Tales From The (USA) Rails

The ‘Southwest Chief’ ploughed onto Missouri with all the majesty of a native American, but this was a totally different experience to our initial train journey between New York and Chicago; white tablecloths in the dining car, real napkins, unlimited tea and coffee for those in ‘Sleeper Car Class’ and, as travel companions, members of the Amish community making their way home to the American Mid-West.

Their presence was perhaps the most fascinating. The beautiful, blonde-haired little boy smiled at me from behind his straight fringe basin cut hairstyle, as his older sister chewed her way through a sticky treat resembling something made from Kellogg’s Rice Crispies and treacle.

They women were all dressed in navy blue dresses from another period in history, and just one had a maroon coloured garment as if seeking to differentiate herself from the crowd.

They were speaking in their native tongue, a Dutch based German, or ‘Pennsylvanian’ as the Amish referred to it; one read a book whilst another completed a word search puzzle as her friend slept.

Ironically the little boy, dressed in navy blue trousers, light blue shirt and braces, had a tiny electronic Boeing 747 dangling from a key ring and every time he squeezed its spongy exterior it bleeped as if calling out in distress. The Amish tended to shun modern technology but no one batted an eyelid, ignoring the little boy who was content to do his own thing as much as they were to leave him be.

Having consumed as much free coffee as we could respectfully drink, we decamped to the dining car for our 6pm meal just over two hours into the journey with many hours still to go.

Outside the scenery was flat but strangely beautiful.. We were in the heart of the Mid-West by now and the maize fields and arable land seemingly stretched for miles.

Louella and Bill from Kansas State were returning home after a three day conference in Chicago with the American Health Information Management Association.

“Our daughter is married to a Brit and works for the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford-Upon-Avon,” she said. Clearly mum was proud, however, her daughter and hubby, former residents of Seattle, had only returned to Britain seven years earlier because the American couple’s son-in-law had been unable to settle in the US despite having a good job.

For a split second there was a sadness in Louella’s eyes: she had not only lost a daughter to the UK but also a grandchild.

Bill possessed that very unusual attribute in an American, the ability to use and understand that most British forms of wit: sarcasm!

“She likes stately homes and British dramas,” he said, pressing his wife’s arm with his own. “Me? I prefer Benny Hill and Mr Bean!

But once the gentle humour had subsided it was apparent they had a more serious mission in life: helping to improve the American health system.

“We are largely private over here,” said Louella “which means if I want an MRI scan I just go to hospital and my insurance pays for it. However, when it comes to transferring records that’s a little more difficult,” hence their support for the American Health Information Management Association, an organisation committed to standardising medical records so that they can be universally accessed across the US by appropriate people.

I tucked into my surf and turf – crab cakes rather than the scampi you would normally get in a British restaurant – which was surprisingly good and tasted even better when using real knives and forks rather than the plastic ones we had been given on the Lake Shore train between New York and Chicago!

Kansas to Flagstaff

Kansas City had been a blast but, before we left for Flagstaff, Arizona on the 10.42pm overnight train out of the ‘City of Fountains’, we had the opportunity to visit the first floor balcony area of the spectacular Union Station, which not only affords magnificent views of the majestic concourse, but also houses a wonderful historical exhibition about the magnificent twentieth century structure.

As the ghosts of former President Harry Truman, along with Ernest Hemingway and dubious gangsters left us behind at Union, we were quick to bed down on the 10.42pm as the gentle rocking of the Southwest Chief once more put us to sleep with greater efficiency than any sleeping draught.

I was on the top bunk. There was a small hanging net adjacent to the window for personal effects, and the most organised, and agile, of passengers would have had plenty of time to get into their jim jams.

Personally, I had decided to wing it and sleep in my undies under the clean, crisp bedding that had been neatly tucked into place by our cabin steward some time earlier.

By breakfast we were in another time zone and the clocks had moved an hour or two: we were no longer quite sure when and how much but still felt the pangs of hunger.

“You want some coffee honey?” said the large Afro American lady in the breakfast car.

“Yes please.”

“You want the good stuff or the bad stuff?” She paused and laughed balancing what appeared to be pots, pans, food and coffee pots on one arm! She was as skilled as any juggler from Phineas Taylor Barnum’s Big Top!

We were sitting with Joe and Christie. He was 77, a retired electrical engineer working in US power. He had once had at his disposal a map of every electricity pylon across the US so that he would know how to respond to the country’s power needs in the event of a tornado wiping out supplies in any part of the country.

He was also a great advocate of coal-fired power stations with seemingly veiled support for the current President, a great advocate of fossil fuels.

Healthy debate ensued but everyone departed friends and, shortly afterwards, the train guard invited everyone to take a 30 minute leg-stretching break as we pulled into La Junta, Colorado.

It was an alien concept to two Brits used to taking the two-hour 125 train to London but, touching our toes, and doing a few mid journey press ups was most welcome.

It was also a unique opportunity to actually speak with some members of the Amish community who were standing on the platform awaiting another train. We were intrigued by each other; they realised I wasn’t American and mutual curiosity loosened tongues.

“I would like to visit England,” said a bonneted lady at the back of the group, “but I have a husband and he has to give me permission!” She laughed. I promised that I would have a word with him and she laughed again, this time louder, knowing that my intervention would make little or no difference to the outcome.

Our short chat was interrupted as the guard called out and signalled everyone back onto the train. I returned to my safe little bubble, at least for a few more hours, rescued from the harsh realities of the Mid-West that, so long ago, had mercilessly claimed the lives of hundreds of gold-rush pioneers. Arizona was calling and we continued our final push to Flagstaff.

Leaving Flagstaff

Flagstaff had been wonderful with its huge emphasis on nature, trails, native American culture and Arizona hospitality, but LA beckoned and so did the end of our coast to coast rail journey across the US.

We were sitting next to Fred and his wife in the dining car. He worked for John Deere’s agricultural machinery division whilst his blonde-haired wife was a marketing director. They told me how they had lived in 12 US States following his promotion opportunities across the years.

Now, in their early 50’s, they were permanently settled in Kansas City and content to ski, spend time on their boat and, in his case, hunt, a concept that was alien to me but clearly important to many Americans we had met. For now we were all on a journey and each one of us had a purpose and a clear destination and purpose.

So far my four rail journeys had been amazing and everyone we had met had been part of a private members club. The people were fascinating, their views valid and the once-in-a-lifetime journey had presented a range of characters that few people will ever have the good fortune to meet.

Before leaving for the US a Vietnamese colleague had said a friend of a friend had told her trains in America were for the poor and that they were dangerous. Nothing had proved itself further from the truth.

The people were fascinating and all were using the rail tracks for entirely different reasons. To some it was a way of avoiding the dreaded plane, to others it was a way to chill out with a relaxing journey and, for the likes of Bernie, it was his way of staying connected to the glory days of an America rapidly disappearing.

Each train was a bubble, a moment to be enjoyed, representing safety, camaraderie and friendship. It will be a journey that I will never forget.

Kissing California and all things Hollywood goodbye, I stepped onto the Heathrow bound plane and sat down in my British Airways’ Club World seat, Business Class by any other name, and thoroughly enjoyed my Citrus Burst mocktail whilst taking in the compact luxury around me.