Taking Another Step Forward

            I’m on a train, going somewhere.  Nearly four years ago, when the United States elected Barack Obama, I partied in streets of Harlem, reveling in the wonder of a hard fought victory.  The thing was, then, the general election was easier than the primary.  I was a huge Hillary fan and remain one today.  John McCain in many ways handed us the election, but America was hungry to take a step forward.  And so we did. 

            Today, as I ride the Pennsylvanian west to Pittsburgh, with Amish farmers plowing fields alongside derelict steel factories, I think we’re yearning for another step.  So I’m on my way to ensure not just victory for the President here in PA, but to make sure we take another step forward as a nation.

            My fear is that if people see the race going towards Obama, voters will say, “Oh, he’s going to win so I don’t have to vote for him again.”  This is terrifying, as there are also many down ticket races that are critical to the future of this country. 

            Now I’m a party guy, both in terms of politics and socializing. Looking at the map though, there’s going to be some changes: It’s likely we’ll have a new Independent from Maine in the Senate; there’s a tough fight going on in Montana to keep a farmer and fighter in his Senate seat; and even in my home state of Connecticut, a wrestling giant has spent exorbitantly and refaced herself to make her lies and indecency more appealing to an otherwise deep blue state.  Which is why the President at the top of the ticket still matters.  And people need to turn out. 

Other Senate and House races in South Dakota and Virginia, New Mexico and Missouri will be fueled by the large push from the Obama campaign, with hopes of giving the President some coat tails again. We all know the tails won’t be as big as they were in 2008 – a time when 59 Democrats were elected to the Senate, then got 60 when the late Arlen Spector change his party because the Republican party left him.  This will not happen, but we need to hold on, and making sure people turn out to vote is part of that strategy.

I won’t bore you with this crap.  Other blogs and talking heads do that already.  So here’s the deal: I’ll be directing a field office/GOTV operation in Monroeville, one of Pittsburgh’s most populous suburbs.  If you know PA, we win by ensuring big turn out in Philly and Pittsburgh and buttressing that vote with a solid win in the suburbs of those cities.  Scranton’s native Joe will certainly be a boost in the northeastern corner of the state, too.  Now we know the numbers look good here; so good, that after GOP leaders in Ohio begged the Romney camp to step up their game there, Romney pulled staff from PA and sent them to OH.  Which is fine.  The President doesn’t have a path to victory without Pennsylvania, and while not the swing state it was in 2008 and 2004, it is a must win.

So I’ll be knocking on doors, talking to people, hoping they’ll see that this election presents a clear choice to voters: that of an intrusive and hypocritical ticket, one that seeks to go back to the failed policies of the past and throw away for vouchers all we were guaranteed for generations as Americans.  Or the other guy, who is fighting for the middle class.  Who saved the auto industry because it wasn’t just about them, but about the millions of jobs that support that industry.  My dad would have likely lost his job if not for the bailout.  My mom’s business could have closed if not for the stimulus and auto bail out.  And then there’s standing up for women’s rights and healthcare; being bullish and astute on the myriad issues of foreign policy; chipping away at what is the No Child Left Behind Act; putting (a paltry) $8 billion towards rail and high speed rail investment.  All these things were small steps, which fueled the bigger one of putting us on a more competitive edge with the rest of the rapidly changing and developing world.

I see it as simple: I’m supporting someone who supports me.  Who sees me as equal, both as a working class person, and for the first time ever, as a Gay American, worthy of the same rights as every other individual.  That part probably won’t be a big selling point in PA, but it matters at heart, and it’s part of the reason I’m hitting the trail.

Stay tuned for dispatches from the field.  I’m hoping to get some audio up here, too.

Now let’s keep going. 

On to Victory.

Baggage & History: a Preface

No matter how many times you check the fucking list, there will always be something you think you’re missing; something you clearly overlooked or blatantly forgot. That one piece of clothing you love to travel with, have never gone without, and this time around it didn’t make it into the suitcase. No matter the trip, big or small, near or far, packing is, I believe, the bane of a traveler’s existence.

For one of the first times in my life, my comprehensive list – along with self-illustrated maps and icons – provided me with a brilliant blueprint of what would be fitting into my red-wheeler. Granted, a few extra items found their way in, but I managed to have extra room for the return. Perhaps my biggest fear this go round is that for the first time in 5 years, I’m flying without my beloved green and orange Calvin Klein shoulder bag. Call me materialistic, call me shallow, but the bag was fucking brilliant. Perfectly shaped, deceivingly huge, and waterproof, it is the travelers perfect carry-on. But I’ve had it for five years and have lugged it nearly every single day around the City, and on every trip, near and far, since I purchased it. And so, during my recent jaunt to LA and Portland, one of the bottom corners cracked. I refuse to further destroy this accessory. The irony is that I’ve been trying to find a new bag – not a replacement, but a supplement – for probably a year now. That find did not come soon enough. Thankfully, I’m headed to the textile capital of South America, where Toby says there are tons and tons and tons of bags, all shapes, colors, styles and sizes that I’ll be able to choose from. My fingers are crossed.

If you know me, you’ll laugh knowing I have no shortage of bags to choose from. I’m toting a black leather weekender, shoulder strap, which was the first overnight bag I ever purchased in high school for a trip to Florida. It’s practical and sturdy. I just hate that it’s black and leather.

Now that I’ve stupidly rambled about the death of my beloved bag, I guess I should impart on where I’m headed: Medellin, Colombia and the surrounding area. Before my current employ, I worked as a personal assistant for a life-long New Yorker who lives in Morningside Heights. Her name is Toby. You may have heard a story or twelve. The tale of our meeting is as wondrous as any New York introduction: We were sharing a bench in the north garden at the Conservatory Gardens in Central Park. It was my birthday and it was gorgeous outside. She’s an artist, and was busily sketching the freshly blooming crab apple trees, along with all the virginal colors of spring; I had tired of my magazine but stayed to take in rays. She was suddenly flummoxed by a section of her pastel drawing, and I noticed. Being the art lover that I am, and critic too, I guess, I spoke up. I began working for her soon thereafter, and within six months, we were off to Costa Rica. Then I landed my current job and we’ve remained dear friends ever since.

But I digress: Colombia! A shockingly sprawling country in the north of South America, it is the only country on the continent that has coasts on both the Pacific and Atlantic (Caribbean Sea) Oceans. The fourth largest in South America and 26th largest country in the world, it is the welcome land after passing through Panama as the most southern country in Central America. Second only to Vietnam in coffee exports, it also has a booming cut floral industry, as well as textile manufacturing. While known throughout the world for its civil strife and drug trade, Colombia has blossomed in the past decade. Though it still struggles daily with the FARC, guerillas, and para-militaries, many of its cities are safe to visit and indeed benefit from a revived tourist industry. I say this now, not having been there. But Toby has been a few times and has dear friends there. I also know a few folks from Semester at Sea who have visited, and there’s even one there now, whom I’m hoping to grab a beer with.

Medellín, also known as the City of Eternal Spring, lies inland, flanked by two Andean mountain chains: Cordillera Occidental to the west and Cordillera Central to the east. It boasts the only meto-line in the country, as well as a cable car, and elaborate bus system. Its parks are lush and streets brimming with public art because of a City-ordinance that required art be built or displayed when new construction was erected.

We’re staying in El Poblado. It’s the newly chic nabe, safe, and filled with expats and locals, as well as some nightlife and shopping. Toby has already visited a finca (coffee farm) and we’ll be going again. She met someone who has a car we’ll be able to take for day trips apparently, too. There’s also buses that traverse the entire country, so we’ll have our share of urban and rural. After all, as an equatorial wonder, Colombia is home to tropical jungles and grassy lowlands, mountain grasslands, deserts, and scrublands, to name just a few of its environmental categories.

Unlike our last adventure, we’ll know people in the City we’re starting in. Costa Rica is quite a different place, but I think we’ll fare just fine in Colombia. I hear the roads are better, too. Keep your fingers crossed.

I’m heading to the M60 in less than four hours. Will report from Medellín soon!

The Far West

A few hours after Matt and I arrived in Los Angeles, we found ourselves roaming the Santa Monica oceanfront, walking towards the kitschy Pier along a path with houses whose ocean views are blocked by the staircases they installed to get from deck to deck. I jokingly observed, after seeing a long board rider plug his board into a gun-like triggered motor take off down the pathway with his bulldog standing on with him, that we were indeed experiencing one of the most foreign cultures in the world. He laughed, as he always lovingly does, at my outrageous ability to exaggerate a simple oddity of west coast human existence.

But I do not relent on my observation that we are immersed in a foreign culture out here in the Far West. Los Angeles was one thing: With its hiking in gorgeous green parks that abut an urban sprawl cloaked with smog and haze, creating a wildly odd juxtaposition of rural against urban; the ever-creeping encroachment of the wealthy desire to live further and further up the slopes of delicate mountains; and its endless string of freeways and highways that rush cars from one superficial site to another. There is the bohemian delight of Venice Beach where the scent of weed looms in the cool breeze, the hipsters of Silver Lake where I enjoyed a proper martini, and the rather generic and banal surroundings on Hollywood Boulevard immediately neighboring the Grauman Chinese Theater. LA was, nonetheless, fabulous: a great Semester at Sea reunion and a visit with a friend who now lives in a different place than me for the first time in 24 years.

The highlight of our LA jaunt was by far J. Paul Getty’s museums: The Getty Center and the Getty Villa in Malibu. Both brilliant homes for renowned art collections, the Getty Center I found more apt to visit for its gardens and buildings as opposed to its collection; some might disagree. Towering and sharp modern sandstone edifices jumped out from the bright blue sky as undulating walls surrounded formal gardens. The verdant cliff below added to the grandiosity of the Richard Miere structure. Being the antiquities lover that I am, I was in heaven at the Villa, created after a Roman Villa in Herculaneum that was buried and therefore preserved by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Colonnaded walkways and fresco paintings, herb gardens filled with pools and bronze sculptures, and pocket rooms of galleries filled with relics from one of our species greatest cultures. Both were locations of time well spent.

Now we are in another wild world of the Far West, traversing some of the most stunning vistas on the west coast, arguably the globe, on the Pacific Coast Starlight (PCS) train number 14. We have a lovely little roomette on the east side of the train, a delightful cabin steward named Lorna, and a fabulous waiter named James in the dining car. We departed at 12:15pm Pacific Standard Time from Los Angeles’ stunning Union Station. Built in 1939 in a mix of southwest and art deco styles, the station is a beacon of style refinement. Towering arched porticos flanked both sides of the station that looked out onto courtyards with adobe-colored tiles lining the grounds, subtle mosaics in burnt earth tones on the wall panels were complimented by the elaborate signs, lighting fixtures, exaggerated coffered ceilings, and sundry mix of design elements, all exuded a well-refined deco execution. It seems to be one of the last great Union Stations of the country, and its precision in design proves that the styles had been perfected during the nearly 20 years of building—and re-building—some of America’s greatest train stations.

The joy of long distance train travel comes from not being in a rush. We’ll get to Portland whenever we get there. In the mean time, this 27 hour ride is a vacation in and of itself—a moving hotel that provides entertainment and comfort, constantly changing views, and a relaxation that all other types of travel diminish rather than enhance. This is Matt’s first long-distance train trip in the US and he’s thrilled. I am too.

Yesterday we settled into our roomette, taking in the southern California coastline, watching as the landscape morphed from the gritty industrial side of LA and Burbank climbing south to a more pleasant Simi Valley, Santa Barbara, and onto San Luis Obispo as we horseshoe curved along the bluffs of the Pacific Coast. With oilrigs just off shore and the Channel Islands sheathed in a California fog, we toasted our complimentary bottle of champagne and then opened the full size bottle we packed with us. We had lunch and toured the train, with its Parlor Car, Dining Car, and Lounge Car all available whenever we wanted to stretch our legs more than the room permitted. The most exciting part of this train is the Parlor Car. The PCS is the only train left in the country where such a car exists. Great swivel lounge chairs line windows that arch almost all the way around the car and petite dining tables provide sleeping-car passengers with an alternative dining option as well as an afternoon wine tasting of local wines and cheeses. Tasteful train music also fills the air; Van Morrison is playing now, but jazz, classical, oldies, and big-band era tunes have played too.

This morning we awoke to a strikingly different landscape. Pine forests and steep snow-topped mountains encase the two-story train that hums and shakes along. Rivers and frozen swamps fill farmed valleys bespeckled with dilapidated houses and farm equipment; patches of snow dot the orange-brown ground caked in pine needles. A bald eagle flew by earlier. “Ladies and Gentleman, may I have your attention please! Next stop, Chemult, OR. Chemult, OR, coming up shortly.”

We’ll lunch shortly, and wine taste again this afternoon, read and play cards. And perhaps have a sip or two of whiskey before debarking in Portland this evening.

Why this country has forgotten about the joy of train travel is beyond me. The world is eclipsing the United States in rail transit—both generic and high-speed—development and has for decades already. I heard President Obama said this is our generations chance to have a “Sputnik moment” in his State of the Union address (which I also heard was a success). I have no idea what he was referring to, but I think those energies should be directed to investment and creation of transportation infrastructure, with a focus on railways, NOT highways. It seems part of the reason American’s disregard rail is because of a selfish desire to do whatever you want, no matter the cost or consequence. Buy big SUVs to drive one person to work; fly back and forth on short-leg flights that are served just as well by rail; and a forgotten notion that this country should strive to lead in everything—no matter that cost--and that includes rail development. But no. People would rather carry their guns to grocery stores and truly believe that taxes are for bad, when really they’re for public benefit.

I’ll stop there--Our seating time has been called for lunch.

[Writer’s note: Contrary to posted advertisements, the train did not have wireless. This is being posted from a couch in Portland.]

Liberty, and Part of the Pursuit, Too

Pardon me, for I had to wait a day to digest and not allow this post to be polluted by premature epitaphs, vitriolic profanity, and haughty commentary. However, that is not a caveat to prevent any of the aforementioned. For it will, perhaps, be more stinging and not so hysterical. Or, maybe even more hysterical.

The military’s Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy is blatantly discriminatory. Barbara Boxer, the junior Senator from California, rightly compared this country’s bigotry with Iran, Pakistan, Venezuela, and North Korea. What an atrocity. While the Bronx and Boston happily takes free oil from Venezuela and for years our government has propped up a corrupt Pakistani regime, to pair our great nation with such a demonized group really carries heft.

More than 13,000 of our bravest and boldest have been discharged under the policy. Many of whom were specialists in their fields, including fluency in Arabic. This policy was on the verge of being overturned, and President Obama has made clear that this policy is a mistake of the past.

That mission failed, and did so in a disgustingly anti-climatic, modernly typical fashion.

The greatest, most deliberative chamber in the world is an embarrassment. The United States Senate has failed to achieve its most basic of tasks, and while doing so, has driven the very people it represents into an unyielding abyss of discrimination, immaturity, and recklessness. This should come as no surprise to those who have followed the chamber’s spineless actions for the past decade or so.

Though it has been two long years since the horrific and ignorant George W. Bush departed from the great House that is White, and seventeen years since the triangular William Jefferson Clinton signed the law we protest today, their actions and personas continue to wreck havoc on the institution that is supposed to be a check in their balance. As expected, their policies continue to help and indeed strain a nation that is itching to stretch and grow. One enacted, the other proudly executed, even while at war.

For the US Senate to fail this bill on a procedural vote is insolent. A single senator (John McCain, R-AZ) in the minority filibustered the Defense Spending bill, thus preventing it from even coming to the floor. The bill included pay raises for our troops, benefits for veterans, a repeal of the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy, and give legal residency to young immigrants who serve two years in the military or spend two years in college (the DREAM Act). This was clearly no small bill, both in dollar and in action. The vote was 56-43—and it failed. Odd, I agree. But debate could not commence because 60 votes are required to enact cloture, the quick end to debate (but not one about the bill being prevented from debate); one of the many marvelously arcane rules of the Senate. Today’s Senators don’t even have to actually filibuster: that is, to hijack debate and prevent discussion on the topic at hand by speaking for hours on end. They just invoke, and boom—the body is stalled.

This piece, “A Filibuster Fix,” by Norman Ornsten, explains the history of the tool and what needs to happen to it for the Senate to continue existing in a productive manner. A must read for Senate enthusiasts.

Now if I may: the sole 1 of 100 undeniably responsible for this sordid and absurdly childish act was the GOP’s former front man: the once great John McCain. Oh, what a Maverick! A man who once defended principle over party and logic over idealism is now pussy-whipped by Sarah Palin and seduced by Glenn Beck (ignoring of course, the litany of decorated generals who support repealing the law). There once was a Senator from Arizona who could have been president. Now, the senior Senator from Arizona has embraced extremism, cuddled up to the American fundamentalists, and sucks the cock of the Ronald Regan he envisions. To see someone formerly valiant and respected pivot so vividly is appalling. Gays can flip-flop; for elected officials, it’s not good business.

I’m angry. Can you tell?

Then of course, there is Democrat Blanche Lincoln and her fellow AK partner in crime, Mark Pryor, also a supposed Democrat. Both cowards. I wonder if it’s coincidence that the very President who signed this bigoted law into action is from the same state. I guess there must be something in the water, or maybe the corn.

But then again, the president of the successful, peaceful, and surplus-filled 90’s now stands for marriage equality and regrets DADT.

I’ll admit there are a few Republicans I still respect, though that number continues to dwindle. And I even have to give traitor Joe Lieberman a nob for his stance on this issue. There are Susan Collins and Olymipa Snowe of Maine, at times Judd Gregg of NH, and even Scott Brown has taken the typical Northeastern Republican route of socially liberal while being fiscally inconsiderate. But no more. Susan Collins, who spoke in favor of repealing DADT, voted against this bill because she wanted more amendments from Republicans to be entertained. Well guess what: Republicans are in the minority for a reason. A decade ago, Republican leadership squandered a surplus and ignored the need for infrastructure investment. Considering the destruction they’ve created in the past several decades—detrimental trickle down economic policies that spoon feed the rich with exorbitant tax cuts, fueling corporations while raping the middle class and small businesses (yes, I said raping), and running this nation to war without a means to pay for it—time has come for them to be ignored and be told to STAND DOWN. Especially when it comes to policies that involve civil rights. Why I bet if gays loved guns, there would be no problem with their rights at all.

We are living in a time where borders barely matter. Visibility is a curse for bigotry and we see that all over the world, east to west: from stonings in Iran to indoctrinated homophobia in America. Right now in New York, the world has descended on the UN and you can see firsthand the protest of counties that have ignorant and discriminatory policies. It’s sad when we’re one of them, too.

During the Holocaust, gays were burned alongside Jews and gypsies in countries like Germany and Poland. The United States, while driven into war because of attack on her homeland, stood up against genocide and discrimination. Now, counties that were ruled by one of the world’s most ghastly leaders, countries where homosexuals were discriminated against in the streets and in constitutions, allow gays to serve openly in their military. But here, where our force is voluntary, we say “go away.”

History is our most brilliant judge. As frustrating as it may be to wait and fight for equality on all fronts—gays, women, immigration—we must never forget the very simple premise of our Country’s existence: not just that all are created equal, but that we, the people of this utterly fabulous nation, have the right to Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit to Happiness.

Nowhere else in the world can such words be so used and so abused. What are they waiting for?

We're Fine

Dear Non-New York City Resident:

We’re fine. Stop asking how things are in the City. Our resilience is far stronger than the typical American. If it weren’t, this country would have floundered long, long ago. While I recognize that the failed bombing in Times Square may have shaken a few, why would that change how we live each day after? As only the BBC seems to point out, “The Show Must Go On.”

I wildly disagree with the first woman quoted in the BBC article who was afraid to leave her apartment and is avoiding Times Square. How childish and ignorant. To be so afraid as to not leave your apartment is a bit extreme. Maybe she’s willing to fast and stall the micro-economy that revolves around her. If that’s the case, leave the City and enjoy the suburbs. Buy a nice little SUV and drive to work each day, alone, along with the rest of the gas-guzzling greedy whores that clog our highways, pollute our earth, and take what this city is and does for granted.

If New Yorkers were too afraid to leave their apartments, the country would be paralyzed, as it was shortly after 9/11. Granted, that was a far different situation (though isn’t it funny: We know the name of the man who took down the Twin Towers but haven’t caught him in 9 years; and here, in only two days, we’ve arrested three people—two of them in Pakistan). Perhaps I’m being a bit extreme. Or am I?

We make a choice to live in this bustling concrete wonder, just like my friends in San Francisco choose to live in a city that could crumble into the Pacific at any time. And let’s not forget the Big Easy: that sultry southern spotlight below sea level that is again being threatened because of human ineptitude. It is seemingly more and more the American way. Stay selfishly safe, clean, and green, but feel free to fuck everything else around you up. And as long as you check in and ask how everything is, it’ll be just fine. Thing is, it really doesn’t work that way when you’re stacked atop each other.

Frankly, I’m more concerned about rising sea levels and drastic changes in weather affecting New York. (I’m not sure what I’d do if the subway tunnels turned into rivers!) We long ago destroyed our first line of defense, just like the oil companies did in Louisiana: wetlands. Long Island and its thousands of miles of impermeable surfaces and energy hungry mansions obliterated nature’s wall. So really, I guess I’m happy to live where I live in the city. Though it’s in the Harlem valley, at least I’ve got mighty heighty Morningside to the west. Ha!

If we spent each day worrying sick about when the next attack would happen, the city would be silenced.

My god how boring that would be.

All the best,
Jeffrey

Dinner on the Hudson

[Writer's note: I just spent the day in Chicago and will be boarding the City of New Orleans train in about an hour to head south for the weekend. This post is from about 24 hours ago; phone was giving issues with posting, hence the tardiness.]

I already love the train. Granted we’re almost two hours behind schedule, but where else can you drink vodka, be served surprisingly good food, laugh with fellow passengers, and come back to your room to take a dump if you need to—all while moving to your destination? Certainly no fucking hotel. And then there are the vistas; and we’re still riding the Hudson. But then again, one could consider this a hotel on wheels, or some sort of transient bedroom. Oh, that sounds sexy, transient bedroom.

Anywho, I digress. I had a lovely dinner. I was supposed to have one of the later reservations, but 6:30 rolled around, I was a few deep whilst enjoying some cheese and crackers and I decided maybe I should eat. I thought we weren’t far from Albany, where we’d loose power for a while, so why not. Well, I was wrong. We were still over an hour from Albany. But that made dinner all the better. I was sitting at a four-top booth, alone. I was on the western side of the train, the riverside, if you will. (Note that my roomette is on the eastern side of the train (we’re traveling north), so I was forced to look at suburban riverfront sprawl—condos and mass-produced blueprinted homes—hence the reason I opted for the riverside of the car.)

The waiter was fabulous. Attentive yet not overbearing, savvy and funny, it was the type you’d expect to see on a cruise ship. I don’t mean that degradingly; he’s been doing Amtrak service for quite some time—he wouldn’t give me an exact date. Anywho. I ordered the only thing a veg could: fucking pasta. But I was pleasantly surprised. It was fresh, tasty, and flavorful. After some time, the woman, of the couple sitting next to me said, “Did you get the pasta? How is it?” I said, “Oh, it’s really quite nice.” They were both on their second Scotch from the time I sat down, and she was glad I helped her make up her mind. That was our launch pad. Suddenly, we were off, off into obscure yet delightfully personal conversation about our respective lives.

Me and my job, studies and travels, them and their marriage, travels, and previous fields of work (both in medicine: he an orthopedist, she a nurse.) I learned that his name was Frank. Not because he told me, but because she kept saying it. They had opted to take the train over the plane because of how annoying airports are. They live in Minnesota. They went from MN to Boston, then to the City to visit their daughter who lives in New Jersey. Like me, they are loving their first long distance train trip. Though they are on the return of their voyage, so they’ve sat through one way already.

We continued chatting. A few more people sat down around us, including the conductor. You could tell he was a bit tense. We were on our third engine and an hour and a half behind. He ate amongst his passengers and answered all the questions I had while sharing personal stories about his life, too.

There is something about the train and the stories that are shared. Intimate, almost inordinate stories that just get thrown up all over. Last year, a travel writer for the Times did a piece about his cross-country train voyage; it was a great piece. Also last year, yet only read this week, was a piece about why train travelers are train travelers. We talk to eat other and welcome the conversation. When you are sitting next to someone on an airplane and you ask a question, most times, they pull the paper they’re reading higher over their face. It’s quite the contrary on trains. People embrace questions and look forward to the discourse. Christ, even healthcare came up!

Well, we left Albany about an hour ago. The train from Boston attached to us, so we’re five longer than we were before, and one of them is the lounge/snack car. Cards, anyone?

Or maybe just some more stories. Cheerio

Goodbye NY, hello Train Ride

Hello from train 49, Amtrak’s "Lake Shore Limited" train, connecting New York and Chicago, and a split in Albany allowing those from Boston to make their way to the windy city.

It’s a beautiful day for traveling, even more so on the train. I will be making my way to the Crescent City, New Orleans, Louisiana, via Chicago on a two-day train tour of 8 states, making 37 stops. I have about an 11-hour layover in Chicago and I’m most excited about it. I’ve been talking for some time about never having been to Chicago. Sure enough when I started looking into the various ways of getting to New Orleans, the route through Chicago killed two birds with one stone. It helps that I’m not paying for my train or plane ticket: I’ve accumulated quite a few points for my travels between New York and New London, with random trips to DC in-between, allowing me to redeem a one-way ticket, all the way to NOLA, with Roomette accommodations; for the flight back I used some frequent flier miles. And because of it, I finally get to stay in a hotel—not a hostel while traveling alone. VERY exciting!

We pulled out of Penn Station promptly at 3:45. Traveling north under Manhattan Island, as opposed to heading east towards Queens for the trip to CT, allows for a view of sky scrapers through the random rail cuts as the train snakes north in between 9th and 10th Avenues.

A few minutes into the ride, an older gentleman came to collect my ticket. I asked him a question and he said that was something my room attendant could answer for me. Fine. A few more minutes later, a chipper lady with a big smile in a bright red apron came to talk to me about dinner. I asked for the latest reservation—I’m a New Yorker and ate a late lunch—to which she advised was not a good idea. By 8:00pm, the last reservation, sometimes they can be wiped out of certain things. This made me nervous as a veg, so I settled for 7. She said that was a great idea.

A few more minutes later, my room attendant came by to introduce himself, do an overview, and answer questions. He also passed out today’s Times (idiot me bought a copy at the station), timetables, and route guides. His name is Ainsley.


Over the Harlem River crossing, continuing our climb up New York’s famous Hudson River (celebrating its 400th Anniversary this very year!), thick smoke blew past my big windows. I didn’t think much of it. A few minutes later, we were at a total fucking stand still; we still are and it has been nearly an hour. They just announced that we blew an engine. Yes! Not even 20 miles into my adventure, and we’re already delayed! This should not have come as too much of a shock:the "Lake Shore" is famous for its poor punctuality.

They said a new locomotive was being brought down from Croton-Harmon, 18 miles to the North. Once they take off the dead guy and put on the newbie, we should be rolling.

Oh well, such is life.

A minute ago, another uber polite gent just came to let me know I have the option of eating earlier. When we get to Albany, we loose power for 20-30 minutes when they hook up a lounge car and new locomotive car. (it’s 5:20 and we’re moving!). I said I have no problem waiting until after we leave Albany to eat. I came prepared: I brought my picnic cheese board and knives, a block of cheddar, crackers and peanut butter, Veggie Booty, health nut bars, and peanut M&Ms. And libation supplies: seltzer, lemons, and vodka.

Speaking of Vodka…it’s after 5. Time for a cocktail—bottom’s up.