Amtrak

                    Each year as winter fades and spring begins to show her face (slowly but surely here in the state of Washington) I get this crazy itch to ride a train. There is nothing like a train ride. Traveling across the country by train, in this fast paced world of airplanes, automatically has the power to transport you back to a different time, a slower time, a time where you can actually feel the motion of the tracks and the beat of your own heart. These days, I take Amtrak every now and then on weekends from Bellingham to Seattle and back for a shopping trip or to visit friends, but it’s just not enough. A few years back, when I was a student and had a lot more freedom and extended breaks (oh, how I miss them), I took Amtrak’s Empire builder alone from Spokane, Washington to Memphis, Tennessee. I had an extended stop in Chicago and some books on tape (I wish I’d written down which), and nothing but time and space for days. I never knew Montana was such a big state, but I saw every bit of it.

                    I met a retired Methodist minister on the train. I can’t remember his name, but I do remember he had a bright white magnificent head of hair and an exceptionally friendly spirit. He was riding the train for the first time since his wife’s death. He talked to me about his wife, about how much he loved her, how they had done everything together, and how it was so strange being in the world without her. He talked about how much they had loved their Amtrak trips and how the train had been their thing. I felt like a terrible person because I was trying very hard to read my book, and this old guy kept talking to me, and he kept talking, and there was nothing but time and space on this train and nowhere to escape. I felt bad because I knew I was a good faker, that there was no way he could tell, no indication by my face or the questions I was asking him about his life, but I am a selfish person and not so kind, and I didn’t want to listen. I wanted to be in my own world on this train, not with him or with anyone else. I wanted to be quiet and to escape in my books and my thoughts, like I had planned.

                    When it came time to make reservations for dinner in the dining car, I was starving. I was always starving on the train. Meals on the Empire Builder happen like this: one of the dining staff walks around and asks if you want to eat, and if so, you pick a time and they take your reservation. The dining car experience is one of my favorite parts of riding the train. The food isn’t anything great, but the food doesn’t matter so much as the experience of using heavy silver and crisp white table linens, drinking your wine or a coke or whatever you happen to drink, while rolling past everything in sight.

                    On my journey south and back, I typically ate alone, or at a table with a group of people traveling together who talked amongst themselves, but that day, the retired Methodist minister asked me to be his dinner date. I was humbled by the invitation. I put my book away and I didn’t pick it up again. We walked together to the dining car and he bought me a cheeseburger. We went through a dark tunnel and I can’t remember where we were, or what state we were in, but I do know that the sun was just beginning to set when we came out on the other side, and the light that fell over us was beautiful enough to make me cry.