Three Days on a Train from LA to Chicago

Forced conversation, windows, and lots of meat.

Day One

It was the World Series. Los Angeles’ Union Station heaved with blue-shirted supporters. Nobody knew where to head, unless they headed for the bar. I thought to head there too, until seeing the queue for service. Instead, I went to the information desk, where two uniformed police officers leant. Hollywood has taught me to approach the LAPD with extreme caution.

“You got any questions?” asked one, moustache, friendly. “These two can answer them.”

He nodded to a pair of grey-haired volunteers, a man and a woman, sitting behind the desk. They were deep in conversation, with that particular intensity with which retirees chat.

“I’m just after the Metropolitan Lounge,” I said to the cop. “Somewhere to sit.”

The request needed that final caveat because I didn’t want to appear a pretentious Brit looking for the first class lounge, even though that’s exactly what I was doing. Still, my sleeper ticket had listed free access to the space, which included a selection of soft drinks, and it seemed un-American not to take advantage.

The LAPD cop asked on my behalf. The elderly woman, smiling, said I couldn’t miss it. I didn’t say that I’d spent the last twenty minutes doing just that.

The Metropolitan Lounge wasn’t as first class as I’d have hoped. A uniformed man at a computer pointed me to the complimentary Pepsi and, proudly, let me know that he’d only just refilled the coffee. I’d be called for my train in about thirty minutes.

I took a seat, in what was, essentially, a fancy waiting room. The leather chair was comfortable, the Pepsi flowed and from the corner of my eye I checked out my fellow premier customers. Of the dozen or so, I was easily the youngest by at least thirty years.

In time, the “redhats” came to fetch us. We were led from a door in the corner of the space, down some steps to a pair of golf buggies. It felt fancy. I sat next to a man who asked me if I’d been following the baseball game. As soon as I spoke, the answer was obvious. He’d last been in London in 1979, he said. It’s a great city.

The ride to the train was something else: my kids would have loved it. We careered across a parking lot, up a ramp, and onto the platform. Such spaces are busy enough without two golf buggies speeding along them. Our driver was unafraid of using the horn, even at an elderly man whose quick step out of our way looked to have cost him an almost fatal amount of energy.

“Coach 0430?” called our driver.

“That’s me!” I said, in my loudest, bravest, most British voice.

The buggy stopped sharply, the five passengers jerking forward. I stepped down, grabbed the handle of my suitcase and was pulled forward as the golf cart started off again.

Jogging behind the vehicle, I continued to try pulling out my luggage as the passengers ahead called to the driver to stop. Eventually, he did and I bumped my knees into the back of his cart.

“Thanks,” I called, having released my bag, and the buggy started off again.

Rubbing my knees, I was pleased to have escaped the “redhat”. One of the things that had been worrying me about the trip, aside from “community” dining where you sit with strangers, was the etiquette of tipping. It was an obligation that triggered two of my major life worries — having insufficient cash and making a fool of myself. But Redhat was gone: no tip for him and, anyway, he’d caused me pain. You don’t give people money for hurting you. Not unless that was the agreement beforehand.

On board, a smiling attendant, who boasted he’d be taking care of me all the way to Chicago, pointed the way to my room. He had a moustache that emphasised his constant smile.

The “roomette” was the size of a small toilet cubicle, with two blue-cushioned chairs facing each other alongside a large, rectangular window. I hauled my suitcase onto one of the chairs and crashed into the other and waited for the train to move.

Three Amtrak people poked their head into the roomette in quick succession. They were all extremely friendly, asking how my day had been, then commenting on my accent. My British cynicism prevented me fully engaging with their kind words but even fake amiability is preferable to UK-style frowns and grumpiness.

One of the Amtrak employees was Rob from the dining car. He took my 1900 dinner reservation and, laughing, said that I must be hungry. Given that there were only three times available — 1900, 1930, 2000 — I didn’t think my selection was a particular indicator of hunger. And, anyway, I was hungry.

I ate steak. The waitress couldn’t believe I didn’t want the crab and shrimp fishcakes to go with it. The tables were done in linen, covered in protective paper. I sat next to a woman from South Carolina, who was watching the baseball on her phone. She was apologetic and asked if I wanted to watch too.

“I’m British,” I said, which I’d been saying a lot. “Which team do you want to win?”

She said she didn’t really have a preference, which was strange, considering how avidly she stared at her phone.

We were soon joined by two other passengers, both equally as friendly, both as adept at the niceties of small talk as I was awkward. It must be part of the American school curriculum. Soon, however, I was drinking red wine and explaining how amazed I was at the USC game I’d walked past earlier that morning.

“In England, college sports would be in the drizzle, no stadium, a man walking past with a dog and wishing he were somewhere else.”

They enjoyed that observation, even the baseball woman. So much so, a can of ginger beer was upset. It emptied itself over my lap, although I was too much of the English gentleman to admit as much.

An attendant came to help, rolling up the soaked paper. As she did so, she knocked over my glass of wine, also sending its contents into my lap, creating a terrible kind of cocktail in an area that you, generally, want to keep dry.

The table, me included, laughed. The attendant apologised, asked if I wanted another glass.

“Make it a double!” said my neighbour.

It came and I drank it.

When it was time to leave, I left five dollars on the table. Nobody else seemed to be leaving a tip, but I didn’t care. The red wine had emboldened me. And my trousers had dried.

Day 2

You might imagine the chug-chug-chug of wheels over sleepers to be romantic but, at half-three in the morning, it was only annoying. There were no snorers from the other roomettes, tight around the corridor, something I’d worried about, but even if there had been, there would have been no difference to the end result — no sleep.

I fell out of bed before sunrise, bladder screaming in protest. Inevitably, the toilet was occupied. I wandered barefoot up and down the carriage before returning to my room. I considered using a water bottle, but as I contemplated the mechanics, and the possible consequences of missing, I heard the bathroom door slam and went off to welcome the morning with an urgent stream of urine.

Much of the day was spent staring out of the window.

Things I saw: deer, broken-down houses, grass, a quad-bike waiting at a crossing.

The train had an observation carriage, a big deal according to all the promotional material. I didn’t visit. It sounded too social. There was enough chat at mealtimes.

At breakfast, I sat across from two large, middle-aged travellers. Both were wearing loose white t-shirts. They nodded greeting and return their focus to the menu.

Was it rude to read the news on my iPad? That’s what I wanted to do but, if yesterday was anything to go by, people came to the dining car with an equal desire for chatting as much as eating.

I decided to risk conversation.

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” I said.

The man opposite me, who, with his shaved head and white clothes, looked as if he may have escaped from a mental hospital, held up his arms, bent at the elbow, framing his face. He was showing me something.

His wife, I assumed that was the relationship, looked to him, then to me, then rolled her eyes.

“He doesn’t know what you’re doing.”

“Bracelets,” said the man.

He wore two thin bracelets made of a light blue material.

A young woman, a financial analyst, who’d seemed fun during yesterday’s dinner, joined me. She looked almost as tired as I felt. She studied her phone as I ate my scrambled egg. A nascent conversation about how neither of us had slept was killed when a guy on another table kicked off about paying $14 for his breakfast, having also spent over $200 for a seat in coach class.

The dining car boss, who possessed a great, mellifluous voice, calmly explained that while he sympathised, the customer still had to pay for his breakfast. The dude refused. Eventually, a guy wearing a T-shirt with a Jesus slogan, who looked exactly like the sort of guy to wear a T-shirt with a Jesus slogan, handed the complaining fellow a twenty-dollar bill.

(Later, the train was held up for forty minutes as the staff removed a “problematic individual”. The woman in the sleeper room across the aisle from mine revealed that she’d heard said individual had opened a window in coach, in direct violation of Amtrak rules and the conductor’s warnings. I bet it was the same guy from breakfast. He’d looked bad. He’d had really dark eyes.)

After breakfast, came the lounging. I had work to do, but it never got done. Because of the lounging. And the looking. Soon after breakfast, an attendant came to take my order for lunch. I chose noon, the earliest option, thinking it might not be busy at that time.

We stopped at Albuquerque. As a fan of Breaking Bad and, in particular, Better Call Saul, I was excited. We were allowed a fifteen-minute “fresh air” break. I avoided the “venders” at the far end of the platform and headed for the main station building, that neo-colonial style familiar to fans of Jimmy McGill.

“This very station,” I thought, “could have featured in an episode.”

I don’t remember any one in particular, but, still: this was Albuquerque! The suburbs of south London had never felt so distant.

I walked past a man with a leaf blower. There didn’t seem to be many leaves to blow. Around the back of the station was a square of small buildings. I saw a parking lot. Parking lots feature lots in Better Call Saul, I thought. There was a mini-mart across the way but I couldn’t be bothered to walk over. I returned to the train, Albuquerque done.

Back on board and it was soon lunch. And passengers had had the same idea as me or else were hungry. Because the noon sitting was crowded. I sat with two women of my mother’s age and that same financial analyst with whom I’ve had all my meals so far. She’d also stepped off at Albuquerque. She hadn’t enjoyed it.

“I was tying my shoe laces and this dude with a leaf blower tells me that I shouldn’t be here. I’m like let me tie my laces and get my purse and he blows his leaf blower at me. I couldn’t believe it.” I laugh. She doesn’t. “I know it sounds funny but when I tell him to stop blowing me, he starts cussing.”

I apologised for laughing. I told her that it didn’t sound nice. She’d reported the incident to someone at the ticket office. I wanted to say that the leaf blower sounded like a “blowhard” but didn’t think the financial analyst would find it funny and, also, I wasn’t 100% sure what blowhard meant.

Language is a funny thing. I told the table that I was enjoying the word “detrain”. The conductor used it all the time. I’d not heard it before.

“What do you say in England?” I was asked by a frizzy-haired woman.

“Disembark?’”

“But that’s for ships,” said the frizzy-haired woman, looking at me like I’d just crash-landed a flying saucer.

We all asked each other where we’d come from, where we were headed and why. The financial analyst heard for the third time, I think, that I’d been awarded a grant to do some research for a book. I worried that she might think I was bragging. From now on, I resolved, I’d say I was on vacation.

I sat with her again at dinner. A new passenger, attractive, asked why I was travelling to Chicago from LA and I told her that I was doing research for a book. I could feel the financial analyst shift in the seat.

We got to speaking about LA. I was surprised at the amount of homeless people there. We agreed that every big city, including London, had this difficulty. In particular, however, I said that I’d noticed lots with clear and disturbing mental health issues.

The woman alongside me, the same frizzy-haired individual from lunch, nodded.

“They let their animals do their business on my lawn. I contacted city officials but nothing was done. I just want them to put those signs up.”

The conversation turned to how California did have laws about cleaning up after your animals but hardly anywhere enforced them. Apart from Carmel, supposedly.

“It’s a shame it’s getting dark,” someone said in a wistful tone. “Colorado is the prettiest stretch.”

Having struggled to sleep the night before, I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow/ten pm, the time at which all the PA announcements finally stopped. (Geoff in the café below the observation carriage had sounded increasingly desperate for company throughout the day.)

I’d jammed a sock, following advice from a fellow weary traveller, into my door. It was effective in stopping the bastard squeak at every bend in the line.

Day Three

I was first into breakfast.

“Am I too early?” I asked from the door.

“You’re never too early for breakfast,” came the response, forced smile.

It was half six, maybe not too early for food, but definitely too early to argue. The clocks had already moved forward twice during the journey. I was more a time traveller than train passenger. Already I felt a school holiday loss of time — I couldn’t tell you the day.

I drank coffee and read about how divided the States were, how full of hatred. It hadn’t felt that way on the train.

Two retirement-age men joined me. They spoke about owning cabins in California. Both said that it was important to have an escape. I was too polite to ask what they were escaping from, presuming it was life.

Back in my roomette, I spent hours trying to connect to the Wi-Fi as the plains of the Midwest passed by. We stopped at Kansas City. As I couldn’t connect to the internet, I watched a flock of birds swoop over a tower block. There was a noticeable chill to the air. We weren’t in California anymore.

I had lunch at 11. It was the earliest spot available. I was running dangerously low on conversation and hoped that such an uncivilised time for eating meant that I might be able to eat my inevitable burger alone and in silence.

Although I was the first to be sat, my table’s other three spaces soon filled with familiar faces — the same diners from yesterday’s lunch.

“The crew are back together!” said the woman with frizzy hair who obviously only ever gets the chance to talk to other people during train journeys.

I caught the financial analyst’s eye.

“Hey, I’ve got another idea for your book,” said the third passenger.

I listened to her describe a trail she’d once enjoyed walking with her family. There were dinosaur bones there. Having initially regretted telling her about the book, I felt a creeping tide of emotion as she enthusiastically explained why this would be perfect material. She’d obviously been thinking it through and was genuinely engaged. It was very sweet.

(But, as the novel was already pretty much written, her ideas wouldn’t feature.)

We crossed the Mississippi.

“You don’t get rivers like this in England,” I said.

Nobody replied and I felt like an idiot.

“Only three hours left,” I thought, as I returned to my room.

Time is incidental on long journeys. It melts away with the changing landscape. I’d moved from city to desert to plains and now the pumpkin-coloured leaves reminded me of home. And there was variety past the window, something lacking in Arizona and New Mexico.

Often, the train cut through small towns. I saw bars and post offices and briefly wondered what it must be like to live there. Pretty much like living anywhere else, I supposed.

As the train crept closer to Chicago, the terminus, my worry about tipping the carriage attendant grew. I’d read on the internet that twenty dollars was an appropriate amount. I’d kept four five-dollar bills separated in my wallet for this purpose.

The obvious thing to do would be to give the guy his money as I was “detraining”. But what if I missed him? What would he think of me? This is the root of all my problems — fear of appearing unpleasant— FOAU. I don’t want to upset anyone. And that’s more difficult that it sounds. Especially when, essentially, I am unpleasant.

I heard movement along the corridor. I broke into action. I slid my door back and matched towards the coffee station, money in hand. There was the attendant, busily sorting through trash. I could have chosen a better moment, but was committed now.

“Hi,” I said, my voice failing. “I want to give you this.”

He didn’t refuse the money. Moustache and all, he thanked me enthusiastically. Feeling a little dirty, I returned to my roomette, shutting the carriage out behind me.

And there I sat, waiting for Chicago. The tracks rattled as if they didn’t want us to pass. The only noteworthy thing to happen during the final couple of hours, a lost sock aside, was the conversation between the carriage attendant and my frizzy-haired lunch companion. I heard every word, despite my door being closed.

She wanted a detailed description of how to exit Chicago Union Station. The detail provided, however, was never quite detailed enough.

“But are the elevators immediately to the right of the ticket machines or is there a walk?”

The patience with which the busy attendant dealt with the interrogation made me think that, if anything, he deserved a larger tip. But that ship had sailed.

In Chicago, I stepped from the train, having said bye to the dozen or so people I’d spoken to during the journey. It’s strange to exist in moments that will be remembered for life.

On the platform, the frizzy-haired woman stopped me.

“Just to let you know, your suitcase is open,” she said.

It wasn’t. You could zip shut the compartment from which the telescopic handle rose. I explained this to her.

“Everything is so confusing these days,” she said, walking off in the wrong direction.

The Society of Authors kindly awarded me a grant to help pay for this trip, undertaken as research for my second novel for kids: That Time I Got Kidnapped — out April 2020 with HarperCollins Children’s.