Amtrak Ambivalence

There are moments when I love the train ride from New York to D.C.: all the landscapes blurring past, the liberal legroom, outlets (for dilapidated computers/iPods/cell phones with little battery life) and the inexplicably friendly ticket-takers.

When you think about the alternative (riding the bus, including Vamoose, Washington “Deluxe” and the Chinatown variety), train rides win by a landslide. Of course you could ride the bus about 6 times for the price of one train ticket, but then you have to sit through 4-7 hours of odd smells and bad movies. On one particular journey, the bus driver played the Notebook. There I was openly and audibly weeping on the bus from D.C. to New York. Another ride, I watched the worst movie ever made: Heartwood, which features a pre-90210 Hilary Swank. Before I saw that movie, I had never taken the time to register on IMDB to rate films. Afterward however, I logged on with the express purpose of ranking Heartwood a 2 out of 10—and that was actually pretty generous.

As usual, I’ve gotten off topic. The real problem here is not the bus, which I’ve given up even though I’m totally broke. The problem is that in order to take a train home to D.C., you have to go to Penn Station, and Penn Station is on my top ten list of least fun places. It’s actually less fun than the D.C. DMV, although slightly more pleasurable than the Denver airport circa Christmas 2006.

My first problem with the train station is that it is difficult to navigate. I have taken the 1-2-3 trains to 34th Street countless times, but I have yet to master efficiently making my way from the subway to the Amtrak departure gates. Every time I end up taking a different route. The place is a maze of rolling suitcases and NJ Transit riders and many of the signs directing people toward Amtrak lead to dead ends. It’s crawling with people, especially on the Friday afternoon before Easter, heading to a cherry blossom-peaking Washington. Once you make it to the Amtrak terminal, there is a giant board with all of the outgoing trains, but the gate isn’t announced until about 10 minutes before the train departs. There are no seats, so everyone just stands around next to their luggage.

Once the gate is announced, the rush begins. People sprint to the gate, knocking over little old ladies and running over toes with baggage wheels. For me, the gate race is a lot like that computer game Minesweeper. It’s hard to know which direction to go if I have to traverse the entire terminal, because if I cut left, I could end up falling onto someone’s smart cart, but if I veer right, I may end up in a crowd of 12-year-old tourist-children.

Sometimes I play a little game that can really pay off. I get to the train station about 15 minutes early and play the odds. If the trains to Chicago, Trenton and Philly leave from tracks 1, 13 West and 9 East, then I guess a track, maybe 14 East, and then I wait right next to the entrance. And pray. This could really backfire, clearly, but last weekend, it worked. I was standing next to 10 West when it was called, and I was the 4th person in line. My grand prize? No elbows to the chin and a window seat near the front.

The best part was after walking past the ticket taker, I turned around to relish my victory and watch as sharply-dressed businessmen and women duked it out to be next in line.

The strangest part about this last Amtrak adventure was that it could be among my last. Next year, I could be heading to Berkeley or Charlottesville. After that, I'm sure I will always think wistfully about trains and say, “I really miss all the excitement of Penn Station…”