I had planned to spend February at home, but when a Santa Fe friend suggested I come visit, I was out of here in less than a week. I took the train. The Lake Shore Limited from New England to Chicago and the Southwest Chief on to New Mexico. Two days and two nights. I first did that route (going in the opposite direction) in 1961 when I left Santa Fe (where I was then working) and traveled out of my native western land for the very first time. I was off on an adventure then to get a book publishing job in NYC. I paid $87 for a one-way coach ticket and slept by curling up in the empty seat next to me. I read
The Sun Also Rises and wore high heels, stockings, and the same camel-hair coat I'd worn through high school and college.
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| This trip: approaching Albany, New York, on my way west |
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| Next morning, Elkhart, Indiana |
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| The Indiana scene |
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| Approaching Chicago |
I never counted all the cross-country trips I made after that. I know that one year, starting in California, I made the entire trip to New York eating only almonds and life savers. (I was always on a tight budget.) Having now put aside that life-style, I only do a long train trip if I can get a roomette. Even for one--though it can accommodate two--a roomette can be a bit cramped. But I appreciate having a little home of my own--the privacy, the quiet where I can simply read or gaze out the window. And I especially appreciate having a little bed to sleep in. (The Lake Shore Limited also has a commode and pull-down sink in each room.)
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| The following morning in western Kansas |
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| Western Kansas or eastern Colorado |
Of course, going by train means not having to get to the station two or three hours early or taking off one's shoes, belt, and coat to load into one of those scanning containers. It means no security pat-downs, no cramped seats or turbulence, no middle-seat assignments. It does mean a lot of whing-dinging down the track and swirly toots in the middle of the night as the train approaches each and every cross-road. Plus plenty of jiggling back and forth. But at least you know you're still on track. Train travel also highlights this country's scruffiness--the tumble-down, the abandoned, the rattletrap. The many heaps of old tires poured down ravines or into river beds. Unlike Switzerland or Germany, there's nothing tidy or charming about a train's view of our national landscape.
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| A typical scene |
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| La Junta, Colorado |
And the food leaves something to be desired. (For those traveling in sleepers, meals are included in the price.) I'll never forget my first breakfast on that long-ago Lake Shore Limited back in 1961--a heavenly bowl of hot oatmeal beautifully served on a well-ironed, well-starched tablecloth with a pitcher of
cream. Now it's paper table-"cloths," disposable containers of half-and-half, and little boxes of cold cereal. There's no such thing as toast, only warmed-over biscuits and "croissants" that would make the French cringe. No boiled or fried eggs, only scrambled or omelets from eggs long since cracked open. At lunch, ice cream gets plopped down on the table in a little cardboard carton. No gracious bowl, even, to put it in. As well, everything is in packets. Sugar, non-sugar, butter, non-butter. Plus a basket of ranch, Italian, and lite salad dressings. Burgers abound. As do hash browns for breakfast. Potato chips for lunch. Tough steaks for supper. All on disposable thin-plastic plates.
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| Stopping in La Junta for those who want to "de-train" and smoke. |
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| Northeastern New Mexico |
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| Raton, New Mexico |
But the train personnel were markedly helpful and pleasant. One even constructed a heating pad out of hot towels wrapped in plastic wrap when I experienced a back ache. (She also brought back a couple of those teensy bottles of Jack Daniels from the lounge car to help dissipate the discomfort.) Next day, Valentine's, she handed out Hershey kisses to those of us in her sleeper car. I found a
USA Today under my door one morning. A complete Sunday
New York Times on the return trip.
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| Early morning in Kansas City, Missouri, on the way home again |
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| Fort Madison, Iowa, where the track crosses the Mississippi which you can glimpse between the cars |
As a single traveler I was always seated at a table with other people. So I met a woman who'd written one book on the Rapture and was starting another advocating getting to Australia by taking a rocket straight up, waiting for Australia to come around underneath, then dropping down. I met a literary agent from New York, an English prof who gave his students Thoreau, Berry, and Dillard in his essay-writing class, and two Indiana sorts who'd gone out to San Diego for a big barbecue and hot sauce gathering. I met a Wisconsin man who wanted to build a house into a desert hillside (he wasn't sure where) and a Pennsylvania woman who was looking for
any compatible warm (and affordable) place to move to.
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| A brief leg-stretching stop |
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| Chicago's Union Station's surprisingly empty first class lounge |
And though I had a seven-hour wait in Chicago's Union Station on my way home, those of us in sleeper cars got to board an hour and a half early and then partake of complimentary wine and cheese in the dining car where we were given bunches of green and red grapes, three kinds of cheese, crackers, and our choice of Chardonnay or Shiraz. We could then crawl in bed even before the train pulled out of the station. It was over that Shiraz that I met the NY literary agent who'd just attended a gathering of 9,000 fellow agents, writers, and film people. We agreed that train travel was better than flying. Longer, but infinitely more relaxing.
Next week: a glimpse at Santa Fe's outdoor art
