Ode to AmTrak by Tiffany Lee Brown

Anything can happen on a train. That's why you might think they're cool. But you're probably thinking of gadding about on the Orient Express decades ago or zooming through Spain in a tricked-out, modern first class car. Perhaps your carefree days with a Eurail pass come to mind. Heck, even the subway is kind of romantic, with its inquisitive rats, third rail and squealing brakes.

But for my money, the much beleaguered, ridiculed, and — worse yet — ignored American institution called AmTrak is one of the best ways to get from here to there. Or even just to fuck off, wasting time when you're homeless or on the lam. On the train, you get to see everything unfold in front of you, like on a bus, only not on the boring highways. You get to meet all manner of weird people you'd normally never run with — but you can get away from them, unlike on a bus. The food's not bad, and the constant churning sensation soothes the soul.

I dug it as a kid, but truly fell in love when visiting New York City as a teenager. When my friends sent me north from NYC, they included a bottle of that stuff you wash contact lenses in... only it was full of vodka. I just sat there, buyin' orange juice after orange juice, smilin' and readin' and writin', occasionally lettin' weird older guys attempt to hit on me for a few minutes, dismissin' them with a smile, and drinkin' myself another screwdriver. By the time I reached my final destination, I was loaded for bear and feeling absolutely brilliant.

Then there's the beautiful "Coast Starlight" run, AmTrak's answer to Interstate 5. On this route, you're bound to meet up with a certain AmTrak class of folks. It's a mullet-sporting crowd, one that always, always has pot and is always, always looking for the ideal place to sit around and "party." This class ranges from teen to 60 and includes both genders (but more guys than chicks). In it, one might find gentlemen wearing Eau de Meth Lab, and gals decked out in unironic fringe. The fringe might even be white, and it might even be part of an entire white leather fringe outfit with matching platinum hair.

When I lived in Oakland and took this train up to Oregon for visits, whether I was sporting a blue mohawk or a full Gothic ensemble, these folks would invariably talk to me during stops, and invite me to the party in the lounge car. Just a few people, maybe a dozen, hanging out, with beer and booze and bongs and a ghetto blaster playing Loverboy or Foghat. They'd be nice and friendly and not at all creepy. Then I'd realize what a prejudiced little snot I was.

On one particular Coast Starlight run, I swore I'd keep to myself and really enjoy the trip, just stare out the window and listen to music and write and read. But I ended up in a tiny, packed Snack Car, the only place that allowed smoking at that time. A nervous, bespectacled woman sitting across from me started buying me beers and telling me the story of her life, which involved turning 35 the following week, and for her birthday she was going to get her eyes lifted. Like plastic surgery. She'd been saving up for five years, and this was the biggest present she could imagine giving herself. Then a young guy sat down and I gave him a Tarot reading. He decided he was madly in love with me, and we talked almost all night of deep and meaningful things. Then I chickened out and ditched him.

Shortly after dawn, I wandered back to the Snack Car, which was reeling with plumes of smoke and choking with people. A single seat remained available: next to a lean, old, white cowboy, who sat across from two rather large, black gentlemen, each about 50 years old and wearing St. Louis caps. They seemed to regard the cowboy almost reverently. It seems he was a real cowboy, and an ancient one, too. He'd been riding horses and herding cattle across the West since he was a kid in the 1910s, when a lot of the West still was kinda wild. Texas, Utah, Montana, Oregon, Nevada — he'd ridden across them all. He didn't speak in a boastful manner at all. His was a rare, quiet dignity, though his stories were punctuated by frequent coughing bouts. The cowboy would take another drag of his cigarette and tell us about his gal, or the plains, or the cattle, or where he was going. Despite his hints of fragility and his obvious age, this leathered archetype still rode, whenever he could.

When I was older, I discovered the joys of the AmTrak mini-sleeper. Sure it's expensive — and it keeps you from dallying with the hoi polloi — but what a lovely, decadent way to travel. You get first class treatment, meals included, and you get to enjoy all the wonders of train travel in privacy. The rocking sensation and the crooning of the train whistle bliss me out and send me right to sleep. And it's delightful waking up just as the sun streaks over Indiana, so you can barely see the cows silhouetted in their flat fields. Then you leisurely get into your clothes just as the train happens to slow down and go through a big intersection in a small town. There's nothing quite like flashing Middle America.

To hell with Greyhound, screw all the pathetic attempts to make you feel more secure at the airport in the age of terrorism. Have a little AmTrak adventure instead. Because anything can happen on a train.