Nobody takes the train for convenience in the US, not with the dilapidated state of its vehicles, the government’s iron-grip control of the tracks, and the logistical and financial nightmare of building new railroads. It takes 10 times the numbers of hours it would take by plane, and costs almost the same as a round-trip ticket.
No, Americans take the Amtrak for the experience.
The appeal is a dash of nostalgia with a pinch of glorified romanticization, a window to what used to be. Despite the hellish hours and winding roads, everyone keeps sane one way or another. For some the companionship of others is sustainable, for others a soul-searching, isolated pilgrimage fuels their resilience. There are even some that simply love trains.
I don’t really know what compelled me to take the entirety of the 33-hour Coast Starlight route, one of the oldest and most fabled train routes Amtrak has to offer. I’d like to attribute it to a crisis of self-identity during a difficult time, or perhaps a need to feel something other than numbness from years of chronic stress. I didn’t know why, and frankly, I didn’t care. Everyone I told mirrored the same reaction: a look of disgust, followed by an incredulous, “Why?”
So I did it anyways.
Hour 0: Union Station
The ride on the Los Angeles metrolink took 45 minutes from City of Industry to Downtown LA’s Union Station. I was struck at how pleasant the whole ride was, a swift 2-stop journey from suburbia to the heart of the sprawl. Sure, it lacked the speed, efficiency, and modern aesthetics of trains in Asia and Europe. And naturally, it can’t compare to the ubiquity of its New York counterpart. But there’s a distinct charm of the Metro commuter rail, a quiet fortitude as it trudges along the tracks on schedule, distinctly unaware of the smog of resentment that has plagued its existence by the very residents it was meant to serve.
“LA is too much of a sprawl to have a transit system!” they cried. “It’s a city for cars!” exclaimed others. Inefficient. Insufficient ridership. Broken, beaten, crime-riddled. It can’t get anywhere. These are the lambasted words thrown at the city’s transport rails despite huge gains in the last few years, a dismissive narrative entrenched within the cultural outlook of LA. Despite promises of accelerated projects, filled coffers for infrastructure investments, and a concrete plan of action for the next decade or so, the city remains staunchly pessimistic as it struggles to shake off the learned hopelessness that’s since been the norm.
Yet as my train pulled into the station, I couldn’t help but feel optimistic. I felt like Thor in the swirling Aurora Borealis of the Bifrost portal as the thick-skinned train carried me -like I’m sure it does for many others every morning – from what seemed like the far corner of the world, to the center of it all.
That day, I had made two egregious mistakes. One, I failed to remember one of the oldest mantra of the Golden Arches: breakfast menu until 10am. Any plans I had of trucking an entire McDonalds buffet onto the train warped into a grotesque stack of Sausage Egg Mcmuffins and hash browns. “It’ll be fine,” I thought. “There’ll be food when they let us off for breaks.” Of the numerous stations littered in the path of the great Coast Starlight, surely forbidding the passengers from exploring a bit would be remiss, no?
And that was my second mistake. It would be another 35 hours before I would have my next genuine meal.
Hour 2: Los Angeles -> Oxnard
The first red flag was the lack of WiFi. In the information brochure detailing the amenities aboard, amidst the long list of trains that carried the sweet nectar of productivity (or procrastination), the name of the Coast Starlight was starkly absent. I was perplexed at the thought; one of the longest train routes in the country was disconnected from the world. I was at the whims of my mobile carrier, a notion that didn’t inspire much confidence as a rule of thumb. It wasn’t difficult to surmise the reason. Having been built since the founding of Amtrak itself, the passenger train has seen better days. Throw in one of the most scenic routes in the country, along with the historic glamor attached to the concept of a train ride, and there seems little need -if at all- of adding a wireless network. The implication is that one would get by through scenic immersion and the joys of fleeting acquaintances with fellow passengers.
By hour 2, I still wasn’t worried. I was down one McMuffin and hash brown, but the carbohydrate-rich energization was a jolt of manic energy, both mentally and physically. Habitually, I would alternate between browsing the mobile phone and peeking outside at the swiftly changing landscape. As the hour stretched on, the former occupied more and more of my time, but I was still fairly content in my comfort zone. I was a veteran of long travels, a frugal traveler who often prioritized transport savings over comfort. Just 2 years ago, I took a 2-stop, 30-hour flight from San Francisco to Bali, Indonesia just to drive the cost of the trip down. This was nothing, I had way more legroom now.
I wasn’t prepared for what lay ahead.
Hour 4: Santa Barbara
The second red flag was the menu. The $8 scrambled egg was some kind of sick joke, the $12 pancakes even worse. We were now beyond Disneyland, or airport foodcourt prices. This was Switzerland pricing, except replace rustic, glorious European rails gliding across the beautiful Alps with a run-down locomotive, half a century old and subservient to other freight trains.
In that instance, I became glaringly aware of the increasingly stale and cold sandwiches I had left dripping fat in a brown sac, ticking time bombs that would inevitably translate to an explosion of the gastrointestinal variety. But hunger does a desperate man make. I was soon left with one last McMuffin and its hash brown companion.
Four hours into my journey, I had grown weary of the vast expanse of the oceanside. Having lived in southern California for more than a decade now, the sight of the tranquil blue was no stranger to me. Slowly, unbeknownst to me, it had gradually transformed from a deep, aqua sheet – a warm embrace accompanied by the perfect beach weather – to the hellish wallpaper of my solitary confinement.
The train made a pit stop at Santa Barbara station, a city known for its festive oceanfront vibes, friendly atmosphere, and extraordinary, succulent sea urchins – okay, maybe that last one was just me. These momentary breaks offer a short, 15-minute respite. A smoke, a stretch, and back into the belly of the behemoth. As the afternoon sun slowly set, casting a deep orange across the sandy beaches and the palm trees swaying in the breeze, the fatigue of the day also began to creep in. Santa Barbarians, with their khaki shorts, casual, flowery button-downs, and classic beachgoer shades-and-hat combo, stood eagerly in line, waiting to embark on their own magical fairy ride. Some were in it for the long haul, evident from the way they gathered their various bags and suitcases about them. Others, like me, preferred to travel light.
I smiled, dozing off under the intensity of the sunset. “Welcome aboard.”
Hour 13: Jack London Square –> Sacramento Valley
I woke up to the gentle rumblings of the train, the only consistent soundtrack of the journey. The sun had long set at this point, reflected in the deeply stained darkness outside. I couldn’t see anything, the only things staring back through the windows a pair of weary eyes and an opaque, forlorn face. It took me a while to register my own face staring back from the abyss, noting the fatigue seemingly etched within its contours. Midnight would soon arrive, but I was still stuck in my pumpkin carriage. Suppressing a gag at the reminder of the increasingly rancid corpse of a McMuffin left in my bag, I hunkered down for the night; the surest way to kill time was to sleep. I’ve always loved Jack London Square, a quaint bayside complex that stands as a microcosm of Oakland’s positive attributes with its impressive selection of eateries and shops. My inability to experience it – to taste, hear, or even see it – was a decent summary of my time so far. I was in a sensory deprivation chamber of my own doing.
Comfort zones be damned, I just wanted an $8 plate of scrambled eggs.
Hours 21-25: Klamath Falls and the forests of Oregon
I won’t lie. Despite teetering on the edge of insanity, playing chicken on the railroad tracks that is my mind, waking up in the depths of the Oregonian forests was a breath of fresh air – metaphorically, of course, I hadn’t been outside for more than 20 hours at this point.
Everything they told me was good about long-ass train rides manifested itself in a sea of green, as the rickety train now purred along the mountainsides. I made my way, for the first time, to the Amtrak’s observation deck, where ceiling-length windows framed the sweeping vistas in all their majesty. The tips of the towering trees were dotted with the last of the winter snow, the forest floor lightly dusted with the same powdery white. More than anything, however, was the setting’s efficacy as a mood enhancer. Placebo as it may be, the literal sight for sore eyes rejuvenated whatever spirit or energy was left in a famished, empty shell of a person. For a time, anyways.
My final sandwich and a movie later, my initial enthusiasm for being sandwiched between lush, vert mountains had dropped off considerably. Exacerbated by an hour delay in which maintenance had to be done on the tracks, the deep pangs of hunger coupled with increasing frustration over the lack of progress curdled whatever ephemeral jolt of excitement I felt over the change of scenery. Turns out, a 4-hour ride in a forest with no mobile service quickly dampens any healing impact.
The sun began to set again in a tortuous dêja vu, a signal of the imminent darkness that would once again force me alone with my own thoughts. I tried to fight it with mindless entertainment, flailing about while armed with a backlog of music, TV shows, and movies. I scrolled furiously through my phone, flicking between different social media services with the desperation of a madman that refused to bow down to the crushing ennui of the night. But it was to no avail. The mind doesn’t want what it doesn’t want. Going through the motions in wonton denial would do little to change that fact. I slouched back to my seat, stomach paradoxically bloated and empty, heart sunken like the disappearing sun. What kept me awake was the quiet fortitude of optimism, a glimmer of hope that when next the sun reared its head, I would be in an actual bed, hopefully on a full stomach.
Hour 29: Portland, Oregon
I’d always wanted to visit Portland. But that’s neither here nor there. Or anywhere. I was still stuck here as the city whisked by.
Goodbye, Portland.
Hour 33: Auburn, Washington
Another delay. Some kind of medical emergency. I guess I should appreciate the cruel twist of irony in which one of the passengers fell ill a stop away from the final destination, but I was probably mentally ill from the very beginning for thinking this train ride was a good idea. As promised, the iconic Pacific Northwest rainfall had been falling steadily for hours now. The soothing pitter patter of the rain did little to calm my restlessness. I wanted to get out. To feel alive again. I needed to hear something other than the churning of train wheels, to feel something other than the cold, plastic interiors of the soulless beast, to taste anything at all. I know, I should count myself lucky for not being the one carted off amidst the blaring sirens of the ambulance.
Nonetheless, fuck you Amtrak. The guy probably collapsed under the incredulous notion that in the year 2018 of our Lord, a 33-hour train route didn’t have fucking wireless internet.
My phone lit up, a pinging notification flashing across the darkened cabin. “Where are you?” inquired my local Seattleite friend.
My corporeal, rotting corpse was in Auburn, WA. My mind probably never left Union Station. This must be the sort of out-of-body experience Scrooge felt in A Christmas Carol. Except, instead of the three ghosts, I was haunted by the 3 Sausage Egg McMuffins that sought to eject liquid feces from me with the violent force equivalent to a Christmas story beating its readers head with moral lessons of the holiday spirit.
Hour 34: Seattle, Washington
Nietzsche once said that “if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.” He was right, of course, but Nietzsche probably never had to take a 34-hour train ride in the 21st century, a feat so barbaric it almost felt like one of the most developed nations in the world had transportation infrastructure no better than a developing one. Oh wait.
It’s really almost pointless to describe the relief I felt disembarking the behemoth. The pain is never as bad in hindsight. After all, I had gotten my wish. I felt something, something beyond the gurgling monstrosity brewing in my guts from 3 meals worth of McDonald’s animal feed. I also learned to never do it again. Well, at least not anytime soon. When the scars have faded and the pain unrecognizable in my mind, I’d probably attempt something similar. Not because I’m some kind of masochist, or that I would want to rediscover myself in any capacity. If nothing else, to allow myself the luxury of suffering. Willpower is forged through the hellish flames of bureaucratic incompetence in infrastructure development. So what better way of building character than to hop onto the broken remains of America’s only passenger freight network. Once in a while, when you’re lost, alone, and feel the need to harden your resolve, consider getting Amtrak’ed. It’ll undoubtedly make you realize that while your problems may seem hopeless, it’ll never be as hopeless as the United States public transport system.
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