The train conductor on the Pacific Surfliner takes my ticket and asks me if I’d like a glass of Chardonnay or Cabernet.
I'm sinking into my gigantic seat, like Chairy on Pee Wee's Playhouse, and I can’t quite catch what he's said, because Anthony, the Club Car barman, is on the PA system, singing one of his original compositions: “It’s a Beautiful Saturday for a Train Ride.”
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I say, wondering if this journey could pleasantly escalate to a full-on Karaoke marathon.
I am soaking wet from the Santa Barbara seashore and couldn't be happier. You see, we had a half hour layover at the S.B. station, and I took advantage of its two-block proximity to the beach to take a dip in my underwear. Welcome to Amtrak! You can board your sumptuous passenger car wet, salty, and a little delirious— no questions asked.
The Surfliner track runs right along the ocean, closer than any highway, and occasionally we duck in between the Ventura Beach fairground, the Ferris Wheel, towering palms, or massive red rock canyons.
I don’t know what to next, I'm so unaccustomed to this freedom of movement. I’m riding the Surfliner to the glamorous Union Station in Los Angeles, where I'll transfer to the SouthWest Chief line which will take me across the desert, at sunset, to Santa Fe.
If you have been riding planes in America for the last 50 years... as I have... or if you've perhaps been reduced to gasolining your way through the inter-states and toll roads... you have no idea the luxury of the train. You simply cannot duplicate the rail experience in a first class airline seat, or any automobile, however swank.
I have no seat belt on. I am in an enormous padded throne built for someone who could be twice my weight and height. I brought my hand-sewing with a needle, scissors, and thread. I’m typing on my computer, which is plugged into the adjacent wall. I’m drinking free coffee, free Chardonnay; I’m messaging on my iPhone while the gentleman behind me is saying "I love you," to someone on his. I have an enormous table spread out with all my snacks... which I brought on. I could go to the club car and have Anthony whip me up a gin and tonic and a panini. But I brought on my own Brie and rosemary marcona almonds.
Needless to say, there is no “terrorist shakedown” when I arrive at the train station. It’s as civilized as a 1950s tarmac, only more mellow, and with the aesthetics of a Hollywood romance.
That reason alone— to be treated like a human being— is why I decided to try taking the train for my present voyage. I have come SO close, SO CLOSE, to throttling numerous TSA agents, clawing their eyes out with my bare hands when I see them harassing some 80 year old in a wheelchair or a single dad with two infants. It's a miracle I haven't lost my inhibitions and been shipped to Gitmo. I have to take two Valium to take a plane anywhere today, thanks to Homeland Hypocrisy.
What am I trading, by switching from air to rail? Speed. But it's not as much as you think.
Because the airlines have shut down so many routes, I simply cannot get a flight from San Francisco to Albuquerque that progresses in any sort of efficient manner. There is no way to avoid a massive, hideous layover, where again I would be subjected to numerous constitutional violations and bodily insults. I can fly faster to London, England than I can to Albuquerque, or many short-distance U.S. locations.
But let’s go back to my railroad revelry. Yes, I bought a business class ticket, that’s why I got the wine and pillows. But the price difference wasn't a deterrent, it's the deal of the century. Should I shut my mouth before I ruin everything?
The Surfliner track runs right along the ocean, closer than any highway, and occasionally we duck in between the Ventura Beach fairground, the Ferris Wheel, towering palms, or massive red rock canyons.
At first I thought the whole process was daunting. I drove to the train station the morning of my departure wondering how many hours I needed for "pre-boarding." Hell, as it turned out, fifteen minutes would have done it. But since I was early, they gave me this big long free parking pass, even longer than I needed, “in case you wander off somewhere,” as the station agent told me.
It's all about to change, the rails. You can feel it. I look around me, and sure, there’s the traditional old train population: the fat, the families with multiple kids, the old folks, the drinkers, the smokers, the folks in wheelchairs. The inconvenienced never looked so hip. They probably view newbies like me with suspicion... are we going to make things better, or destroy a wonderful little secret?
But the folks like me are in great evidence. People who decided that an extra day of travel was well worth the marvelous journey. After all, I’m on VACATION.
The bus ride part of the trip was actually... great. The bathroom was better than any Mile High Club WC. I’m not kidding. You could actually move around in it. I had so much room. Back in my seat, I talked on the phone and spread out and took a snooze and monopolized the two seats the whole time without troubling anyone. I took pictures of the vintage-ear train stations like I was on assignment from National Geographic.
I started getting seduced by the rails last winter, when I took the short hop from Boston to Maine. The ride was stunning. Beautiful. It was so distracting I left my phone on the train. and when I called the next day, the guy at the station actually picked up the phone and said, "Yeah, it’s here, come on down."
Then, a month later, I took the short tun from Seattle to Portland. Breathtaking. The idea that this is a commuter route blew my mind. I want a job in the area just to take this train every day. The Seattle station was a wreck, which the station agents made witty remarks about... does the train workers union allow humor and intelligence?... but the Portland station was like a little turn of the century piece of steampunk come to life.
My mermaid hair is starting to dry; we're getting close to the Simi Valley station. I call my friend Tony Lovett as we draw closer to Los Angeles, to ask him where I should eat when I get to Union Station.
Tony is an expert of all LA's nooks and crannies, and he tells me to run over to Phillipe's, a block away, and get the double-dip lamb roast sandwich with blue cheese and cole slaw on the side. Turns out he's a veteran rail rider. He also tells me that I was going to love my overnight sleeper car, speeding across the Southwest desert.
Wait til you go to bed. The train, the tracks, the clickety-clack...it's like a massive steel lullabye. Look for a guy in the dining car with a middle initial that stands for "nothing."
Hmmm... Anthony is singing again. I wonder what his middle initial is. I have to run down to the club car and see him in person. I want to make a request.
Photo Credit: Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint in North by Northwest. Yes, my trip is this cool.
