Well, there is a definitely not a shortage of things to talk about. On Sunday, a tornado or two passed through the next town up, wreaking their fair share of havoc. So I was going to talk about that, but then I remembered I did promise to write about the train ride to Chicago, and it would be unfair if the only impression I left of the train was that it was TWO AND A HALF FREAKING HOURS LATE.
When the train actually arrived in La Crosse and I was able to board it, it turned out to be one of the nicest rides I’ve ever experienced. The seats were all comparable to those you see in the first-class sections of airplanes, provided they’re the larger airplane that takes you on a flight that lasts for at least an hour and a half. Two seats on either side of the aisle, with plenty of leg room. This is a must if you’re trying to get comfortable for a long trip, and I was more comfortable on the train than I usually am taking a plane. Five minutes later, we were moving.
Compared to airline travel, getting on a train is a very brief, even rushed. The typical station stop is about five minutes, and then the train leaves. Fortunately, I didn’t know how long I had, so when I was jogging toward one of the cars near the back it was not because I was worried the train would leave without me—I just wanted a good seat.
Actually, five minutes was plenty. Say what you will about the trains being late, but once they arrived they were the model of efficiency. It seemed incongruous to me that they could be so efficient, like a water buffalo sashaying into Carnegie Hall and performing Swan Lake, followed by some light tap dance.
After I’d gotten seated, the train began to move, and I was treated to a view of America most people don’t get to experience. Most of the rails have been designed to interfere with the highways and city traffic as little as possible, so most of the time you’re looking at the backs: backs of businesses, backs of houses, backs of property lines and backs of the country side. Most of the time it’s a fascinating experience. Just outside of La Crosse I saw acres and acres of scrapped cars. Some were in good enough shape I originally thought it might be a storage lot for used cars, until I saw a light blue sedan with the front quarter of it crushed and twisted into a jagged nightmare of modern sculpture. Then I noticed the rust, the open hoods and the lack of doors and tires on models. There were so many cars that calling the area a car graveyard is much too vague. A necropolis is more accurate. Thousands of cars were arranged in a rough sort of order, and they stretched for acres. I could not imagine visiting the auto necropolis and being unable to find a usable part for any car made since the 1950s. I don’t know who owns the necropolis, but I’d like to imagine he loves cars and spends his nights walking down the rows, inspecting each chassis and refreshing his mental records of the models he has.
Another building that stood out was an old brick factory in Milwaukee that had several bright red wooden doors on its back that led out to small cement docks. I don’t know what the factory was, but I assumed they must have shipped a lot of product by rail. I wondered how much product the factory workers could load in five minutes and if it depended whether or not the employees were Teamsters.
Other interests included the back lots of gas stations, which all seemed to have the same emergency equipment in back: orange traffic cones, sandbags under a tarp, an emergency speed limit sign and a snow shovel. Now, the orange traffic cones I can understand. The emergency speed limit sign makes sense if a gas station owner is very concerned about someone not crashing into the store in bad weather. But the sandbags mystify me. So you can have two sandbags holding up the emergency speed limit signs, and if you’re paranoid I’ll give you four, but then what? Why would anyone need that many sandbags?
Anyway, there was also the lounge car. This car has much larger windows for observation, and seats that face the side. Some of them swivel for better conversation, not to mention better leg room, and there are small tables between them with metal rings where you can set your overpriced drinks, such as a $2 can of soda that does not, unfortunately, have gold flakes mixed in to justify its cost. It also serves beer, and on the way to Chicago I saw a young man in a camouflage t-shirt go into the lounge car empty handed and come out with a bottle of beer about seven times, looking happier and happier each time. Quite possibly the only person on the train whose smile was bigger was the person manning the drink counter.
I try not to be too political on this blog, but I really think that if the government were to pour in some money to train travel, they would have a gold mine on their hands. It’s cheaper than air fare, arguably more relaxing, and the scenery is mostly nicer. True, you don’t get the complimentary juice or soda, nor do you get the complimentary airline peanut, but you can take a snack aboard. If you ever get the chance to go Amtrak and you have a few hours to spare waiting, try it.
