads
And size the art,
He showed me the use of an offset blad
And never failed to come to my aid)

"Green Acres" was where he'd rather be
Tenor in a choir with an upbeat key
Singing of glory, Not singing the blues,
And occasionally,
"Who's gonna fill these shoes?"

Everything went to hell after we got rid of the union and that's when I saw the proverbial "writing on the wall" and decided to leave.

But I was grateful for all the years the Journal took care of me. I spent seven years with that daily and at $13 an hour I was making more than a lot of the editors. The money really piled up and it gave me the opportunity to buy a house as well as a nice used car. But the hours sucked so even though times were rough after I left, I never looked back.

Not everybody took leaving the Journal as gracefully as I did, however. Many people were very bitter and some people even attempted to sue the paper for one reason or another. Of course, they lost. There's no way one worker can take on such a huge organization and win because they have lawyers coming out the ying-yang.

But I look back at those years with deep appreciation and fondness. And Wylie was a part of what made it all worthwhile. I remember him talking about "the old days" with Wally Thorpe and ol' John Durward. A time when printing was a craft.

These men, larger than life, worked with hot lead, operating cantankerous Linotype machines and risking life and limb just to put out a fuckin newspaper. Well, Wylie, a real survivor, was on this train with me and I showed him a measure of my appreciation by giving him one of my turkey, cheese, and tomato sandwiches: Long live Wylie Coyote!

The train is making its way into Northern New Mexico and the landscape is changing. We ride through rolling hills dotted with pinon trees. Lonely country roads and endless miles of barbed wire fence. The highway is nowhere to be seen as we cut through the heart of our beautiful country.

The windows are nice and clean since they always get washed during their service stop in Albuquerque. The windows on this 70's-era train are much cleaner than the windows on the modern Surfliner train that I recently rode on in Los Angeles.

I kept detailed notes about that trip but they were all lost when my AlphaSmart 3000 shorted out near the end of the trip. That was a real drag. Since I don't have anything else to do right now, I will spend some time recreating my “lost” vacation for you, gentle reader.

My last train trip was taken during the first week of January 2003.

I had managed to get an outstanding deal for tickets between Albuquerque and Los Angeles on a rail sale featured on the Amtrak web page.

Normally, I can swing a round trip coach ticket for around $130, but this time I was able to get the tickets for $25 each way. Wow.

Now, as you know, most of the adventures Mother and I enjoy are at sea, in the pampered luxury of a cruise ship. As a matter of fact, Mom and I have taken three cruises this year.

Regrettably, Mom (as well as the rest of the country) suffered a blow during the recent stock market decline, and she said that we would have to put off our next cruise for a while.

Naturally, this saddened me but I was determined to visit and I told her that there was no way I was going to spend my time sitting around a retirement home.

Mom had mentioned, on several occasions that she had never visited the Hearst castle. Randolph Hearst was a very wealthy man who owned dozens of newspapers back in the 1920s. At the apex of his career, he used his money to build a grand castle on top of a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

He hired a female architect named Julia Morgan, who built a grand earthquake-proof structure. And Mom agreed to visit it with me.

I suppose we could have covered the 250 miles between Mom's residence in Pasadena and the Hearst Castle in San Marino by car, but I was determined to add a little adventure to the equation.

Instead of driving, I proposed that we take the train to our destination. I suggested the Coast Starlight, another of our country's great long haul, 70-era trains and she thought it was a grand idea. It had been decades since she had stepped on a train and she was up for an adventure.

So I made a reservation for two on the Coast Starlight to San Luis Obispo, since the train does not go to San Marino.

My brother in law, Ace, dropped us off at Union Station and we were met in the parking lot by a red cap in an electric car who took us and our luggage directly to the train. Whisking us past all the struggling people, we were like royalty! I have taken the train countless times and, quite frankly, I have never seen anything like this happen before. It's almost like fortune smiles upon Mom.

Because of mom's age and frailty, I managed to score a couple seats in the lower level, handicap area of our double-decker train. This proved to be wise because she would have had a difficult time negotiating the winding steps of the Starlight.

The ride to San Luis Obispo was lovely; the weather was clear and our traveling companions were also pleasant. Of course, she loved the pristine wilderness of the Vandenberg Air Force base, far removed from any signs of civilization. We munched on carrot sticks and other snacks along the way.

When we arrived at San Luis Obispo, we took a cab to our motel room at the Econolodge. It seems there was a strip of motels located within spitting distance of the on-ramp to the 101 expressway. Traffic zoomed past us and it was very difficult to cross the street. So, we stayed to our own side of the street and were blessed with a variety of nice restaurants within walking distance of our motel.

By far the best eatery was a Cajun joint where we were able to get steak, hash browns, eggs, and coffee for about $5. We ate there a lot and enjoyed the atmosphere as well as the owner who was happy to turn down the rowdy blues music that seemed to disturb Mom.

The coast starlight left Los Angeles at about 10 am and arrived in San Luis Obispo at 3 pm. By the time we were settled into our motel room, Mom was ready to hit the sack and I could tell she was enjoying our little land cruise.

The next day I picked up our car rental. It was a brand new red Dodge Neon with only 24 miles on the odometer. Although technically it was considered an economy car, the car was loaded. It had air conditioning, cruise control, automatic locks, and even an automatic trunk lock and security system.

We leisurely covered the 40 miles to the Heart castle traveling through beautiful green rolling hills.

When we arrived at the Hearst castle, we walked to the ranger's office where we joined two other people for an intimate handicap accessible tour of the castle. This turned out to be much better than it sounds. The couple we joined were New York Jews with whom we instantly bonded, much to the relief of the ranger.

On an average day, I was told that a normal tour was like herding cattle through the castle. It was a stifling affair of 20+ people winding their way from sight to sight. Our tour of four people was relaxed and even our tour guide was having a ball, delighted not to have to practice crowd control at every turn. Don't touch this, don't touch that. Don't flash your cameras. Don't…don't….don't. Our tour was nothing like that.

The tour began at the IMAX theatre in the visitor's center. The movie could not have been further removed from "Citizen Kane." Instead, we saw the young Randolph Hearst frolicking in the mountains that would someday accommodate his castle.

We learned about the relationship he had with his mother and how they traveled together throughout Europe, absorbing the culture. We saw how his father had made his fortune in silver and how he made a killing in newspapers, and never did we see anything but a sterling portrait of a legend.

The four of us then boarded a small van and drove up a long winding road high into the sky. The weather was starting to turn cold and damp and when we arrived at the castle, we were literally in the clouds.

We took our time examining the art objects and wandering through the dining room and kitchen. My favorite place was the guest house, however. I loved its coziness and especially marveled at its fancy electrical heating system. Mom did her best to walk through the buildings but occasionally agreed to be pushed in a wheelchair, a blow to her dignity but a relief to her legs.

The highlight of the tour, especially for those who have never been to the castle before is the Neptune Pool. This grand swimming pool is of Olympic proportions. A Greek temple faces the pool and is surrounded by beautiful classical sculptures. As we approached the pool from a distance, I realized that I was witnessing one of those Kodak moments and reached for my camera and snapped.

Not until I returned home did I realize what a good job I did of taking that picture. The entire pool area, as well as the temple, was shrouded in a light mist. The blue of the swimming pool cut through the mist like a precious jewel and the angle that I shot the picture was perfectly balanced. Of the 24 pictures that I took on that trip, it was the only one that was worth a damn.

After the tour, we got back on the van and were driven back to the visitor center at the castle's base.

Mom and I drove to the motel and had a pleasant dinner at an Italian restaurant. Then Mom was ready for bed but I was ready to party.

Lucky for me it was Thursday night in San Luis Obispo and that meant the city was closing down its main street and having a farmer's market. Three bands lined the street and the air was filled with the smell of barbeque, corn on the cob, and other temptations.

Booths of every description were set up along the street. Some people were promoting religion, some people were pushing vitamins, but my favorite was one with an eastern European on a motorcycle who could barely speak a word of English.

He displayed a map of the United States on the ground and a line connected all the cities that he had visited. Pictures of his adventures were lined up by the map. He was just sharing this joy with us and people shook his hand and complimented his bike.

I found two marvelous used book stores in San Luis Obispo and spent a lot of time rummaging through the aisles, particularly in the gay section that seemed to really hold my interest!

When I got tired of looking at lurid books, I found an excellent bar called the "Frog and the Peach" where I hung out for a couple hours, drinking pint after pint of Guinness Stout on tap. It was so good. So creamy. Like mother's milk.

I asked the bartender, "Hey! Isn't your bar named after a famous skit from Monty Python's Flying Circus?" He said yes it was. http://frogandpeachpub.com/

I know that script very well. When I first started working at the University of New Mexico, I took an acting 101 class, and our teacher assigned us plays that we would have to act out with another person.

Well, sure enough, I got assigned the Frog and the Peach skit and spent many, many hours memorizing my lines. It was a hoot and it felt so very good to be in that bar, a replica of an English bar complete with wooden beams, savoring one of the best beers brewed on planet Earth.

The next morning, we returned our rental and the weather turned wicked. It not only began raining, but it began raining in sheets. I called Amtrak and asked if they could get us back on the Surfliner instead of the Coast Starlight and they said no problem, so long as I paid an additional $5.

The Surfliner originated in Santa Barbara so that meant we had to take an Amtrak bus to meet up with the train. The bus ride lasted two hours and routed us inland around the Vandenberg Air Force base. I thought it was a pity that we would not go through it again but the weather was really bad and the fact that we were being evicted from our motel room at 11 a.m. meant we would have to hang out at the station for four hours.

By taking the Surfliner, we went directly from our motel room to the bus and then from the bus to the train. I was glad that Mom was able to experience the Surfliner with its modern bathrooms and relatively new seats and carpets. I was astonished, however, at how dirty the windows were!

I almost got into a fight with another passenger on the Surfliner, incidentally. He was a retarded fellow who was giving the conductor a hard time. He was lecturing him about how "if you don't like your job, you can get another one," or something along those lines.

The conductor was clearly struggling to check everybody's tickets AND identification and I felt sorry for him. So, I erupted at the retarded fellow and told him to "back off! The guy is just trying to do his job."

Mom nudged me and told me to stay out of it but there are times I just cannot "stay out of it" and it frustrated me that nobody was standing up for the conductor. So I took that job upon myself.

When we arrived at Los Angeles Union Station, we were met by a redcap in an electric car who took our luggage and zipped us back to the parking lot where my brother in law was waiting for us.

As the electric car negotiated the masses, we came upon the conductor who I had defended. He thanked me for sticking up for him. I just smiled and pressed his hand, as though I were the Pope in his Popemobile.

The rest of my stay in California was uneventful, hanging out with Mom at her residential palace. The highlight was going down to dinner, a formal affair where we had to dress up. I was delighted to discover that free wine was served with the meal and you better believe I got crocked.

The day before I left for home on the Southwest Chief, Mom, Selma, Ace, and my cousin Gail threw a birthday party for me, complete with cake. Selma gets her cake from some Hispanic bakery and I must say it was moist and delicious, something you just don't see every day in this dry, dry desert climate.

Mom spent all day making a Shepherd's pie in her little toaster oven and I was amazed how well it came out. A Shepherd's pie is basically ground beef mixed with onion soup and covered with mashed potatoes. It can be a rather dry affair, but I learned the secret to making it edible: Ketchup and lots of it. Once I hauled out the ketchup it started to go fast and by the time the party was over, it was completely gone.

Gail seemed to enjoy talking to me so much that she said that we were on the way to establishing a "relationship." Gail is or used to be a psychologist. She loves to probe people's minds. As the dinner drew to a close and I started to think about going home, I wondered to myself, why oh why has it taken her so long to want to establish a relationship with me. All those painful years of growing up, I would have done anything to have established a relationship with my cousins. Now all of a sudden someone takes an interest!

4:30 p.m. I've been writing all afternoon and it feels good to get stuff off my chest. I had kept notes on my AlphaSmart when I was in California but the internal short meant I lost everything, and this really bothered me. Now I am slowly starting to get confident with Alphie as well as the technician who claims he fixed the problem.

I'm kicking back drinking a couple margaritas from a can. Pretty powerful stuff and I got them for $2 each because it was happy hour in the cafe car! I've been taking these trains a lot and I don't remember any happy hour but the café car is lined up with people who want to imbibe.

I bought two margaritas and they were actually pretty good. The normal price is $4 each but I got them at half price and am beginning to get a pretty good buzz after just one.

I also brought two books along with me: the first one "About a Boy," by Nick Hornby, who also wrote "How to Be Good," a truly great book. I saw the movie, "About a Boy" twice and am looking forward to reading the book.

I also brought along Ernest Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast." This book was recommended to me by my friend Dan Ritchey, who works at the University and used to work at The Albuquerque Journal as an editor. Dan recently turned me on to "Angela's Ashes" and "Tis" by Frank McCourt, two books I really enjoyed. I respect his taste in books.

5 p.m. "What's the difference between a dog and a hotshot?" I asked the conductor who was spewing out all this technical jargon about a possible delay caused by a freight train we were approaching.

"A dog," he explained, frowning at the two empty margarita cans I had scattered on my slide-out table, "is the lowest priority of freight train. A hotdog, also known as a Z-train, has the highest priority, even higher than us and we must move out of the way for them to pass. Amtrak pays 25 million dollars a year so that this train will be on time," the conductor continued. "But BSNF is spending a billion dollars upgrading some a track in Texas so a lot of freight trains are being routed this way. But it's only going to be for the next six weeks."

Two movies will be shown in the coach car in 20 minutes: "I Spy" and something about a horse. I plan to watch it but deeply regret that I only drank two margaritas during happy hour.

Nevertheless, I am flying and probably would get sick if I drank more. I think that this will be the end of my alcoholic consumption for the day.

My doctor gave me sleeping pills to get me through the night, but I'm not allowed to mix them with alcohol. I told him that I was going to have a drink in the afternoon, however.

Ever since I gave up smoking pot, having a drink every now and then is the only thing I got left.

The landscape has changed dramatically. Grassy, rolling fields. But we have not reached Raton yet.

After a while, it seems you get to know the people in your coach car, especially the cute ones. There’s a cute young lady two aisles ahead of me. Blond hair and smooth complexion. I also see a cute teenage boy in the back.

I offered Wylie another one of my turkey sandwiches, but he refused. After drinking those margaritas, I wanted to say, "What's the matter, don't you like my turkey sandwiches?" Fortunately, he was not at his seat. Smoking a cigarette in the lounge, no doubt.

9:15 p.m. I had a nice long talk with Wiley this evening. He is on his way to Indiana to return to his birthplace to retrace his genealogy.

He told me that he is living off $900 a month in social security payments for schizophrenia and that he is also an alcoholic but that he had given up smoking.

He also said that he enjoyed my turkey sandwich. I believe just about everything he told me except the smoking part. Maybe, since he is schizophrenic, he has a hard time keeping his stories straight.

This morning, before I left Albuquerque, I made up about 12 turkey sandwiches and I've already eaten six of them. I'm staying well-fed but getting kind of sick of turkey. Still, when I get hungry it's there to be eaten and it seems to agree with my stomach. I am not suffering from my usual bouts of diarrhea so maybe I'm on to something.

I keep my food cold in the Styrofoam cooler that I bought a couple weeks ago at the Walmart Superstore. This morning I drove out to Smith's store on Carlisle and bought 10 pounds of dry ice and put it on the bottom of the cooler. On top of the bricks of dry ice, I laid about 8 bags of roasted, peeled green chili for Blaze.

"Bring as many as you can carry," he said so I dutifully filled the cooler about halfway with green chili. The rest of the container is filled with my turkey sandwiches and topped off with two bottles of Gatorade. I was told that the dry ice would last me for 24 hours which is enough time to get me to Chicago.

Dry ice is a bit more expensive than regular ice but it seems worth it. For one thing, it does not melt; it simply evaporates into thin air, so things don't get messy. Also, it is much colder than regular ice so things stay much fresher. A fellow I spoke to at the dry ice factory said my sandwiches would get hard as bricks but, fortunately, it has not happened. I was concerned that the coach car would fill up with fog as it does in theatrical productions, but he said that only happens when dry ice comes in contact with water.

6 a.m. I slept pretty well last night after taking a sleeping pill. Probably better than I ever have on an Amtrak train. Instead of paralyzing my muscles, like the pills my doctor prescribed last time, these pills lured me to a dreamless sleep.

I was able to enter oblivion in an upright position on my chair, thus avoiding the pain that seems to occur when I curl up on the seats. Now I feel fairly refreshed and ready to tackle the day.

Outside I see nothing but white. I see a snowstorm and the ground covered with inches, maybe feet of snow. It's a good thing I brought warm clothes along with me.

I have filled up one complete file on this computer and am impressed with how much data it can hold. I erased a program that came with the machine called "keywords," that helps kids learn how to type with 10 fingers, thus increasing the memory capacity of each file significantly.

Although I have three more turkey sandwiches left, I think that I will eat in the dining car this morning. The sandwiches will help me get through the day. It seems we are making progress and I am hopeful that we will arrive in Chicago on time.

First things first, however: It's time to go to the dressing room and put on fresh clothes. When I left Albuquerque yesterday it must have been at least 75 degrees out. Now I look outside and wonder if the temperature would make water freeze.

8 a.m. Entering Kansas City and we have been advised to relinquish the vacant seat next to us for the onrush of incoming passengers. Over 100 passengers are scheduled to board in KC and there are not enough seats for everybody so some will have to sit in the observation car.

I have decided to let the person who boards have the window seat because I like ready access to the aisle in case I have to go to the bathroom or get restless and need to take a walk.

I have changed my underclothes, washed up, brushed my teeth, and completed my morning rituals. Breakfast consisted of potatoes, eggs over easy, a croissant, and coffee.

My dining companions were a pleasant black fellow who had just been discharged from the army en route to Washington D.C. and a hefty white fellow who was going to get off in Kansas City.

The white guy said he had just spent a week in Durango Colorado and that he watched a herd of elk walking downs the main street and that a neighbor saw a bobcat roll around in the snow outside his house. I said that if a bobcat saw a family pet hanging out he probably wouldn't last long on this earth. He said he didn't notice many dogs during his visit.

We're entering Kansas City and I marvel at its traditional architecture, reminiscent of the great Sullivan era. Also fascinated by the Science Museum located right by the tracks. It has some enthralling glass and steel additions, one pyramidal, tastefully attached to the original Romanesque structure.

We arrived at the station 11 minutes early and that has got to be a good thing! Although it looks chilly out there, the puddles are not frozen so it can't be that bad. Nonetheless, I am wearing a wool sweater and a flannel shirt because the temperature on the train fluctuates wildly at times.

I have stowed away my blanket and am trying to stay organized since I don't like to get frantic at the very last minute. I'm keeping my warm, cozy booties on, however, because I find my hiking boots constricting and won't change them until we approach Chicago.

9:30 a.m. My new seatmate is a former contractor. He is telling me stories about his youth and his injuries as a gymnast and a skier. Now that he is a senior citizen it is remarkable how well he has healed every broken bone and shattered socket. His recoveries were made, however, through a dedicated therapy regime

1:10 p.m. Speaking of health, the gentleman who sits in front of us has bonded with me and the fellow next to me. He is a consultant in the health food biz and has taken a lively interest in the conversations that my seatmate and I have been having.

What has ensued is a non-ending conversation, mostly one-sided about the benefits of eating organic foods, the use of plants to cure a swollen prostate, the problems with industrial toxins as well as the horrors of cancer.

Topping the list of cures is wheatgrass for curing cancer, harvested right when it pops out of the ground, rich in chlorophyll. Sol-gar is the manufacturer to be counted on for purity. It’s made by an old Jewish family from the Midwest. Our diets ought to be supplemented with selenium because the soil is depleted, but no matter what we do we are all going to die in the end.

I was prescribed oatmeal for breakfast, preferably raw oatmeal. I used to eat oatmeal all the time (not raw) and it seemed like a good idea. So much was exchanged between the two of them (me listening for the most part) that it was hard to keep track of everything that went down. One thing they seemed to agree on was that if I'm going to eat red meat, it should be buffalo meat because it is low in cholesterol.

The train is moving at a rapid clip, staying on time. The sky is partly cloudy and the sun is beginning to peek through the haze. We are surrounded by endless fields that are dormant for the winter.

We crossed the Mississippi some time ago and are now heading for Chicago in a train that is packed to the gills with passengers. There are lots of Amish on board.

My health is good except my shoulder was slammed by a door between cars as it started to close. Fortunately, I hardly felt a thing, but one must be constantly wary of such things occurring on a train.

---

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