Hurry!

The morning was a flurry of packing, rounding up snow pants, and snipping tags off new mittens and helmets as we prepared for an overnight in Flumersberg. After a week of Connecticut-comparable weather in Zurich, we were heading to snowy mountains, fir trees, and alpine chalets to experience calendar-Switzerland. 

This trip required strategy as Lisa had enrolled Paul and Lexi in a weekly Sunday ski school, so we had the kids’ skis, poles, boots, and helmets to tote as well as our overnight bags. “And,” Lisa warned, her tone ominous, “we have to make several connections to get there.” 

Once all was ready, we waddled - fat in winter coats, dragging rolling bags, bristling with ski poles, and burdened with backpacks -  to the tram stop. As usual, Dave and I were grateful and apologetic for our duckling status, dependent as we were on Tucker and Lisa for directions and tickets. When the tram rounded the curve, Paul and Lexi took their positions at the exact spot where the back doors opened, scrambled inside, and nabbed their favorite seats by the back window. We were off!   

We arrived at the train station with enough time to buy lunch. The kids bee-lined for a booth selling warm, salty pretzel buns with a hole down the middle, just the right fit for a sausage or a generous portion of melted cheese. Delicious. We then located the correct track and sauntered its length before climbing on board. 

Swiss trains heading to Flumersberg expect skiers among their passengers and provide stands near the doors to store equipment. Having discovered how tricky it was to pry loose a ski pole that slid and stuck behind the overhead rack when initially placed with our bags on the shelf, we moved the kids’ gear to those stands. 

After we’d settled into our seats, Lisa commanded our attention. Like a general preparing her troops, she said, “When we arrive at our stop, we have to be ready. We have one minute to catch the bus.”

I know myself, and when making a connection, I want to avoid the wild-eyed anxiety of missing the next leg of my trip. I don’t mind an hour’s wait with plenty of time to read my book, stroll, or buy a snack. Naturally, I assumed one minute was an exaggeration.

Paul and Lexi bent their heads close over a video game while I gazed out at the landscape flying by. Rain streaked the window, artfully distorting glimpses of lakes, villages, and churches. Even so, I took pictures, hoping my iPhone would surprise me in freezing a few recognizable images. 

As we neared the station, Lisa gave the word, and we began to load up. ‘We have to move quickly,” she said. “I’m serious. We have one minute.” 

We shrugged on our coats and grabbed our bags from the racks and the ski equipment from the receptacles. The moment the train stopped and the doors slid open, we bolted. 

The bus was there, waiting on the far side of the tracks. “Hurry!” 

We ran! Grandparents and small children clumsy in boots and heavy coats, hurtling along the platform, backpacks bouncing, rolling bags clattering, skis and poles clanking! Down the stairs! Under the tracks! Up more stairs! “Hurry! Hurry!”

Everyone clambered onto the bus, the doors closed, and the bus took off. There was not a moment of grace, not a glance from the driver to check for people on the platform or passengers safely in seats. No! Time to go! Schedules to keep! Good heavens!  

Next, to the cable car. So many literally moving parts to this adventure, but this stretch, given all, was leisurely. The cable car was continually revolving for the next few hours, so we slipped into a general store to purchase a variety of chocolate snacks, then lugged our load up yet another flight of stairs. 

The cars swung around on a track, never stopping. The six of us gathered into a knot, tight as possible, so we could hustle onto the car as it slowed. Hurry! Skis and poles into the external holders! Shift over! Shift over! Everybody in! Is everybody in? Got the bags? Yes! Whew!

Relieved to have successfully reached the final leg of the trip, we slumped onto the hard bench seats as the car slid out of the station and rose over houses and expanses of green. Rain and fog enveloped us as we climbed. Gradually, up and ahead, we could see a distinct line where the temperature dropped and the rain… turned to snow. 

  

 

 

Tale of a Train Trip South

Dave and I love train travel, and if the distance requires a sleeping car, all the better. When my friend-from-birth, Edie, invited us to meet her and her husband, also-Dave, in Charleston, we were excited at the prospect of our first extended trip since Covid. Given the 820 miles from here to there, we anticipated a sleep-over, and while the 6:00 AM departure time on our tickets made clear that would not be happening, my mind’s eye continued to conjure the coast slipping by the window of a cozy couchette.  

No matter. Thirteen waking hours on Amtrak would grant time to read books that had hovered too long in the queue by my bed. The Boston Sunday Globe would fill a few hours and the Crossword puzzle would entertain my husband still more. Trader Joe's provided bread, cheese, fruit, and granola bars should the café car’s offerings lack appeal, and I tucked a bottle of Nineteen Crimes wine in my canvas tote bag along with a stack of cups should we make any friends by cocktail hour.

 

Well, the books and the Globe remained in my bag, for conversation was our pastime as it happened; and we did have reason to share the Nineteen Crimes when dusk shadowed the vista beyond the tracks.  

 

Dave is curious. About everything. He always has questions and always gives them voice. While our kids roll their eyes when he chats up cashiers and Uber drivers, his curiosity has often proved the key to learning of lives different from ours, and so it was on our ride to Charleston. 

 

“Did you fly one of those Tomcats?” Dave asked the gentleman seated across the aisle from us. The man was about our age, African American, and masked as we all were. He glanced at the embroidered patch with the Air Force insignia on his bomber-style jacket and tugged the sleeve to give Dave a better look. 

 

“Military Police,” he answered. “I spent two years in Thailand. Learned the language. Traveled a lot.”  

 

Dave’s father and two uncles served in World War II, and the VFW is one of his favorite charities; we traveled in Thailand with our daughter in 2011; and Tony, the vet, was currently working with the homeless and mentally ill in New York.  He was friendly and open to conversation: thirteen hours would not be enough to cover Dave’s questions. 

 

As we chatted across the aisle about the specifics of Tony’s service and the military in general, those seated nearby chimed in. A wiry army vet had the seat in front of Tony, and a young man in fatigues one seat back was fresh out of Marine boot camp. 

 

“Agh. You must be so glad to have that behind you,” I said to the young Marine. “But do you feel empowered having made it through?”

 

He had lowered his mask to sip from a water bottle, and it was clear from his smile that he was scrolling through months of memories before answering. “I loved it even when I hated it. I knew it was for my own good, to prepare me for anything so I can defend my country if need be.”

 

At mention of boot camp, the other vets groaned. “Those drill sergeants just scream in your face, don't they?” said Tony. 

 

“Oh yeah, they do. Saying, ‘You’re nuthin’! You’re stupid! They spit in your face they’re yelling so hard,” said the Marine. Yet surprisingly, his expression was one of fond reminiscence.

 

“They’re spitting on purpose! Tearing you down to build you up. Just like someone did to them in training. Am I right?” said Tony, craning around the seat in front of him to include the army vet. 

 

The three men were nodding as they shared tales of early morning inspections and grueling drills, chuckling at what they’d endured, agreeing to its necessity in making them better soldiers and better men. 

 

“Would you be interested in being a drill sergeant yourself, do you think?” Dave asked the Marine.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I would. Pass it forward.”  

 

The importance of the issues and our effort to speak over the thrumming of the rails forced us to raise our voices, and when a topic overheard compelled them, passengers from seats further down the car joined in. As talk about military discipline led to a discussion of discipline in parenting, a man with dreadlocks down to his waist drew near. “Hope you don’t mind me listening in. The problem here is babies having babies. They don’t know how to be parents! They’re kids themselves!” The woman seated behind Dave agreed. “Mm-hm. That’s the problem.” 

 

At one point, I leaned over Dave’s back to ask the Marine what led him to enlist. “To be honest,” he said, “I wasn’t on the best path. Didn’t have a great role model in my dad. Had no idea what I was going to do with my life. If you’d told me a few months back that I’d be a Marine now, I’d’ve said you were crazy.” He shook his head as if not believing it himself…and radiated pride.

 

“I know four Marines,” I said. “Two of my uncles and two friends. It’s always mystified me that the Marines are portrayed as the toughest of the armed forces, and yet, these guys are the kindest, nicest men I know.”

 

Again, the young man’s smile was proud.  “Yes,” he said. “We are gentlemen too.”

 

For Dave and me, fortunate dwellers in the privileged bubble of Fairfield County, everything about these encounters was a gift, an opportunity to speak openly with people of diverse backgrounds and experience.  By the time we reached Charleston, we had shared our wine and found, as we always do, that it doesn’t take more than smiles and curiosity to unlock someone’s story. Truly, there are good people everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Late Night at the Depot

It is 12:26 A.M. and the oak benches in the depot at Whitefish are hard. Our 9:15 P.M. overnight train to Portland – with its cozy bunks and tiny bathroom – is delayed. The ETA keeps creeping later, and we hope the current projection – 2:38 A.M. – sticks.

While on the Red Bus tour, our stopover at Glacier’s Lake Macdonald Lodge had been tantalizing, but brief.  Given our naively anticipated departure time today, we had, even then, plenty of time to kill, so we returned to the rustic, 1913 lodge for a tasty lunch and lengthy stroll along the lake before heading for Whitefish.

With its shops featuring an eclectic mix of antlers, stuffed heads, swinging-door saloons, and a nuance of nautical, the town has a “come ski and sail in the wild west!” appeal. We had dinner at a restaurant called “Casey’s”, and of course, took a picture of the logo to send to our daughter. It was still early, so we drove into Lee Mason State Park for a quick look, and when we needed a bathroom, stopped at the luxury lodge on Whitefish Lake.  With the confident air of paying guests, we strutted to the poolside facilities. Then, brazenly, we walked the lodge beach, our bravado rewarded when a staff member smiled and asked if we were enjoying our stay.  Oh yes, thank you!  

Lulled by the memory of our prompt departure and entrancing train ride three days ago from Portland, we returned our rental and headed for the depot with a half hour to spare. Four hours later, we are surrounded by our future fellow passengers, many of them striving to snooze despite the oaken seats. 

The Hertz office is open, so Dave and I bide time chatting with Mr. Duff whose family has run this franchise for over 70 years.  His grandfather’s massive Victorian roll-top desk – with two secret drawers – dominates the small office.     

Hours pass. I should read or write in my journal, but I’m mesmerized by the bizarre programs on the big-screen TV. “Ring of Honor” wrestling? It has to be a parody.  Oh lord, I hope so.  Such posturing, leaping, and flailing!  Wild, swinging punches, tumultous falls, swirling capes, and threatening growls! Totally ridiculous, but a glance around the waiting room reveals that, like me, those not sleeping are riveted. 

A kind young woman offers food from the vending machine to an elderly couple sitting nearby.  A mother strolls round and round, crooning and cradling her adorable chick-fuzzed baby who makes not a sound, but gazes wide-eyed and quiet at each of us in turn. The child’s father snoozes with his head resting on a backpack while his tiny daughter sits next to him playing on a phone. Wizened and bearded, an ancient gentleman sits alone.  If it were possible, I would’ve guessed him to be a Civil War veteran, although Viet Nam is more likely. 

Did I mention the full-grown stuffed mountain goat encased in glass in the middle of the depot?  No?

Around 2:00 A.M., a youthful couple stumbles in; clearly they’ve passed the time at a local bar.  The boy’s round face is good-natured and cherubic, with coppery curls tumbling from beneath his brimmed, leather hat. The girl is pretty, with long blond hair. To our surprise, they greet Dave and me as dear friends, and we realize we met them while waiting for a shuttle in Glacier.  At the time, we were heading up to Logan Pass, and they were off to the wilderness to camp. When you’re traveling, even a brief conversation qualifies as a connection, and when gritty-eyed, tired, and stranded in the wee hours, a familiar face is a welcome sight.   

The minutes crawl by and just as we reach the point of dismissing any announcements related to our train’s status as cruel fabrication, it pulls in at 3:10 A.M.  Our weary crew stands and stretches, gathers up pocketbooks, empty candy wrappers, water bottles, and suitcases, then trudges out to the platform to board.

Once ensconced in our unit, Dave climbs into his bunk and immediately falls asleep. I squeeze into our diminutive bathroom to brush my teeth, and am dismayed by the smears and splatters on every stainless steel and porcelain surface. Oh AMTRAK! I love thee, but you betray me with this dark-of-night, mandatory floor-sink-and-toilet swab.

The rail line is somewhat redeemed when daylight brings tasty boxed breakfasts, although our “vegetarian” offerings, so marked in bold black Sharpie letters, include thick chunks of ham.  After we eat around the misplaced meat, we search out our bleary young friends from Whitefish who have spent their slice-of-night sitting up in coach recliners in a separate car. They’re happy to have a ham-and-bread snack.    

As our train snakes along the Columbia River Gorge, Dave and I snag seats in the observation car and marvel at the stunning variations in landscape.  We lurch from one side of the car to the other, cameras ready, striving to capture it all; the sunset-amber hues of the ragged and rounded cliffs of the gorge; the vast blue sweep of the river; the thunderous thrill of passing trains; battalions of white-winged windmills; bustling logging yards; distant wildfires blowing billows of smoke, ominous as nuclear clouds; and open expanses of water with para-sailers drifting above like dragonflies. 

So, yes, we arrived in Portland five hours late, a nightmare for those meeting friends or making flights. But without that delay, those river views would have passed unseen in darkness.  I stand by my mantra: have faith in the unfolding. 

Train Crossing

The ticket is in here somewhere.  Of course it is.  Not five minutes ago, I presented it to the agent and stuffed it back into my purse.  Wallet, tissues, checkbook, keys, cosmetics bag, pens, pad.  For heaven’s sake.  As I rummage, my stomach clenches with anxiety.  “Can I hold it for you while you search?” a man asks.

Unique in this crowd garbed in tee-shirts, shorts, sundresses, and flip flops, the gentleman is slight and wiry, with a straggly gray goatee, spectacles, a brimmed black hat, long sleeved shirt, and overalls. His round-faced female companion wears a white bonnet, faded blue dress, and apron.  Amish.  Is that why I trust him?  For, without hesitation, I hand this stranger my unruly pocketbook, rustle in its depths a little more, and find my ticket.  To my thanks, he says, "That’s what we’re here for.”

My auto-smile must have conveyed incomprehension, for he adds, “To help each other.  That’s why we’re here.” 

I file this away with a nod as the loudspeaker booms, “Amtrak Capitol Limited for Washington, now boarding.”  A flurry ensues as passengers bend, twist, and reach to adjust straps and grab suitcases.  Dave and I smile our farewells to my helper and lose sight of the couple in the surge down the platform.

Once settled in our tiny roomette, we are giddy with excitement.  This ride is as much part of our journey as the stay in Williamsburg, our destination. Dave has longed for an overnight train trip, and when I was a child, I traveled every year with my mother and sisters to visit my grandparents in St. Louis.  In the fifties, the view from the train was enough to entertain three little girls, but I imagine degraded landscapes and subdivisions have replaced the farms, meadows, and glimpses of cows and horses that thrilled us then.  So, my husband and I are prepared with books, laptops, and magazines for this lovely stretch of open hours.

The train jolts forward as the whistle blows: long, hollow, soulful…beautiful, a sound from the past.  “Listen to it!” Dave says, beaming.  We are dancing in our seats, grinning at each other as the whistle clears the way, and we pull out. 

Chicago slips by, and beyond the windows, feathery Queen Anne’s lace, purple clover, sumac, and yellow Dutchman’s britches thrive along the rail beds amongst freight cars, tankers, smokestacks, and huge spools of cable.   The wildflowers bob and white butterflies toss like petals as we breeze by the rusting red lattice of an abandoned bridge.  Past occasional glimpses of the blue swath of Lake Michigan.  Past industrial compounds with mazes of conveyors, chutes and cranes.  Past seas of grasslands, puddled swamps, and a fast-moving river.  Past a decrepit gray house, standing by God’s grace alone, and three people perched in plastic chairs angled toward the track as if passing trains were the day’s entertainment. 

The whistle sounds its warning as we enter a village, and a striped bar lowers as the hooded owl-eyed lights of the road crossing flash red their alarm.  The train slows and Dave and I gaze out the window at fanciful Victorians with wrap-around porches and picket fences.  Country roads shaded with lush maples and oaks run parallel to the tracks then curve gently into the woods.  And yes, still there are red barns, undulating green fields, and grazing cows. 

On a bridge over a wide river, the train stops above a sandy shoal.  A leggy heron preens on its bank and orange canoes drift in the current, their occupants paddling languidly.  We pick up speed, leaving behind those people and that lazy moment in their lives, to zip beneath a craggy rock outcropping and then plunge into the darkness of a tunnel.  As in life, every minute is a surprise as we rush from light to dark to light again, from trailer parks to seas of untrammeled grasses to tamed rows of corn.   Every glance to this page to write is a risk, for I know I will miss something wonderful.                  

The dinner hour is announced over the intercom – joy! - so we lurch down the narrow hall to the dining car.  Tequila, with her broad smile, warm eyes, and lengthy dredlocks pulled to a bunch at the back of her head, directs us to our seats across from Norman, a retired history of art teacher.  For two hours we enjoy conversation, wine, salmon topped with halved cherry tomatoes, and moist, flavorful chicken.  

Norman fills us in on his years of teaching, traveling, and acting as a host/ambassador on a cruise line where his duties included “dancing with the single ladies.”  He grins often, his eyes crinkling closed every time.  As Dave and I have just visited the Chicago Institute of Art, we are bubbling with enthusiasm over some of the famous paintings we saw: American Gothic and Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.”’ Norman knows them well, as he does every artwork and historic site we mention from our travels.  At 82, he is heading home after touring out west with his family, and is looking forward to a solo trip to Italy in the fall. 

When Dave and I return to our roomette after dinner, it has been transformed.  The seats have disappeared and two sleeping berths made up, the corners of the sheets folded back invitingly.

Who will take the upper berth? 

When I was a kid, that was the desired spot.  Did my sisters and I flip a coin or fight for it?  Don’t recall, but Dave and I snuggle into the lower berth to discuss the benefits of upper and lower, watching lights whizz by in the darkness beyond the window.  The train sounds its ghostly warning of a road crossing and I remind Dave of “Train Whistle Blowing,” a song my friend Janice and I used to sing with our students in music class.   “Don’t sing it,” Dave pleads.  It is not his favorite song.   

“Rockin’, Rollin’, Ridin’, out along the bay.  All bound for morning town many miles away.” I launch into the tune with verve, the wail of the whistle and the clatter of the rails as my background accompaniment.  While it’s possible this is not a penalty for my little chorus, at bedtime, I’m the one to haul up top, snap the safety net into place, and hope I don’t have to go to the bathroom too many times during the night.

Happily, I don’t.  We both sleep well, and after sloshy, bumpy efforts to wash up in the restroom, we return to the dining car for breakfast.

I’m not so sure about this morning’s dining companion.

Ron’s gray hair is neatly combed back from a high forehead; his glasses perch on a strong nose.  He is slender and handsome, but his smile is often a sneer, and he counters our raves about last night’s dinner with the opinion that we’d simply been lucky in choosing the only good options on the menu.  He is annoyed by the chill of the air conditioner and clenches his jaw as he leans forward across the table to state, “The American public deserves better rail service.” 

I have him all wrapped up and tucked in a cranky old man pigeonhole when he launches into a hilarious tale about his mother-in-law, “an old battle-axe, too mean to die.” He transports us to 1930’s Brooklyn to meet his childhood pals Wendel, Josh, and Howie.  Ron and Dave crack up while I gasp at tales of ink poured onto the milkman’s white horse, and heavy coat buttons persistently peppering a rival’s window, a chinese water torture of sorts, until a filched ball was returned.  The three pranksters grew up to become a businessman, lawyer, and supreme court justice, and in confiding their histories, Ron’s disapproving visage relaxed into that of the mischievous boy he had been.

After breakfast, Dave and I return to our roomette to find our seats restored. We settle in and marvel at the view out the window.  At a crawl, we are passing through Ashland, Virginia.  It’s easy to imagine ourselves in a horse-drawn carriage for we are cruising sedately down what appears to be Main Street, flanked on either side by mown green lawns and stately Victorian houses, the porch railings still decorated with red, white, and blue bunting.  The train picks up speed as homes give way to open fields and split rail fences. 

The loudspeaker informs us that we are running late: shared tracks have added to our time.  Good.  Dave and I relish every added hour, every peek into passing towns and vistas.  Ron had insisted “the American people should demand a bullet train, like the one from London to Paris.”  I get it: sometimes it’s all about the destination. But, mounted on the wall in my daughter’s second grade classroom was a poster that read, “Childhood should be a journey instead of a race,” and I think of the Amish man who offered to hold my bag at the station in Washington. I think of Norman, Ron, and the people in the plastic chairs watching the trains.  I think of rusting bridges, Queen Anne’s lace entwined with webs of wire, and a glimpse of a day on the river in an orange canoe.  And I say, forget the bullet; I’ll take the slow route.