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Sunday, August 12, 2007 ( 8/12/2007 06:54:00 AM ) Bill S. "SHE SAYS THE MAN IN THE GABARDINE SUIT IS A SPY" (I) – (Being a series of undigested thoughts and impressions from this writer's recent week-long trek to New Mexico and back.) Friday, 10:30 a.m.: Images from black-and-white movies dancing in our heads, my wife and I wait in the Normal Amtrak station for the 303 down to St. Louis. We’re taking the train to Alburqueque – first in two coaches, then in a sleeper car from Kansas City to New Mexico. When we first hit the ticket window for a status report, we’re told that our second coach – from St. Lou to K.C. – may instead be a bus, for apparently that part of the line has been wonky. Once we get on the first train, though, we're instead told that the 303 is capable of magically transforming into the 313 in St. Louis and that we'll likely not even have to switch trains. Thank god, we think – Nick Charles wouldn't ride the bus. In Central Illinois, most of the ride isn't all that scenic: you're either watching a blur of weed trees on either side of the coach or staring at I-55 across some cornfields. Whenever we slow down at some small town, we see a bunch of beat-up looking tract houses and trailers – rail lines don't typically go through upper-middle neighborhoods – so the sights aren't all that sparkly. Still, we're excited to be on the train – even if its regular jostling motions can be disconcerting. I thought the rhythm of the rails was supposed to be soothing. Passengers on coach tend to divide between college-age youths, geezers like us and those families who can't afford to fly. On the train for the first leg is a grandmother we know as a Unitarian minister. She's part of a big family excursion heading down to the Springfield that came in second in the Simpsons Movie contest, and her grandkids haven't ridden the rails before. As she leads one of 'em down to the snack car, we can't help grinning over the excitement he's displaying. Heck, even the safety doors are a treat to him. We do stay on the train at St. Louis – are kind of surprised to see how small the Amtrak station is for this major city (guess we were expecting something like Chicago’s Union Station) – wait an hour before the 313 takes us on again, past factories and warehouses festooned with gang signs. The ride out of St. Louis is fairly light on passengers – no wonder this part of the line is troubled, I say to Becky. But it turns out I spoke too soon: few minutes south of St. Louis, we stop at Kirkwood, Missouri, which looks to be a fairly prosperous burg, and take on a bunch of young ticket holders. The coach once more fills with noisy traveller chatter. We nosh on some crackers and peanut butter that we've brought in a carry-on bag and watch the Missouri countryside flash by . . . At 10:30, we find outselves outside on the platform in Kansas City, waiting for the Southern Pacific to arrive; while we wait, we chat with an older couple from California – the male has a long gray-haired ponytail – and learn that they've been traveling across the country via rail for the past week. Old hands, they're carrying about half as much luggage as we. I silently admire their packing skills. Because wife Becky walks with a cane, we've been able to snag a room on the lower level of the. Our compartment has two levels of beds, so I get top bunk. Twelve hours into our trip, and we're both exhausted, so we quickly change one at a time (not enough room for us to do it together), move the carry-on luggage out of the way so it hopefully won't trip either of us when we get up to use the toilet, then climb into our respective bunks. Have a little trouble negotiating myself around the straps designed to keep me from falling out, but I ultimately manage. My sleep is rocky. The mattress proves harder than I'm accustomed, and every time the train makes a serious jounce, I wake up: no deep REM sleep for this traveller. Beneath me, Becky seems to be sleeping a little more solidly – I listen to her rhythmic breathing – but one time in the middle of the night, I inadvertantly knock the sheet off so it dangles over the side and slaps my wife awake. Some time in the night, as I futilely struggle to find a comfortable position, I think, "My grandparents were way heartier than me." When we get up, we're in Colorado, and the scenery has definitely changed. Gone are the fmailiar cornfields and the boring Illinois farmscape; in their place are raggedy foothills, miles of brush and ywllowing prairies. We sit upstairs for a while on the observation level and look for unfamiliar wild life. I'm not as sharp at this sightseeing biz as my wife: more than once, she goes, "There's a pronghorn antelope!" but whenever she tries to point it out to me, I can't see the damn thing. At first, I suspect her of gaslighting me until we finally come upon a quartet of 'em – and Bifocal Boy can't miss 'em. We arrive at Albuquerque at 4:00 in the afternoon: twenty-nine-plus hours since we left Bloomington-Normal, IL. Next few days we'll be traipsing around the state in a rental car, but, for now, all we wanna do is head to our motel and collapse. Feels odd to have floors beneath our feet that don't wobble and jerk . . . |
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