Bring your own pie

First: It seems my last post was 11 days ago. That’s not cool, and I’m sorry.  

I love to travel. But I don’t like to drive. And I’m not very good at it. I tend to get distracted and veer off in the direction of whatever I’m looking at: guardrails, billboards, mailboxes, pedestrians… I’m also afraid of merging, parallel parking, driving in the rain, driving in heavy traffic and other cars that get close to my car. I have no sense of direction. Sometimes, while driving, I’m gripped by a sudden, crippling fear that I’m on the wrong side of the road. And since I used to drive a stick shift, but now I drive an automatic, I sometimes get confused about what to do with my feet. 

All of this makes a strong argument against driving from Sanford to Washington, D.C. But last weekend, I had to go. Friends to see, Irish holiday to celebrate. So I took the train. I’d recently been reminded that the U.S. has a passenger railway, and after a little research, I decided Amtrak was an affordable option.  

 Round-trip tickets from Raleigh to Union Station cost $86. I estimated that sum to be slightly more than the gas it would take to get me to D.C. and back. But if I had gotten lost (I would have gotten lost), or if I had done any driving in the city, that number would’ve gone up. So I think got a pretty good deal.  The seats on Amtrak, though slightly more weathered than airline seats, were comfortable and roomy. The train was about half-full going and coming, so I had two seats to myself the whole time. And even in Economy Class, every seat has its own wall outlet, so I plugged in my laptop and worked while I rode. 

The Raleigh train station was built in 1950 and retains many of its original charms: wood floors, who am I kidding? I don’t know anything about architecture. It’s pretty, like an old house.

   

The ticket taker—let’s call him Bob—was doing double duty as a baggage handler. When Bob said I could check my bag, I handed it right over and wandered outside feeling foot loose and fancy-free. How lovely not to have to go through security of any kind, not to have your bags opened and your toiletries inspected, not to remove your shoes to be checked for—I don’t even know what, tiny bombs? Once, waiting at a border crossing in Mozambique in the middle of the night, a security guard going through my bag took out my underwear, pair by pair, to examine with a flashlight. If that never happens again, I’ll be okay. (But here’s a tip: don’t check your bag on a train, even though it’s easy. There is plenty of room for luggage of any size right there in your train car, either in an overhead compartment or at larger shelves at both ends of each car.) 

I love meeting interesting people when I’m traveling. But that doesn’t mean I want to sit with them. One of my traveling nightmares is sharing a seat with somebody who wants to make five straight hours of small talk. I’ve never had any truly horrific things happen to me (unlike my friend Mariel, who was once handed a barf-bag to hold after it had been filled), but I have been bored out of my mind for long stretches of time, and it just isn’t pleasant. But meeting interesting people, in passing, is fine. I’m giving awards for the two most interesting people I met on the train: Brittany and Jeremiah. Brittany gets the Girl Starting Out On Coolest Adventure Award. Jeremiah is Best Dressed. 

1. Brittany: While waiting for the train to arrive, I opted to stand outside and stare down the track. Most everybody else was inside. Outside it was just me, iPod-listening-head-bobbing-smoker-guy with a hackie sack, and a teenage girl wearing a hairnet. Let’s call her Brittany. Brittany was so excited about something, she was literally jumping up and down. I glanced at her and smiled. 

Brittany: I’m trying to keep warm.

Me: It is cold. (Or something)

B: I never rode a train before. I never been anywhere before. (Jumping intensifies.)

Me: Where are you going today?

B: (With a giant, ear-splitting grin) I’m going to New York City to audition for “America’s Next Top Model.”

Me: How exciting!

B: I know, right? I don’t even know where I’m gonna stay once I get there. I guess I’ll just sleep on the sidewalk like they do on TV. I told everybody I was going to my track meet—they all think I’m on the school bus right now! (Squeals) 

2. Jeremiah: Somewhere in Virginia, the train stopped moving. But there wasn’t a station. There were just a lot of trees. After a few minutes, the conductor’s voice came over the loudspeaker saying there was a freight train broken down in front of us and we had to wait for it to be fixed. He made some joke about not knowing how long we’d be delayed. Nobody laughed. The gentleman sitting across from me said to his wife, “This ain’t no midnight train to Georgia. This the midnight train to Northampton County.” And his wife said, “Mmmm-hm.” And he said, “Let’s go get us some hotdogs.” And I thought, hotdog?  

Hot dog!

  

Being young and spry, I was able to hop out of my own seat before the slightly older and somewhat less spry couple could do the same. I speed walked to the food car.  (Maybe I should say here that I really like hotdogs. I really, really do. People who say they don’t like processed meat are haters. There’s no such thing as a sophisticated taste bud. It’s the same with mayonnaise. And bacon. They’re saying they hate it, but what’s that in their back pocket? Oh, it’s a packet of Hellmann’s.)

  

In the food car, there was a long line. It seems breakdowns make people hungry. There was a little boy in front of me. He alternated between hiding behind his mother and jumping out to scare me, saying “Gah!” I acted scared. This encouraged him. It went on for awhile before he stopped and said, “My name is Jeremiah. I’m three years old. I want to hold your hand.” I was impressed with his maturity. So we held hands. He showed me the Emergency exit and the trash can. I admired his red sweater vest. 

Me: I like your red sweater vest.

Jeremiah: My mom made me wear it.

Me: Well, it looks very nice.

J: Thanks.

Me: Did you know there is a song with your name?

J’s Mom: Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog? I hate that song.

Me: Oh…

J: I don’t want to get my hair cut.

J’s Mom: Hush your mouth.

Me: Your son is very well behaved.

J’s Mom: He’s been warned.

J: Is that your daddy? 

I turned around and saw that Jeremiah was pointing to the person standing behind me, who happened to be a young, black teenage boy. He was cracking up.  

There’s not really anything else to that story, except to say that J’s mom seemed to have lost her sense of humor somewhere around the NC border. I got my hot dog and it was bad, bad, bad. (Another tip: Don’t buy train food.) When I got back to my seat, I noticed that the couple across the aisle had brought a pie with them. A whole pie. It could have been a coconut pie or a banana cream pie or a milk pie or a lemon pie. I tried to look hungry so they would feel sorry for me and give me some. But I guess everybody was just cranky, from the delay, which, by the way, lasted an hour and a half. I didn’t get any of their pie. 

But that’s what I recommend, if you’re planning to travel by train, which you should: bring your own pie.