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A Trip Home (Part I)
I had promised myself that I would make another trip to New Orleans, and I had promised my fiancé, the wonderful and winsome Shelley, that I would take her with me. Then, several months ago, we had an idea: Shelley’s mother, Ruth, has always wanted to take in a professional football game, and her 83rd birthday was fast approaching. What if we pooled our wits and our resources and surprised her with a trip to New Orleans for her birthday? Well, for starters, she would enjoy the surprise and — given Ruth’s lively humor, engaging spirit, and easy-going manner — the trip would be a guaranteed success.
And so it was that on Wednesday, August 27th, the three of us boarded Amtrak’s City of New Orleans train, bound from Memphis to New Orleans. Though Shelley and Ruth had travelled by train to Chicago years earlier, this was my first experience. Our bags easily stowed in the lower portion of the car, we climbed the stairs to our seats, which seemed more plush and spacious than the economy seating in most aircraft, and which featured ample leg room so that one can recline one’s seat without worrying about breaking the nose of the person seated directly behind.
Having grown accustomed to the bone-jarring potholes that punctuate American highways (notwithstanding six years of incessant hope-and-change construction zones that squeeze motorists between an unending labyrinth of concrete barricades and orange cones) the train’s first movement forward was so gradual and smooth as to be imperceptible. In fact, if I hadn’t been looking out the window, I wouldn’t have known we were moving at all. As it was, it seemed we were sitting still and someone had begun moving the ground beneath us as if the landscape itself was on a giant conveyor belt.
The easy ride notwithstanding, I spied the safety brochure in the pocket of the next seat and had to have a look. “Never enter or exit a moving train,” was an especially helpful tip, as I was thinking about briefly jumping off the thing for a quick bit of shopping at some point during the day. My favorite, however, was the little drawing of a figure standing astride the tracks as a train approaches, with a diagonal line going through the drawing — to remind us that if standing in front of an oncoming train is an insufficient affront to a healthy sense of self-preservation, maybe another regulation will do the trick.
Imagine eight hours of travel with no billboards and no traffic jams! Imagine no detours resulting from the impromptu closing of major highways where 14 men collect union wages to stand and watch one man work, no monolithic cities with their highways intersecting over and under each other like giant piles of spaghetti noodles thereby keeping the unsuspecting motorist just one missed traffic sign away from driving from New Jersey to Louisville by way of Schenectady. Imagine not having to stop at a rest area or gas station all day! The mind reels.
Well, sir, to these conveniences one need merely add the company of not one but two supremely pleasant ladies to complete the experience. After a brief respite in the dining car, where we enjoyed a delicious breakfast while watching the world go by at a breezy 79 miles per hour, we retired to the observation car, where the seats are configured in little semi-circles turned toward huge picture windows that constitute the wall of the car and continue clear up to the ceiling. There we watched the world go by.
“What city is this?” a voice enquired from behind us. An elderly black gentleman stood there, peering at the small town. About that time we saw the town’s water tower, upon which the name, “Flora” was stamped in large letters. “This is the highest elevation point in the state of Mississippi,” the gentleman advised us. In that case, it appeared that Mississippi peaked too soon, because I couldn’t detect a single trace of our ascent or descent.
Next, a very kind lady sporting a Seattle Seahawks shirt walked by, prompting a quick remark from Ruth about our impending visit to the Super Dome to see the Saints play. In no time at all, the lady took her seat with us and exchanged phone numbers with my future mom-in-law, promising to call or text each time the Saints lose a game this season. It was all in good fun, of course, and hugely entertaining. As it turns out, the lady is of Native American Indian heritage, as are Shelley and her Mom, which gave me an opportunity to simply listen, watch, and learn as a window to a compelling and heartbreakingly beautiful world was opened.
Soon, a gentleman approached and, with a delightful Australian accent, asked if he might join us.Of course!! This, I learned, is one of the many delights of train travel: you have the option of cloistering yourself in your coach seat or of enjoying a succession of new friends. What brings him on the train? A trip to Guadalajara of course! Why Guadalajara? Because he was to deliver a paper there. Now, I’ve heard of convoluted paper routes, but this was something altogether different.
As it turns out, our new friend, Robert, is a professor in Australia, but he was much more interested in asking questions of this little batch of Americans than he was in volunteering a lot of information about himself at that point. He enquired about the general economic condition of the region as we rode through what appeared to be a succession of dilapidated little towns, all with antiquated train stations and crumbling buildings, surrounded by outworn little houses that were in such a state of disrepair and ruin that they seemed they might revert entirely to the earth at any moment. Ruth reminded us that many of these towns grew up around the railroad long ago, so that we weren’t exactly traveling through the newest real estate developments in the area.
Robert has traveled regularly through the US for many years now, and especially enjoys traveling by train and meeting people. He told us of his conversation with a Texan not long ago, wherein he spent a great deal of time explaining the game of cricket. His dissertation on the game even continued over a meal, if I remember correctly, as he went through the rules and objectives of the game chapter and verse. When all was said and done, Robert said that the Texan thought over the wealth of information for a few moments and then asked, “And you do all this while riding horses?”
Our laughter was genuine and long-lasting, after which Shelley asked, “What is it that you teach in Australia?” “Cricket,” I blurted before I could stop myself. Another chuckle, and then Robert answered “Economics,” before going on to ask more questions of us which revolved around American culture.
He was kind enough to join us for lunch in the dining car, at which point someone volunteered to Robert that I write a great deal about politics. Robert asked about my political orientation, which I described as being, “somewhere to the right of Genghis Kahn.” Unable to resist the temptation any longer, I told him about Ricochet and a guy named Peter Robinson, at which point Robert volunteered that he is Robert Leeson, a dear friend with Peter, and has been to the Hoover Instiution frequently. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
In no time at all, we were discussing Milton Friedman (whom Robert very much approves of), and Hayek (whom Robert most definitely disapproves of), pausing only to celebrate a world in which complete strangers can meet on a train and discover not only common interests, but common friends as well. From his pocket, Robert retrieved a few pages from his next book, which will be available in stores in a couple of months and which explores what he regards as the fraudulent and fascistic tendencies of Hayek and, I believe, von Mises. Agree or disagree, if his writing is even half as compelling as his conversation, Robert’s book will be worth every penny.
Back in the observation car, our discussion flew from one topic to the next. After some light jousting over the roll of government (with the good professor tending toward the collective good over individual desire while I channeled Milton Friedman’s question as to where exactly we will find these better angels to preside over us), Shelley and Ruth gave us all a fascinating course in Native American history, including the events that precipitated Little Big Horn.
Throughout the conversation, Ruth would occasionally make a statement that had either Robert or myself reaching to jot down, word for word, the hard earned wisdom and quick wit of this remarkable lady. Looking at my notes now, I see my favorite: “If you’re tired of learning, roll over, take your lily, and forget it.”
Soon, a young woman who had been looking on asked if she might join our merry band. Of course!! Emily is 24 years old, and hails from Chico, California. She was traveling down to New Orleans for a day before heading up to Chicago to visit with family before heading to New York. She mentioned that she had attended culinary school, which sparked Shelley and Ruth’s immediate and delighted interest.
As our gathering’s conversation became ever more interesting and sublime with each unexpected twist, I couldn’t help but sit back and count my blessings. What began as a plan to surprise and delight my beautiful fiancé and her wonderful mom with a trip to my favorite city was becoming a sequence of unexpected delight for me as well.
Soon, though, the anecdotes and laughter gave way to the changing scenery. We were traveling over the water, from which emanated large and haunting trees, draped in spanish moss swaying dreamily in the breeze. Beyond those trees were the accents and happy spirit around which I grew up. We were in bayou country and my soul, weary from too much travel too far away, was finally home.
Quieted, our group took in the sight, with Shelley pointing out the Luling bridge, which she crosses on her trips to see extended family in Houma. In a little while, we were in New Orleans and I could feel my spirit lifting, buoyed by the “joie de vivre” that characterizes life in the Big Easy. After a day of gratifying surprises and euphoric anticipation, our happy adventure was off to a wonderful start.
Published in General
The song, City of New Orleans, was written by one of America’s best songwriters, Steve Goodman, and popularized by Arlo Guthrie. I took that same journey, on that same train in the late 80’s. Your experience was better than mine. The train was suppose to leave Memphis at about 11 PM but was late to arrive, and is always late to arrive, because Amtrak refuses to admit that the rails cannot handle the schedule they set. Our small entourage had seats in what I guess was booked as first class. The other companions on our car were Harold and John Ford and multiple other members of that political Memphis family and they were very upset that they didn’t have a car to themselves. They did everything they could do to drive us out of our seats by being as obnoxious as they could be. I just wish there had been card players passing that paper bag with a bottle. I rode five hundred miles and I can guarantee you the day was done.
Like. What a pleasant afternoon read. Good to hear from you, Dave.
Your train experience was better than mine. My first train trip was in the Netherlands trying to go from Amsterdam to Hengelo, which is on a direct East-West line. Unfortunately, the platform attendant was unaware of this and put me on a train to The Hague, south of Amsterdam. After the train emptied, the cleaning crew sent me to the engineer who advised me to go back to Amsterdam and catch the right train. Once there, I had missed my train, and I was advised by another attendant to get on the next scheduled one, which he was also incorrect about. I had to change trains in Apeldoorn. The only person I got good directions from was another passenger who got me to Hengelo. I did get a lovely tour of most of Holland, though.
My American train trip from Philly to Boston involved the train breaking down in the middle of New Jersey. They brought another train alongside and had us cross from one to the other on a makeshift bridge that could only support one person at a time. I felt like I was in a low budget disaster film. I rode into NYC standing next to a conductor (the rescue train was full before our train was emptied into it) in the area between cars where the sign said not to stand while the train was moving.
Trying to use the restroom on a moving, swaying, bouncing Amtrak train is more art than skill. It reminded me of being drunk at a carnival shooting gallery. I’m sticking to Jeeps from now on.
Trains, when they are good, they are very good. When they are bad they are horrid.
My wife and daughter were all set to take a train from Chicago to Seattle. Then about a week out they were advised that due to track work, they would have to reschedule (or board the train in Helena Montana or somewhere). So they rescheduled for a week later. OK if you’re retired or not traveling under any time constraints (like a scheduled vacation). Otherwise way too unreliable. Boy Scouts take the Amtrak to Philmont from the station down the street from me and at least once per summer I can hear an “Awwwwww” from down the block when they find out that train has been cancelled.
Glad you had a good experience though.
Very nice story, Dave. Most enjoyable. Thanks.
Thanks for the chance to travel with you, Dave!
Wish I could have watched.
Hope you find time to work on your book, Dave. Writing like this deserves to be read by a wide audience.
Yes, this type of writing is rare. I love your love of life and people, Dave. You inspire me.
I don’t know if you listen to Dennis Prager (I’m a big fan) but he discusses a kind of conversation he calls elevator chat. Dennis is a big guy and so often when he gets into an elevator with one or two women he says something pleasant and humorous off the cuff to break any tension. He also talks about elevator chat as the type of thing he loves to do with people and get a reaction out of people. This is one of his great joys. I know you are a similar type of person, too. I met you once at a Seattle Rico meetup (and sat next to you) and it was so easy to talk with you — about anything.
Truly Dave, Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People” is merely an introduction to the type of book you could write on this topic!
P.S. I must say that the last time I was introduced to someone by my father (RINO) as “my daughter who is to the right of Genghis Khan,” I was reminded that Khan was hardly an advocate for property rights. Just saying… :))
Dave, a correction:
Flora is nowhere near the highest point in Mississippi. That is near Iuka, and is over 200 miles NE of Flora, and 500 feet higher.
Dave, many thanks for your writing here at Ricochet. It is a pleasure to read your essays.
Thanks, Larry. I well remember the meet up, and the pleasure of your company, sir. A great evening, surrounded by great people.
Thanks, MJ. I think that even if I had known that bit of information, I would have kept it to myself. The gentleman in case, though my senior by a sizable span, was too simultaneously authoritative and kind for me to contradict. Besides, what’s 500 feet between new friends?
On a more serious note, that safety bulletin from Amtrack about not standing on the tracks is worth passing on. We had a recent fatal accident near me, in which a train overtook a jogger who was running hard along the tracks in the same direction. He had found that the ties were spaced just right for the stride he wanted, and he was running with his earbuds in. The engineer had locked the train down, wheels screeching, horn blasting, and had to watch as he killed the runner.
I pray for the runner’s family, and for train engineers.
A delightful story about a train I’ve actually been on, albeit a long, long time ago …
As seniors in high school, a few friends and I decided that we could easily take my parents’ van to New Orleans for the Sugar Bowl, in which our beloved Nebraska Cornhuskers would be playing LSU (in what amounted to an LSU home game for all intents and purposes, but such is the bowl advantage Southern schools have always enjoyed). It was, after all, only a 24-hour drive each way, and we figured each of us was good for an 8-hour shift.
My parents wisely refused to authorize our bat-[CoC redacted] crazy plan, and instead booked tickets on Amtrak from Minneapolis to New Orleans. The only flaw in that plan was that east-west trains get decoupled and left to wait for north-south trains on a siding somewhere in Illinois, with no electricity, in the winter. As other commenters have noted, Amtrak schedules are but wishful thinking, so the southbound train didn’t show until a few hours after the eastbound one had dropped us on that chilly night. Never quite felt so alone …
Dave, you can also bet that others in your conversations are now spinning tales of the truck driver/raconteur and his two native american lasses they had the pleasure of meeting.
You are also fortunate that the City of New Orleans rides on Canadian National tracks and even though August numbers are not available yet, their July OTP were a very respectable 82.3%, much better than their western routes.
Dave,
You won’t slip that pass a pilot on a foggy morning approach….
My favorite train experience was a trip from Denver to Memphis via the Zephyr (Denver to Chicago) and the City of New Orleans (Chicago to Memphis) one Christmas. Our first train was so late getting into Chicago that we missed our second one, and “had to” spend most of Christmas Eve in Chicago, to catch the next night’s train. We opted to stay at the Palmer House instead of whatever Amtrak had vouchers for, and the weather was unusually unsnowy. The Field Museum was free for the holiday, Marshall Fields still existed and we had lunch in the Oak Room; it was a fabulous little bit of lagniappe.
And when we got onto the Memphis train that night, it turned out my husband and the sleeping car attendant had common friends in Scotland. Small world!
I’ve never done the southern half of the City of New Orleans route, though – maybe one Mardi Gras in the future, we’ll have to try it.
OK, Kelly – I had to look up Lagniappe. (And it was well worth the time — thanks.)