ON THE TRAINS
WEDNESDAY 9TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Heather and my wedding anniversary today. 48 years. It was like today, sunny, warm. Not as warm as it is here, of course, where it is hot again but it was a lovely warm and sunny September day. I remember having a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye as Heather walked up the aisle toward me, she looked so lovely.
C and I walk across Broadway to a branch of Applebee’s and have breakfast and then back to the hotel to pack our bags. We check out and I sit in the lobby area with the luggage while Cyril goes off to look around the shops. We want a road atlas of the United States but are having trouble finding one. It seems everyone has ‘sat-navs’ now and don’t need road maps.
I sit in the lobby, plug my laptop in and start trying to bring this journal up to date having fallen behind with it, we have been moving around so much these last few days. After a couple of hours Cyril comes back, his search for a road atlas unsuccessful, even Macy’s didn't have one. We gather ourselves together and make our way outside dragging our cases round the corner onto Broadway. Almost immediately a taxi sees us and stops. “Penn Station” we tell him, “Where you goin.’” He asks. “Chicago.” We tell him. But fifteen minutes later I begin to wonder if we are as we have moved no more than 100 yards. The traffic is log-jammed. Bus’s blocking traffic light intersections so that nothing can move. Horns are blaring and then a police car is behind us flipping his siren on and off impatiently. He gets past us and eventually we start to move too. It takes half an hour to get to Penn Station. We probably could have walked it in twenty minutes. It is hot again, as hot as it gets in Florida.
The train is long. Twelve carriages, maybe more, the platform curves and the end of “The Lake Shore Ltd” is out of sight. We board and find seats on the left hand side. They are roomy, plenty of space on the overhead racks for our cases etc. Each seat has pull down trays like on an aircraft, and collapse backwards at an angle for sleeping. We start to move at exactly 03.40. Under a tunnel, for a few minutes and then out into the sunlight, the wide Hudson River by our side.
The train is half empty but more passengers will be boarding at Albany, a couple of hours away. We get talking to a black couple sitting just behind us, Deborough and Virgil. She is tall, good figure, he smaller, gold front teeth, both of them friendly. They are going to Las Vegas, they tell us. It’s her birthday today, 54 she says. She looks barely 40, her skin smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. She gives us a miniature bottle each, alcohol of some sort. “Have a drink!” She says. “It’s my birthday!”
WEDNESDAY 9TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Heather and my wedding anniversary today. 48 years. It was like today, sunny, warm. Not as warm as it is here, of course, where it is hot again but it was a lovely warm and sunny September day. I remember having a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye as Heather walked up the aisle toward me, she looked so lovely.
C and I walk across Broadway to a branch of Applebee’s and have breakfast and then back to the hotel to pack our bags. We check out and I sit in the lobby area with the luggage while Cyril goes off to look around the shops. We want a road atlas of the United States but are having trouble finding one. It seems everyone has ‘sat-navs’ now and don’t need road maps.
I sit in the lobby, plug my laptop in and start trying to bring this journal up to date having fallen behind with it, we have been moving around so much these last few days. After a couple of hours Cyril comes back, his search for a road atlas unsuccessful, even Macy’s didn't have one. We gather ourselves together and make our way outside dragging our cases round the corner onto Broadway. Almost immediately a taxi sees us and stops. “Penn Station” we tell him, “Where you goin.’” He asks. “Chicago.” We tell him. But fifteen minutes later I begin to wonder if we are as we have moved no more than 100 yards. The traffic is log-jammed. Bus’s blocking traffic light intersections so that nothing can move. Horns are blaring and then a police car is behind us flipping his siren on and off impatiently. He gets past us and eventually we start to move too. It takes half an hour to get to Penn Station. We probably could have walked it in twenty minutes. It is hot again, as hot as it gets in Florida.
The train is long. Twelve carriages, maybe more, the platform curves and the end of “The Lake Shore Ltd” is out of sight. We board and find seats on the left hand side. They are roomy, plenty of space on the overhead racks for our cases etc. Each seat has pull down trays like on an aircraft, and collapse backwards at an angle for sleeping. We start to move at exactly 03.40. Under a tunnel, for a few minutes and then out into the sunlight, the wide Hudson River by our side.
The train is half empty but more passengers will be boarding at Albany, a couple of hours away. We get talking to a black couple sitting just behind us, Deborough and Virgil. She is tall, good figure, he smaller, gold front teeth, both of them friendly. They are going to Las Vegas, they tell us. It’s her birthday today, 54 she says. She looks barely 40, her skin smooth, not a wrinkle in sight. She gives us a miniature bottle each, alcohol of some sort. “Have a drink!” She says. “It’s my birthday!”
We reach Albany and as predicted more passengers have boarded and, although not full, it is definitely more crowded. It gets to 7.20 or so and we haven’t moved. After a while we are told there will be a delay as our engine is being disconnected so it can be used on another train that has broken down east of us. But we are not to worry as it will be back in an hour and we will be on our way. The hour stretches to two-and-a-half hours so now we are going to be late into Chicago, which means we won’t be able to see much of the city as we thought we would. It has started to rain.
It is dark when we leave Albany and it has stopped raining. We make our way to the dining car and have a meal, which I was not too impressed with. I had a beef burger and a few chips with a couple of lettuce leaves and small slivers of onion. C had chicken that he said was good. Expensive though, the bill came to close on $40. And we got the impression the crew was anxious for us to leave as we were the last to dine.
After the meal we settled down for the night, though I can’t say it I had a comfortable sleep. The seats are like airline seats, as I think I mentioned, but bigger, even so, not easy to sleep in.
Later we make out way through the train to the snack bar carriage where they sell coffee, snacks, and cans of beer. We buy two ($5.50 each) and sit down opposite a couple both looking out of the window. He taking photographs. We are still running along side of the Hudson and, if anything, it is even wider here.
The couple are married, both GPs they tell us. Jeanette and Nigel. Jeanette is Scottish, Nigel English. We are travelling across the United States, it’s big, vast, there are what? 250 million people scattered across it, but it doesn’t matter because it’s a small world. We mention we were in Norfolk last weekend, in Upton for my half brothers 60th birthday celebrations. Jeanette says, “That’s where we live, near Great Yarmouth. I know Upton, we know the The White Horse. Your brother really lives there?” We assure her Richard really does live there.
“I know Upton Dyke.” She says. “I bet I know his house, at the end of the dyke? Yes, yes, I do.”
Small world.
We are able to plug the lap-tops in to the trains system but are unable to get on to the internet. It did connect for a few minutes but it dropped out and I couldn’t get it back.
THURSDAY 10TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Heather’s birthday today. There is no Internet connection so I can’t email her. I’ll try to ‘phone later.
We crossed in to Ohio during the night stopping at several places picking up and dropping off passengers: Elria, Sanbuskey, Toledo. At one stop, where passengers were advised we could get off to stretch our legs, or have a smoke, we clambered down the steps and stood at the side of the train trying to call Heather. Eventually I got her mobile to ring out but it just went to ‘leave a message’ so I sang a little of ‘Happy birthday to you’ and left a message.
We progress westwards, cross in to Indiana. The countryside is flat, green, thousands of acres of almost ripe corn. The clocks go back an hour. The train passes through small towns with few people about; neat looking houses with neat gardens, little traffic. We stop at Waterloo, Indiana, Elkhart, Indiana, just a few minutes at each. At 11.40 we are in South Bend, Indiana. Then it is announced we should be in Chicago, Illinois, by one pm.
The train ride, so far, has not been quite what I expected. The PA, which crackles in to life every now and then, is simply to tell us what the next station will be, usually ten minutes before we get there. It is mostly inaudible. The train itself rattles along at about 65 – 80 mph but it seems to be constantly slowing down, then speeding back up again. When it goes over points it sways and bangs and rattles, sometimes quite alarmingly.
We arrive at Chicago at 1 p.m. and gather ourselves together, say goodbye to Deborough and Virgil, and walk down the long, dark and gloomy platform, dragging our bags and asking each other, “Have you got everything?” It is warm, not hot the way New York was.
The Amtrak First Class lounge is modern and comfortable. We are given red tickets for access. I have time to go outside and take a couple of photos of the station building. A few minutes after I get back in to the lounge we are taken down to track 10 where ‘The Californian Zephyr” waits. After a little confusion about which ‘car’ we were on – the girl reading out the car numbers and which ticket related to which – had got it all wrong, we clamber aboard and dragging our bags up the narrow staircase, we find our ‘room.’ It may be called a room but it certainly is not roomy. The ‘sleeper’ that Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint had in "North By North West," this is not.
Lonnie, our attendant, introduces himself and explains the various facilities the room has: shower/toilet, electric outlets, lights, cupboards. He explains he will come in later, at about nine o’clock, and make up the beds for us; the upper bunk drops down and the lower bunk converts from the room’s seating.
The restaurant supervisor pops his head in and gives us times we can choose to have dinner. We choose 6.45 p.m.
In the Observation Car we meet up with the two doctors from Norfolk again and sit talking to them for a while. Nigel is busy taking photographs of the passing scene through the train window. We cross a very wide river.
“The mighty Mississippi,” Nigel murmurs and takes more photo’s. I should have brought my camera up here.
We leave the doctors and go down to the ‘snack bar, and have a beer. The woman looking after the bar is sitting at one of the tables talking to a colleague. She gets up and unlocks the door to the bar and serves us, then locks the door again and rejoins her friend. C and I are the only customers. Every few minutes a passenger comes in, orders coffee or crisps to take away and each time the woman running the bar gets up, unlocks, serves, locks up again and rejoins her friend and resumes their conversation which has become loud and raucous, to the extent we had difficulty in hearing each other.
We leave but as I start to climb the narrow staircase back up to the Observation Car I hear: “Hey, sir!”
I turn back. “Yes?” I say.
“Throw your trash into the trash box, please.” It's more like an order than a request. She is still sitting with her friend at the table.
I pick up the cans and plastic glasses we have left. “Where?” I say. She points to a cardboard box with “Trash” written on it, and I throw them in to it.
“Is there anything else I need to do?” I ask
“No, sir.” She says.
It seemed as if us being there was a bit of a nuisance
An announcement about the arrangements for dinner comes on the PA. “We practice community seating on The Zephyr’ the voice tells us. I presume that means we could be sat with two other passengers, and that is just the case as when we enter the dining car we are led to a table with a young girl and boy already seated. He is about 25. she barely 20.
“Hello.” We say and get ‘Hi’s’ back.
His hair is a bright purple colour on top, an ordinary brown at the sides, making him look quite bizarre, though maybe that is the idea. The girl's hair is a striking pink, a shade of pink I don't think I have seen before. He is doodling on the paper tablecloth. Squares on top of each other, circles in a row. He keeps touching the girls arm and leaning close to her and whispering. She clutches his hand and whispers back.
We study the menu. “What are you going to have?” I ask C. Steak he tells me. “Me too.” I say.
“We’re a steak table,” the girl says, smiling, “that’s what we are having.”
The boy says nothing. He is now studying the screen of his i-phone and stabbing at the keys with his fingers.
“Where are you going? I ask.
“Omaha.” The girl replies. “We’ve come from New York, we got married two weeks ago.”
“Congratulations.” C and I say together.
“Do you live in Omaha? Cyril asks.
The girl looks at the boy and he looks up from his mobile. “My children are there with my ex-wife. We are going to talk about custody.” He says and lowers his eyes back to the screen.
The meals are served. The girl tells us she is hoping to go to college to study psychiatry; the boy says he too is hoping to go to college, though I couldn’t make out, since he tended to mumble, what it was he wanted to study. Maybe it is how to play games on i-phones.
][
It is dark when we leave Albany and it has stopped raining. We make our way to the dining car and have a meal, which I was not too impressed with. I had a beef burger and a few chips with a couple of lettuce leaves and small slivers of onion. C had chicken that he said was good. Expensive though, the bill came to close on $40. And we got the impression the crew was anxious for us to leave as we were the last to dine.
After the meal we settled down for the night, though I can’t say it I had a comfortable sleep. The seats are like airline seats, as I think I mentioned, but bigger, even so, not easy to sleep in.
Later we make out way through the train to the snack bar carriage where they sell coffee, snacks, and cans of beer. We buy two ($5.50 each) and sit down opposite a couple both looking out of the window. He taking photographs. We are still running along side of the Hudson and, if anything, it is even wider here.
The couple are married, both GPs they tell us. Jeanette and Nigel. Jeanette is Scottish, Nigel English. We are travelling across the United States, it’s big, vast, there are what? 250 million people scattered across it, but it doesn’t matter because it’s a small world. We mention we were in Norfolk last weekend, in Upton for my half brothers 60th birthday celebrations. Jeanette says, “That’s where we live, near Great Yarmouth. I know Upton, we know the The White Horse. Your brother really lives there?” We assure her Richard really does live there.
“I know Upton Dyke.” She says. “I bet I know his house, at the end of the dyke? Yes, yes, I do.”
Small world.
We are able to plug the lap-tops in to the trains system but are unable to get on to the internet. It did connect for a few minutes but it dropped out and I couldn’t get it back.
THURSDAY 10TH SEPTEMBER 2015
Heather’s birthday today. There is no Internet connection so I can’t email her. I’ll try to ‘phone later.
We crossed in to Ohio during the night stopping at several places picking up and dropping off passengers: Elria, Sanbuskey, Toledo. At one stop, where passengers were advised we could get off to stretch our legs, or have a smoke, we clambered down the steps and stood at the side of the train trying to call Heather. Eventually I got her mobile to ring out but it just went to ‘leave a message’ so I sang a little of ‘Happy birthday to you’ and left a message.
We progress westwards, cross in to Indiana. The countryside is flat, green, thousands of acres of almost ripe corn. The clocks go back an hour. The train passes through small towns with few people about; neat looking houses with neat gardens, little traffic. We stop at Waterloo, Indiana, Elkhart, Indiana, just a few minutes at each. At 11.40 we are in South Bend, Indiana. Then it is announced we should be in Chicago, Illinois, by one pm.
The train ride, so far, has not been quite what I expected. The PA, which crackles in to life every now and then, is simply to tell us what the next station will be, usually ten minutes before we get there. It is mostly inaudible. The train itself rattles along at about 65 – 80 mph but it seems to be constantly slowing down, then speeding back up again. When it goes over points it sways and bangs and rattles, sometimes quite alarmingly.
We arrive at Chicago at 1 p.m. and gather ourselves together, say goodbye to Deborough and Virgil, and walk down the long, dark and gloomy platform, dragging our bags and asking each other, “Have you got everything?” It is warm, not hot the way New York was.
The Amtrak First Class lounge is modern and comfortable. We are given red tickets for access. I have time to go outside and take a couple of photos of the station building. A few minutes after I get back in to the lounge we are taken down to track 10 where ‘The Californian Zephyr” waits. After a little confusion about which ‘car’ we were on – the girl reading out the car numbers and which ticket related to which – had got it all wrong, we clamber aboard and dragging our bags up the narrow staircase, we find our ‘room.’ It may be called a room but it certainly is not roomy. The ‘sleeper’ that Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint had in "North By North West," this is not.
Lonnie, our attendant, introduces himself and explains the various facilities the room has: shower/toilet, electric outlets, lights, cupboards. He explains he will come in later, at about nine o’clock, and make up the beds for us; the upper bunk drops down and the lower bunk converts from the room’s seating.
The restaurant supervisor pops his head in and gives us times we can choose to have dinner. We choose 6.45 p.m.
In the Observation Car we meet up with the two doctors from Norfolk again and sit talking to them for a while. Nigel is busy taking photographs of the passing scene through the train window. We cross a very wide river.
“The mighty Mississippi,” Nigel murmurs and takes more photo’s. I should have brought my camera up here.
We leave the doctors and go down to the ‘snack bar, and have a beer. The woman looking after the bar is sitting at one of the tables talking to a colleague. She gets up and unlocks the door to the bar and serves us, then locks the door again and rejoins her friend. C and I are the only customers. Every few minutes a passenger comes in, orders coffee or crisps to take away and each time the woman running the bar gets up, unlocks, serves, locks up again and rejoins her friend and resumes their conversation which has become loud and raucous, to the extent we had difficulty in hearing each other.
We leave but as I start to climb the narrow staircase back up to the Observation Car I hear: “Hey, sir!”
I turn back. “Yes?” I say.
“Throw your trash into the trash box, please.” It's more like an order than a request. She is still sitting with her friend at the table.
I pick up the cans and plastic glasses we have left. “Where?” I say. She points to a cardboard box with “Trash” written on it, and I throw them in to it.
“Is there anything else I need to do?” I ask
“No, sir.” She says.
It seemed as if us being there was a bit of a nuisance
An announcement about the arrangements for dinner comes on the PA. “We practice community seating on The Zephyr’ the voice tells us. I presume that means we could be sat with two other passengers, and that is just the case as when we enter the dining car we are led to a table with a young girl and boy already seated. He is about 25. she barely 20.
“Hello.” We say and get ‘Hi’s’ back.
His hair is a bright purple colour on top, an ordinary brown at the sides, making him look quite bizarre, though maybe that is the idea. The girl's hair is a striking pink, a shade of pink I don't think I have seen before. He is doodling on the paper tablecloth. Squares on top of each other, circles in a row. He keeps touching the girls arm and leaning close to her and whispering. She clutches his hand and whispers back.
We study the menu. “What are you going to have?” I ask C. Steak he tells me. “Me too.” I say.
“We’re a steak table,” the girl says, smiling, “that’s what we are having.”
The boy says nothing. He is now studying the screen of his i-phone and stabbing at the keys with his fingers.
“Where are you going? I ask.
“Omaha.” The girl replies. “We’ve come from New York, we got married two weeks ago.”
“Congratulations.” C and I say together.
“Do you live in Omaha? Cyril asks.
The girl looks at the boy and he looks up from his mobile. “My children are there with my ex-wife. We are going to talk about custody.” He says and lowers his eyes back to the screen.
The meals are served. The girl tells us she is hoping to go to college to study psychiatry; the boy says he too is hoping to go to college, though I couldn’t make out, since he tended to mumble, what it was he wanted to study. Maybe it is how to play games on i-phones.
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