Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Election Day, the Perfect Time to Arrive in Washington D.C.
In reflection on the past four days on the T.R., I would like to discuss a few of the finer details of train travel that I have experienced thus far.
Anyway, so after a breakfast fraught with fear of the dining car staff, and a morning of gorgeous scenery-watching with Steven and his lovely grandmother***, we arrived in Washington D.C.'s Union Station just before 2pm.
Washington D.C. is so imposing and grand! One can tell by its scale that it was designed as a capital, not just as some colonial settlement. We walked from the station to HI Washington D.C. and got a warm welcome from the accommodating gentlemen working there. The place is quite large, but not impersonal, and they had loads of recommendations for us. It being election day, my father was determined to find us something democratic to do, so he somehow procured an invite to a reception at the Swedish embassy. There, we wined and dined, schmoozed with the Swedish Ambassador and his family, and an international delegation of election officials here to witness and discuss how we do democracy here in the U.S.
Upon our return to the hostel, he left me downstairs with a group of various foreigners, where I promptly started a debate with a young Brazilian man, to the amusement**** of the front desk staff in front of whom the exchange took place. Once all bystanders were convinced that I was indeed the victor, I retired to my room, leaving a trail of amazed international guests in my wake, each more impressed by my rhetorical prowess than the last. I needed to get a good night's sleep before our early morning monument tour, to be led by the "serious and thorough" Vietnam veteran and hostel volunteer, Larry.*****
NOTES:
*Hark, Amtrak!
**I experienced the former on the Zephyr and the latter, unfortunately, on the Limited. And I am not exaggerating- I talked to many other passengers, including Steven, and they all agreed. Horrifying.
***Our favorite stop was Harpers Ferry, where in 1859 John Brown led an infamous slave uprising and took over the US Armory and Arsenal there. The town later changed hands over 10 times during the Civil War, and is now approximately 99% owned by the National Park Service and Historic Register designated. I liked the pretty old houses.
****I use this term hopefully...
*****God help me.
- One very important thing that I have found* is that the employees on the train make a huge difference as to how your overall travel experience goes, especially on lengthy journeys. Since one of the most important positives aspects differentiating the train from other modes of transit is the humane, friendly experience, the difference between vivacious and helpful attendants and evil hags that strike fear in your heart and would happily break your traveling spirit and see you locked away for eternity, is marked.**
- While the food has its high and low points, it is consistently better and more diverse than the comestibles on any other mode of transit, including transatlantic steamer ship.
- You may think you are going to be bored relaxing and looking out windows for days on end, but you are wrong. My father and I were shocked at how few activities we actually managed to partake in, how few "tasks" we accomplished. You will become an expert at merely watching and enjoying.
- With train travel, you will arrive refreshed. When I got to D.C., my dear friend Megan asked, "So are you jet lagged, or train lagged, or something?" and I could honestly respond, "No, I feel great, though I may need someone to subtly rock my bed in a train-like manner to fall asleep tonight." Which came across much creepier than I meant.
Anyway, so after a breakfast fraught with fear of the dining car staff, and a morning of gorgeous scenery-watching with Steven and his lovely grandmother***, we arrived in Washington D.C.'s Union Station just before 2pm.
Washington D.C. is so imposing and grand! One can tell by its scale that it was designed as a capital, not just as some colonial settlement. We walked from the station to HI Washington D.C. and got a warm welcome from the accommodating gentlemen working there. The place is quite large, but not impersonal, and they had loads of recommendations for us. It being election day, my father was determined to find us something democratic to do, so he somehow procured an invite to a reception at the Swedish embassy. There, we wined and dined, schmoozed with the Swedish Ambassador and his family, and an international delegation of election officials here to witness and discuss how we do democracy here in the U.S.
Upon our return to the hostel, he left me downstairs with a group of various foreigners, where I promptly started a debate with a young Brazilian man, to the amusement**** of the front desk staff in front of whom the exchange took place. Once all bystanders were convinced that I was indeed the victor, I retired to my room, leaving a trail of amazed international guests in my wake, each more impressed by my rhetorical prowess than the last. I needed to get a good night's sleep before our early morning monument tour, to be led by the "serious and thorough" Vietnam veteran and hostel volunteer, Larry.*****
NOTES:
*Hark, Amtrak!
**I experienced the former on the Zephyr and the latter, unfortunately, on the Limited. And I am not exaggerating- I talked to many other passengers, including Steven, and they all agreed. Horrifying.
***Our favorite stop was Harpers Ferry, where in 1859 John Brown led an infamous slave uprising and took over the US Armory and Arsenal there. The town later changed hands over 10 times during the Civil War, and is now approximately 99% owned by the National Park Service and Historic Register designated. I liked the pretty old houses.
****I use this term hopefully...
*****God help me.
En Route to the Windy City; or, How Amtrak Thwarts Our Pizza Dreams
We slept through the entire state of Nebraska.
The Plains were a new sight for me, passing through towns like Osceola and Ottumwa, and watching seemingly endless rolling farms, every homestead flanked by at least one silo and an assortment of heavy duty agricultural equipment.
The train was running a couple of hours late at this point, and various passengers had started to get anxious about connecting trains in Chicago. My father and I, however, are easy to sedate with large quantities of something called "Railroad French Toast" so we were confident and largely immobile for the afternoon. We had befriended a boy called Steven* and his grandmother, who home schools him and is taking him on the Best Field Trip Ever to look at points of interest in American history on the east coast. My fame, success, and the huge monetary recompense I get for my work inspired them to become bloggers as well, and I helped them start their own blog.**
We were due to arrive in Chicago at 3pm and our connection to D.C. would not depart until 6:30, giving us the perfect, wedge-shaped slice of time in which to seek out some authentic deep dish Chicago-style pizza. However, as we neared the Chicago area, sweeping past steepled churches, autumnal woods, quaint German bakeries, and perfect green lawns sloping towards stately red brick buildings, we consulted our watches, time tables and various other instruments and were confronted with the bone chilling realization that we were, in fact, three hours late. This translated into my subsequent realization that the Markusons would not be partaking in any cheesy, saucy goodness that afternoon.
We were herded quickly though Union Station,*** and onto our next train which, to our pleasant surprise, was newer and had been slightly tweaked to have a more classy, vintage aesthetic- wood panelling, swept edges, faux granite counters, and a vaguely art-deco dining car. Our porter, a gentleman by the name of Emmanuel, introduced himself, gave us an outline of our journey, and offered us ice. Very kind of you, sir.
Our dinner companions were Bill, an international businessman who said I would do great in D.C. on account of my take-no-prisoners wit and confident**** attitude, and Sharon, who, poor woman, fell prey to a barrage of all of our thoughts and feelings about the entire Amtrak system when we found out she was a corporate employee.
Dad and I snuck our chocolate peanut butter pie back to our compartment to watch the 1970s adventure comedy, Silver Streak, which stars an awesome Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor in bell bottoms. Another thrilling and very funny train movie, also high ranking on my 100 Greatest. We would pass Ohio and Pennsylvania under the cover of darkness, to awake following the Potomac River toward our final destination.
NOTES:
*See yesterday's snowball fight.
**If it were not for me, Google would be nothing!
***99% of train stations in the U.S. are called as such, FYI.
****Read: cocky
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
The Plains were a new sight for me, passing through towns like Osceola and Ottumwa, and watching seemingly endless rolling farms, every homestead flanked by at least one silo and an assortment of heavy duty agricultural equipment.
The train was running a couple of hours late at this point, and various passengers had started to get anxious about connecting trains in Chicago. My father and I, however, are easy to sedate with large quantities of something called "Railroad French Toast" so we were confident and largely immobile for the afternoon. We had befriended a boy called Steven* and his grandmother, who home schools him and is taking him on the Best Field Trip Ever to look at points of interest in American history on the east coast. My fame, success, and the huge monetary recompense I get for my work inspired them to become bloggers as well, and I helped them start their own blog.**
We were due to arrive in Chicago at 3pm and our connection to D.C. would not depart until 6:30, giving us the perfect, wedge-shaped slice of time in which to seek out some authentic deep dish Chicago-style pizza. However, as we neared the Chicago area, sweeping past steepled churches, autumnal woods, quaint German bakeries, and perfect green lawns sloping towards stately red brick buildings, we consulted our watches, time tables and various other instruments and were confronted with the bone chilling realization that we were, in fact, three hours late. This translated into my subsequent realization that the Markusons would not be partaking in any cheesy, saucy goodness that afternoon.
We were herded quickly though Union Station,*** and onto our next train which, to our pleasant surprise, was newer and had been slightly tweaked to have a more classy, vintage aesthetic- wood panelling, swept edges, faux granite counters, and a vaguely art-deco dining car. Our porter, a gentleman by the name of Emmanuel, introduced himself, gave us an outline of our journey, and offered us ice. Very kind of you, sir.
Our dinner companions were Bill, an international businessman who said I would do great in D.C. on account of my take-no-prisoners wit and confident**** attitude, and Sharon, who, poor woman, fell prey to a barrage of all of our thoughts and feelings about the entire Amtrak system when we found out she was a corporate employee.
Dad and I snuck our chocolate peanut butter pie back to our compartment to watch the 1970s adventure comedy, Silver Streak, which stars an awesome Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor in bell bottoms. Another thrilling and very funny train movie, also high ranking on my 100 Greatest. We would pass Ohio and Pennsylvania under the cover of darkness, to awake following the Potomac River toward our final destination.
NOTES:
*See yesterday's snowball fight.
**If it were not for me, Google would be nothing!
***99% of train stations in the U.S. are called as such, FYI.
****Read: cocky
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Monday, November 1, 2010
Through Colorado, the Switzerland of America
My first night sleeping in the upper berth* did not disappoint. While the mattress was on the firm side, it was comfortable, and I rose feeling quite rested and awestruck by the expanse of sun charred orange desert gleaming on all sides of us. Not daring to use our six inch square shower yet, we went straight to breakfast. My father, the champ, uncomplainingly ate his worrisome pile of minced eggs, house potatoes, and sausage, while I listened to various other diners loudly state things like, "No. You do not understand. This is the single worst sausage patty I have ever seen, let alone eaten. Ever." I very much enjoyed my oatmeal.
We had moved into the dramatically named Mountain Time Zone, which reminded me of the little known story of how the U.S. first was came to have time zones. Until the railroad became an important industry in the U.S., every isolated yeoman hamlet ran on it's own time, determined by the sun. It was not until trains began connecting distant and previously disconnected areas that the need arose for any sort of reliable timekeeping. It was the railroad industry itself that finally called the General Time Convention of 1883, breaking the continent up into four standardized time zones regulated nationally instead of thousands guessed at by local magicians.
It is these sort of tangential relationships that one can explore fully when one embraces the slower rhythm of life on a train. But I digress.
Our first stop of interest, where we were able to get off the train and explore the surrounding area, was Grand Junction, Colorado. I saw very little of active grandeur, nor of things being conjoined in any productive manner. In a true showing of American disregard for conservation of any kind, there was a succession of three stations from different eras along the tracks. Of course, the newest and worst eyesore was the one currently in use, and co-housed what a hand-painted tarp told me was Grand Junction's "GOP HQ" However I did find, via a dismal tourism display in the station, that the city is the self-proclaimed capital of Colorado's wine country. They also have many options for ATV rental and llama-themed bed and breakfast vacations.
At two other stops we were able to scamper outside and sniff about looking for trouble. In Glenwood Springs, where Teddy Roosevelt used to vacation at the Hotel Colorado, we found a yellow castle guarded by two enormous water slides, as well as a gift shop disguised as a railroad museum run by a joyless man masquerading as a railroad conductor. In Fraser, I got into a vicIous snowball fight with a 300 pound Amtrak porter and an eight year old boy called Steven.**
We arrived early in Denver, at 6pm, and had over an hour to explore the downtown area, during which time my father and I saw a family of zombies eating dinner on a restaurant patio, and founded a local food bank program to help provide disenfranchised youth obtain Chipotle burritos.***
Back on the train, Dad and I ate delicious New York steak and some sort of reconstituted salmon jerky product, respectively, in the very pleasant company of a couple from New Zealand on a two week, pan-continental holiday. Our nightly train film was the implausible and overall ridiculous 1990 remake of The Narrow Margin.
The next day would find us on the Great Plains, steaming**** towards Chicago.
NOTES:
*Train lingo for top bunk
**I think it is obvious who won.
***What actually happened was two desperate homeless folks asked us for money for a burrito, and I, desperate for something to accomplish in Denver, said "How about we buy you a burrito instead?" expecting some muttered reply retracting their request. But, lo and behold, their faces brightened, and they dragged me into the burrito chain with them ranting about a Halloween deal where burritos were, they thought, free if one covered one's body with a certain quantity of foil. However, after ordering they were confronted with a total price of 4 dollars for their two burritos. Penniless, they had resorted to begging outside. Their enormous burritos were waiting patiently for them as I paid the clerk. It was a Halloween miracle.
****I use the term figuratively.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
We had moved into the dramatically named Mountain Time Zone, which reminded me of the little known story of how the U.S. first was came to have time zones. Until the railroad became an important industry in the U.S., every isolated yeoman hamlet ran on it's own time, determined by the sun. It was not until trains began connecting distant and previously disconnected areas that the need arose for any sort of reliable timekeeping. It was the railroad industry itself that finally called the General Time Convention of 1883, breaking the continent up into four standardized time zones regulated nationally instead of thousands guessed at by local magicians.
It is these sort of tangential relationships that one can explore fully when one embraces the slower rhythm of life on a train. But I digress.
Our first stop of interest, where we were able to get off the train and explore the surrounding area, was Grand Junction, Colorado. I saw very little of active grandeur, nor of things being conjoined in any productive manner. In a true showing of American disregard for conservation of any kind, there was a succession of three stations from different eras along the tracks. Of course, the newest and worst eyesore was the one currently in use, and co-housed what a hand-painted tarp told me was Grand Junction's "GOP HQ" However I did find, via a dismal tourism display in the station, that the city is the self-proclaimed capital of Colorado's wine country. They also have many options for ATV rental and llama-themed bed and breakfast vacations.
At two other stops we were able to scamper outside and sniff about looking for trouble. In Glenwood Springs, where Teddy Roosevelt used to vacation at the Hotel Colorado, we found a yellow castle guarded by two enormous water slides, as well as a gift shop disguised as a railroad museum run by a joyless man masquerading as a railroad conductor. In Fraser, I got into a vicIous snowball fight with a 300 pound Amtrak porter and an eight year old boy called Steven.**
We arrived early in Denver, at 6pm, and had over an hour to explore the downtown area, during which time my father and I saw a family of zombies eating dinner on a restaurant patio, and founded a local food bank program to help provide disenfranchised youth obtain Chipotle burritos.***
Back on the train, Dad and I ate delicious New York steak and some sort of reconstituted salmon jerky product, respectively, in the very pleasant company of a couple from New Zealand on a two week, pan-continental holiday. Our nightly train film was the implausible and overall ridiculous 1990 remake of The Narrow Margin.
The next day would find us on the Great Plains, steaming**** towards Chicago.
NOTES:
*Train lingo for top bunk
**I think it is obvious who won.
***What actually happened was two desperate homeless folks asked us for money for a burrito, and I, desperate for something to accomplish in Denver, said "How about we buy you a burrito instead?" expecting some muttered reply retracting their request. But, lo and behold, their faces brightened, and they dragged me into the burrito chain with them ranting about a Halloween deal where burritos were, they thought, free if one covered one's body with a certain quantity of foil. However, after ordering they were confronted with a total price of 4 dollars for their two burritos. Penniless, they had resorted to begging outside. Their enormous burritos were waiting patiently for them as I paid the clerk. It was a Halloween miracle.
****I use the term figuratively.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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