So, Chicago to Grover Beach via LAX on the SWC in a standard sleeper, and the last leg up the coast on the Surfliner. Not only was the sleeper $170 cheaper than last year’s CZ but the pound now stood at more than $1.60 compared to last year’s $1.40 so I had no complaints on that front, either. With flights and hotels also booked, there was nothing to do now but wait until September.

Unusually, when the day came, I started my trip not by train, but by bus. UK train timetables have three separate schedules: Monday to Friday; Saturdays; and Sundays. On most routes the frequency of Sunday services are greatly reduced compared to weekdays with no services at all on some rural and local branch lines. Those lines that do have Sunday trains are often affected by engineering work that causes delays, diversions and/or bus replacements. So, with a plane to catch, I decided on a direct bus to the airport on our equivalent of Greyhound. I was trying to remember when I last travelled on a long-distance bus in the UK…somewhere around 1989 I think…not that you can call a two and a half hour trip “long distance” by American standards. Still, I couldn’t complain as it got me to Heathrow on time for my eight-hour, on-time flight to Chicago.

I first time I visited America I flew into O’Hare, and my first memorable, close-up view of America from my window seat was the “grid” pattern of the streets in the Chicago suburbs as we descended after crossing Lake Michigan. This time I had an aisle seat, so had to make do with some occasional fleeting glimpses of a fantastic sunset over the Windy City as we banked before landing. I was staying in Chicago overnight and getting the train the next day. I had decided on a hotel near the airport so after clearing Immigration & Customs, it was a short shuttle ride to the hotel, and dusk was falling as I checked in. A quick snack and a few Gin & Tonics worked wonders, but after propping up the bar for a couple of hours my body clock was telling me that it was now nearly 5.00am London time, it had been a long day, and it was not long before the Williams “Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Zs” were filling the Illinois night.
I slept well, and did not wake until nearly eight. I had a shower, then wandered downstairs in search of breakfast. I settled for a simple omelette and some toast, forgetting the size of American breakfasts. The omelette turned out to be the size of Minnesota, accompanied by a loaf of bread, half a sack of fried potatoes, salad and melon (yes, melon). OK, I admit it, I’m overweight, but being in America makes me look thin!!

I waited until the rush hour was over before heading into the city. I’ve still not decided whether the taxi driver was a genius or a maniac. He nearly hit two vehicles within the first 100 yards, and the speedo didn’t drop below 70 for almost the entire journey. On the way in there were railroad tracks running parallel on both sides of the road, and I saw passenger trains on both of them. The one on the left carrying what I think was the “Blue Line” and the one on the right the “Metra”. The traffic got denser and the driver’s temper shorter as we reached the centre, and I was somewhat relieved when we pulled up unscathed outside Union Station.

The first thing to do was collect my ticket, and with surprisingly few people at the counter I decided against trying to work out how to use the Quik-Trak machine but collect it from a human. This was my first experience of dealing with Amtrak staff at a big station. I had started my CZ journey the previous year at the unmanned stop at Osceola, and had only had to deal with the two wonderfully laid-back Laurel and Hardy impersonators who pretended to run the station in Reno. I can only say “full marks” to the counter clerk. He issued my tickets promptly, and without being asked gave me directions to the departure gates, lounges, lockers, luggage facilities and restrooms. Excellent, and it made a really good first impression.
I had just under four hours to kill, so having dumped my luggage in a locker I headed off in a sort of north-easterly direction to see if I could find Sears Tower as all I’d ever seen of Chicago before was the airport. Walking the streets of a strange city doesn’t bother me. You have to be streetwise in this day and age but I am 6 feet tall, 240 pounds with very short-cropped hair and I’m told I look rather scary. I would disagree with the last point but it has its advantages as it makes me an unlikely target for any would-be mugger! The last time I had had four hours to kill in a US city whilst waiting for a connection was in Des Moines, Iowa and if you ever plan on going to Des Moines I can give you one word of advice...DON’T. I’ve never been to such a boring place in my life. I walked about two miles around the so-called “city centre”and all I found was block after block of offices, offices and more offices (in the UK out of town malls are a rarity – our downtown areas still have shopping centres). The highlight of Des Moines City Centre seemed to be a small 7-11 type store attached to a garage, and a Pizza Hut! Thankfully, Chicago is rather different. I had received dozens of replies on Trainweb to my request for local info but it is such a vast city you could spend a whole week there and still not see half of it.

It was a hot, sticky morning and I was glad that I hadn’t gone far before Sears Tower was signposted. It wasn’t immediately obvious which building it was as there were so many other huge skyscrapers nearby. The queue wasn’t that long but only one ticket booth was open and the young lady was hardly the fastest server. Nor was she making any attempt to bring in reinforcements, bringing several grumbles from the line (when I came back down two more points had been opened) but it was well worth the 20 minute wait and $10.45 admission. Although there was still lots of high cloud, it was bright and visibility wasn’t that bad. I shot off nearly a roll of film from the observation tower 103 floors and over a thousand feet above the city. The view was stupendous, but pride of place had to go to something that was unnoticed by the vast majority of the visitors. There were spiders building webs on the OUTSIDE of the windows. How those magnificent little creatures got up there in the first place, never mind survived, was truly mind-boggling. One middle-aged lady looked decidedly unsteady having seen how far down it was. “Have you got Vertigo?” enquired her husband, and it was all I could do not to shout out: “just far enough to get away from that old joke!”

I thought Chicago was brilliant and I’ll certainly be making plans to spend longer there at some point in the future. I could understand why Sinatra thought that it was his kind of town. It had an easy-going, cosmopolitan, almost Bohemian feel to it. Reading “The Des Moines Register” makes you feel that you are in a conservative, slow-paced, traditional, almost deferential, “mom and apple pie” area but Chicago, less than an hour’s flight away, almost made you feel that you were in a different country. Some would argue whether this is necessarily better or worse, but it was certainly different, and it is certainly a place I will visit again. I got back to the Station in plenty of time to have a good look around. I couldn’t face lunch after that huge breakfast so bought a juice and a big bag of pistachio nuts to nibble on the train. I wandered as far as passengers were allowed in one remote corner. Looking up at the old bits of architecture that could still be seen made me wonder what it would have looked like in former years. I could imagine steam and smoke drifting across the platforms, as the ghosts of long-forgotten trains headed out on long-abandoned routes. Access was blocked to most of the trains by ticket barriers but having asked nicely I was allowed to dash down an empty platform for ten seconds to take a few photos in the underground area. What surprised me was that when the lines started forming for the SWC and the Texas Eagle which depart within five minutes of each other there was no doubt that the supposedly unpopular and uneconomic Eagle had far more passengers starting from Chicago - I would estimate a three to two ratio - and this wasn’t a through day to LAX for the Eagle, although many of the passengers might, of course, only have been going to St Louis. When Train #3 was announced I made my way down the platform past what I was told were mail cars to the sleepers. The first one I reached (ie at the back of the train) turned out to be mine. I had compartment number 7, upstairs, looking out on the right. I hung my jacket in the small side closet (the couple in the compartment opposite hadn’t spotted its existence until then) and settled into my seat. The window was filthy and the chances of taking photographs through it were absolutely nil. Fortunately the other half by the rear-facing seat was much better, but it meant I would have to sit with my back to the engine if I wanted to take photographs. The consist seemed unusual: 2 engines, baggage, transition sleeper, 3 coach, lounge, restaurant, 3 sleeper and 5 mail. Admittedly my experience is limited but I’d never seen the transition and passenger sleepers at opposite ends of the train (except of course where the Eagle sleeper is added to the Sunset). Somewhere overnight on the first night 2 more engines were added to the front and 9 smaller freight cars were attached to the back.

Now those of you who remember my travelogue of last year’s trip will have noticed that something (or more accurately, someone) is missing and will be wondering “Where’s TC?” and is she going to repeat last year’s performance of booking her flight to the wrong city on the wrong date? For the uninitiated, TC is an ex-girlfriend from almost ten years ago, who now works mainly in Europe. We still keep in touch and as she had never been to America I suggested (almost jokingly) last year that she come with me. To my surprise, she took up the offer, but instead of flying into Chicago and meeting me there, she somehow managed to arrange a flight into Denver a day too early. It was $300 cheaper for her, but it meant that I couldn’t get to Chicago in time to catch the same-day CZ and couldn’t o/n. That is why I had to fly on to Des Moines to overtake the train and get the bus to Osceola, which, having arrived 40 minutes late, meant a mad dash to the Amtrak station at the other side of the town, arriving at the station with just three minutes to spare. Despite this hair-raising start we had a super time and I even had a few e-mails asking whether we had got back together, especially as at least one reader had clearly misunderstood the reference to the instant wedding chapels in Reno!! Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there are some journeys in life where you just cannot retrace your steps and me & TC as an item is one of those journeys. I last time I heard from her she was working in Spain, she is fine and she wishes you all well. She still reads the Trainweb forum occasionally, mainly to see what I’ve been up to.
My current girlfriend had to decline my offer of a two-week trip to the States. She wasn’t on the scene when the trip was booked four months before, but that wouldn’t have been a problem as there were still seats available on the flights. The only reason she couldn’t come was simply that being a teacher she can, of course, only take vacation during school holidays and I couldn’t re-arrange the trip for school holiday dates due to my own work commitments. Short of cancelling the trip, which would have been stupid as I had already paid out more than $1,600, there was no way around it. It was just one of those unfortunate things that can happen at the start of a relationship but that didn’t stop her from sulking for the entire fortnight before I left and saying “I hope you have a really great time” through gritted teeth (it’s ok, I haven’t introduced her to Trainweb yet so she won’t read that!).

Just one minute after our advertised departure time we glided out of the station. I was a bit disappointed – there had been no blast of the horn, or whistle or a shout of “all aboard” to indicate that we were about to get under away, but off we went, leaving waving friends and relatives in our wake. The announcement that only travelling passengers should go beyond the departure gate had clearly been ignored, but thankfully nobody got carried away. No sooner had we set off when the ticket collector appeared, and we had only been going for about 15 minutes when an announcement was made telling us that the café-car was now open and that the restaurant manager would shortly be coming around to take bookings for dinner. However, before he got there the sleeping car attendant, Simon, appeared to welcome me aboard, to tell me that there was complimentary coffee and soft drinks at the end of the corridor and asking if there was anything I needed from the café-car. Simon had been with Amtrak for 15 years and had worked almost exclusively on the SWC and Sunset during that time. He also explained when the beds got made up and taken down, what newspapers would be available, and would I like a call in the morning? Excellent, full marks. Throughout the journey he was attentive but discreet. He apologised for the window, it looked as if it had been accidentally missed when they had been washed, but they would be doing them again at Albuquerque. The restaurant manager came along about ten minutes later, and with a choice of seven sittings available at 30 minute intervals, I took the last but one.

Having left on time and reached Naperville as scheduled we then crawled along for the next half-hour (I’m not joking, pedestrians were overtaking us) and we were already 22 minutes late at Mendota. I decided on an early exploration of the train. It was by no means full on leaving Chicago: three of the ten standard sleepers in my carriage were vacant, as were at least four standard and four deluxe in the other two, although a few of them were occupied from the small Illinois, Iowa and Missouri stations, and some from Kansas City so by the following morning I counted only two standard and two deluxe vacant in total, and this figure stayed more or less constant until we reached Flagstaff where I would think it was about eight-off-two-on, leaving a few more vacancies. Coach was probably not much more than 50% full out of Chicago but this figure increased as the journey progressed and I would estimate it was close to 90% once we got beyond Albuquerque. One interesting feature of the second night was that the train manager/conductor (or whatever the official title is), had changed somewhere en route and the new one was actively going around Coach and the Lounge in the evening advertising and selling upgrades to sleeper which had not happened on the first night.
We reached the Mississippi about ten minutes before sunset and I took some spectacular photos from the vacant number ten berth as I was on the wrong side of the train as we crossed into Iowa. It suddenly occurred to me that breakfast was now a distant memory and as dusk fell I made my way towards the diner in response to the announcement of the 7.30 sitting.

The restaurant car. Oh boy. I was tempted to put this up as a separate posting as I thought it might detract from the rest of the story. Look, let me make one thing clear: I am very thick-skinned, and nothing I am going to tell you about here ruined my life or spoilt my day. However, there were many travellers who were absolutely appalled. I have rarely seen such an unprofessional, incompetent SHAMBLES in all my life and I assure you that none of this is exaggeration or invention. OK, here we go, dinner on the first night: I walk into the diner and am greeted by a young lady who asks me “Sleeper or Coach”. Now she can see that I’ve just come from the direction of the sleepers so she shouldn’t really need to ask but we’ll let that go. I was shown to my table, where I was sharing with three middle-aged ladies from Coach. I’ll tell you more about them when we get back to the main part of the story, but let’s get the restaurant thing out of the way first. We studied the menu…and studied it and studied it….it was a full twenty minutes before the waiter came to take our order and two other tables could be heard grumbling that they had waited even longer. Dinner companion number 1 ordered the steak, number 2 the salmon …“sorry, there’s no salmon”. He didn’t mean “there’s none left”, but “salmon isn’t on the menu”. The waiter and customer both looked baffled, then the waiter realised that she had been given the wrong menu. He apologised: the young lady who had given out the menus (and who had asked me if I was sleeper or coach) was a trainee, and so he fetched the correct menu. Number 3 ordered the Teriyaki…”sorry, you’ve got the wrong menu as well”. Fortunately, my chicken was on the right menu. But when, from the table behind, we heard “excuse me, I ordered salmon, not steak” it was obvious that things weren’t going well generally and this was just the start of it. On my table number 1’s meal arrived with mash instead of baked potato, number 2 was brought the wrong meal entirely, number three got the wrong drink, number 2 and myself got the wrong dessert. Of course, for every wrong item that came to us the “right” one was becoming a “wrong” item at another table, and this was going on throughout the carriage. Number 2 was brought the wrong check, number 1’s check was marked as “paid” - even though the trainee forgot to take the money with her!! – and two people had their wine sent flying as the train went through a horrendously bumpy stretch of track. After the meal I wandered through to the lounge car where the train manager was having his ear bent by a queue of people wanting to complain about the restaurant service. When I went back the other way about half an hour later the restaurant manager and the trainee were sitting away from the other staff and from the look on her face it was clear that he was having more than a quiet word with her, but she couldn’t take all the blame as with one honourable exception all of them seemed to be just as incompetent. It had not been a good night for the restaurant staff, as could be seen by the negligible amount of tips that were left.

Breakfast the next morning…”sleeper or coach?”…the menus were correct this time but breakfast companion number one got the wrong meal, number 2 got coffee not tea, I was brought pancakes when I had ordered eggs and a gentleman two tables down blew his top when he was brought the wrong item for a second time and could be heard complaining loudly that he’d had enough of the poor service the night before. At lunch I was shown to the “wrong table” and about two minutes later was asked to move, number one was brought the wrong meal, I got the wrong drink, 1,2 and myself all got the wrong dessert, number 3 got no dessert at all. When number one asked for her check they couldn’t find it. Every table was having the same problems. I started to feel sorry for the trainee as a couple of the female coach attendants (who were clearly more experienced and knew what they were doing) had been drafted in to help but it was obvious that they weren’t happy with the situation. I saw one of them quite forcibly push the trainee into the vestibule at the end of the carriage and give her a mouthful of abuse after yet another cock-up. One of my dinner companions from the night before stopped at my table and asked if the service had improved since the previous evening, as hers had got worse. I had to disappoint her. Dinner on the second evening and light was dawning - I promise you I’m not making this up – “sleeper or coach?…oh, if you’ve come from that direction you must be a sleeping car passenger….I shouldn’t need to ask, really, should I?”. I plead the 5th at this point. Dinner was surprisingly uneventful, as we all got the right items, and I was hoping for a clear round but….no, you know something’s coming, don’t you….my tablemates were three members of the same family from Coach who paid by credit card. The father paid the check, signed his receipt, and we were just saying our goodbyes a few minutes later when trainee comes along with a check and a credit card in her hand, plonks them on the table and asks the father “if you can just sign here, please”. It wasn’t his check or his credit card. Even given everything that had gone on before it could be put down to an innocent mistake, but the credit card had the customer’s PHOTOGRAPH on it, and it clearly belonged to somebody who was at least 20 years younger and didn’t look at all like him!

I’m sorry to say that I can only put the blame on one person and one person alone – the restaurant manager. When I took the CZ last year the restaurant manager had been a perfectly civil, but somewhat dour man, but he ran the meal service with the planning of a military operation. He served just as many tables as his staff, who clearly respected him, he saw everything that was going on, was on the spot to put things right on the rare occasions that anything went amiss and I remember writing in my travelogue how impressed I was that so many people could be fed so quickly and efficiently. On the SWC, however, the restaurant manager spent every mealtime sitting at the end table chatting. I didn’t see him serve once, and he was seemingly oblivious to the chaos going on around him unless somebody went up to him to complain, when he made all the right noises, but as soon as they were gone he sat back down again without doing anything! To make matters worse he would insist on going on the public address at least eight or ten times during the journey introducing the dining-car crew as if he was reading the credits at the end of a television or radio show. Come to think of it, a career in light entertainment might have suited him as I heard more than one passenger describe him as “a complete clown”.

Keeping him company in the muppet stakes was the lounge car attendant. Last year on the CZ the attendant opened up from 6.00am until midnight, and took just 3 x 30 minute breaks for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He was a real character, was hugely popular, understood what serving the public was supposed to be about, and his tips jars was almost exploding it was so full. This time, however, the attendant opened when he felt like it and disappeared for hours at a time. He was closed for at least an hour on the first evening, on the second afternoon he was shut from 3.00 until about 5.45, and closed again from 7.40 until 9.10, closing for the night at 10.30, and only putting on one movie in the whole evening. This, of course, was when Coach was almost full. Several passengers had complained to the train manager about him, and I heard her ask him why he was closing early and only showing one film: “well, there’s a time change, and I’ve got to clear up, and if people are down here they’ll want to buy things…” er – can you run that one past me again – if people are down here they’ll want to buy things??? ….duh!! … that’s the idea, stoopid!! I’m sorry, but he really was Mr Work-to-rule, and would have been more at home in France than America when it came to customer service.

But as I say, my life wasn’t ruined, I am the type to keep my blood pressure under control, and when it did arrive the food was excellent, but a number of other travellers were not at all impressed. To be fair to them, all their complaints were justified and if you are going to spend up to 43 hours on a train the food and drink service has to be up to scratch.

However, let’s go back to the journey and dinner on the first night where I had the pleasure of three very nice middle-aged ladies from Coach. They were not connected to each other nor travelling together, but co-incidentally two of them had been attending the same convention in Chicago, but as there had been several thousand people there their paths had not crossed. One was going to Las Vegas (New Mexico), one to Albuquerque and one to LAX. All three used Amtrak for a long distance trip two or three times a year. One of them normally travelled in a sleeper but the price was too high when she enquired (mine was $225 booked four months in advance but I saw it was $478 the week before I left).
After dinner I got half a bottle of wine from the lounge car and with the train still impersonating the Giant Slalom headed for my bunk. Simon, the attendant, had just finished making them up and we chatted about Amtrak and its problems. He felt that David Gunn was the right man for the job but it would be an uphill slog. As far as the SWC was concerned, there is a real possibility that it could change its route in the next year or so: the train would run as normal from Chicago until it reached Topeka, then instead of going to Newton it would go into downtown Wichita, then cut south into Northern Oklahoma (I think he mentioned a place called Arkansas City) and then west through Amarillo to Albuquerque. This would bring service to several large centres of population and it’s under serious consideration. Simon was saddened that service through Raton Pass would be lost as “it is the most scenic part of the route” but surely that’s the whole point? Amtrak is supposed to be a business and not a tourist attraction. Nobody wants to see anywhere lose its train service, but if a Wichita – Amarillo route boosts passenger numbers and revenue (and possibly saves the Southwest Chief from being axed) then that’s what they should do. Similarly, why shouldn’t the CZ serve Iowa City and Des Moines instead of Ottumwa and Osceola, and wasn’t there a proposed re-route of the Sunset from Houston to Dallas then due west to El Paso? On the SWC some relatively small towns on the route have kept their train service yet others have lost theirs. We passed through what appeared to be quite a sizeable town – I think it might have been Grant, New Mexico – where the former station was boarded up and derelict but it was a much bigger place than many of those where we stopped. I can understand keeping service to a small township that may have no bus alternative or be many hundreds of miles from a commercial airport or where winter weather has to be taken into account, but a rail network that doesn’t serve its major cities lacks credibility.

I find it unbelievable that cities the size of Phoenix, Las Vegas and Nashville have no passenger trains, and that there is no direct service between city pairs such as San Francisco/LA or Dallas/Houston. I find it even more astonishing that there is a sizeable body of people in America who would do away with passenger trains altogether if they could. Subsidized passenger trains aren’t some form of socialism, nor are they a nasty, contagious disease, but a necessary part of the infrastructure. I am not what we call a “train spotter” in the UK (I think you call them “foamers” in the States?) – I couldn’t tell one type of engine from another and have no interest in collecting coach numbers – but I believe that all developed countries need an efficient, ground based, public transportation system. Nor would I regard myself as an environmentalist, but the earth’s resources are finite and we cannot keep piling more and more gas-guzzling cars onto ever more congested highways. But enough of my soapbox…

The young couple in the compartment opposite me were heading for the Grand Canyon via Flagstaff. They were making their first ever Amtrak trip and after an early dinner settled down to watch films on their laptop. As I got back to my sleeper at just after nine, I couldn’t help hearing their conversation as their compartment door opened wide. Despite him being only of average build and her being quite petite, they had given up all hope of sharing the bottom bunk and she was heading for the top bunk. I hope they stuck to their original travel plans as they had told me that they were planning a helicopter trip through the Canyon in a few days time. Tragically, a week or so later one of the tourist helicopters crashed into the South Rim killing everybody on board, but they should have been and gone by then so hopefully they were not involved. As for myself, I’ve never worked out how you’re supposed to undress in a standard sleeper once the beds are made up but after a great deal of wriggling I managed to get myself into bed propped up on one elbow as we rolled across Missouri towards the Kansas border.
We were 20 minutes late into Kansas City. Being at the very back of the train and on the wrong side I couldn’t see how busy it was although I heard very little in the way of activity. We pulled out the station but after no more than 200 yards ground to a halt for 20 minutes then about 2 miles later stopped for 20 minutes more. This could be where we gained the extra engines and freight cars but as the Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Zs crept up on me I calculated we were running about an hour late.

The jolt that woke me up in the middle of the night literally lifted me off the bed. We were hammering across flat, featureless terrain. I could see stars immediately above us but lightning could be seen on the horizon. I tried to go back to sleep but as soon as we slowed for a station my curiosity got the better of me. It was Hutchison, Kansas and we had cut the deficit to 16 minutes. I dozed for the next two hours. I was disappointed that it was still dark when we reached Dodge City (anybody know why there’s an abandoned “Sante Fe Railroad”dome car at the station – it looked in too bad a condition to be a tourist attraction?), by which time we were back on schedule, but a shower and some food were now the two most pressing concerns. The shower-room was clean, with plenty of soap and hot water, but there were no towels except for some tiny face cloths (there were bath towels on last year’s CZ, so have they been abolished?).

I was one of the first in for breakfast when the diner opened at 6.00. My companions were a middle-aged woman from Holland in Coach, and a very nice sleeper couple from Michigan who were going to Las Vegas (Nevada) but conversation was limited as he was well into his 70s and rather hard of hearing. In fact, he thought I was Canadian. Now, I’ve been called some things in my time but never Canadian. Last year on the CZ I was wearing a t-shirt with “England” emblazoned on it in large letters only to be asked “are you Irish?” To answer a previous thread on Trainweb, no, I was not charged extra to have both orange juice and coffee, and the waitress actually offered both as separate items when she took the order. Breakfast over, and back to the compartment. Simon had already put the bed down so I stretched out in the chair with my back to the travel watching as the sun rose as we crossed into Colorado, and time once more went backwards with me.
We reached La Junta early, so had 45 minutes to stroll around whilst several employees wheeled trolleys out of the supplies store to restock the train (sorry, but any time I see or hear of supplies I think of one of the worst gags in cinema history - in the Weird Al Yankovich film “UHF” there’s a fight scene and one of the bad guys opens a door marked “supplies” only to find a Chinaman standing behind it who shouts “SUPPLIES!” and knocks him out! – I told you it was bad!). As we rolled out of La Junta Simon came around with the morning newspaper; it was based in Pueblo, some 250 miles away, and served to remind me that the American definition of “local” is very different to ours.

The morning and early afternoon were very non-descript. Although easy on the eye, Raton Pass is nothing like Glenwood Canyon and there is really nothing to report until we reached Albuquerque. The lounge car was quite full but as I was starting to feel the effects of my third long day of travelling I spent most of it in my compartment. I must say that the supplies of coffee, juice, water, nibbles, etc. at the end of the carriage was much better than on the Zephyr. The stocks were regularly replenished throughout the journey and Simon made sure he was on hand when necessary. Lunch was with an immaculately dressed elderly black couple from Detroit and a lady from Kansas City who was visiting her sister in Albuquerque. The chicken burger was excellent and when accompanied by ice cream sundae and cola made for something of an American tradition.
We had been on schedule all day and reached Albuquerque 20 minutes early, meaning that we had about an hour and a half stopover. As some of you will know there are a number of market stalls set up by the station selling Native American souvenirs. The stalls were seemingly doing good business – the blankets were proving especially popular. I picked up some cloth tablemats with what looked like ornate original symbols on them, but was rather disappointed to find that they had indeed been made by “Indians”, but not what used to be called the “Red” variety - they were marked “Made in India”!!! From the conversations around me it was clear that I wasn’t the first to pick up on this and many of the items on sale turned out to be foreign imports. OK, I realise that selling cheap souvenirs to tourists is as old as the hills and if you bought something from a British holiday resort the chances are it would have been made in China or Hong Kong. However, in the UK signs saying “Genuine Native American Artefacts” or “locally made” would not be allowed unless they really were what they said they were or the traders would find themselves in front of the local magistrates. The consumer protection office (known as the Trading Standards Department) has the power to prosecute and does so frequently. Quite a few people put their cash back in their wallets amid murmurings of “rip-off” although some people still bought them and there was money to be made from t-shirts, key-rings, postcards, fridge magnets and batteries etc, whilst a hot food stall and an ice-cream vendor did good business.

I had thought of exploring further into the town as there was plenty of time, but then something astonishing happened – it started raining. I’d only ever seen rain in America once before, and that was in Des Moines. Big heavy drops started to fall and away to the north lightning flashed from the sky. Looking at some of the trails coming down from the clouds, I wondered if a tornado might form – now that would have been something to see - but it was not to be. There was a mass exodus back to the train, leaving the stallholders to pack up early as it started to pour down. I sprinted for the nearest door, which happened to be in Coach, but my attempts to buy a drink in the lounge car were thwarted as he was closed, and had been for more than two hours. We headed west and the rain continued. The thunderstorm was nearer to us now and the lightning was spectacular but as we turned a bend about an hour west of Albuquerque I looked with incredulity at a wall of blackness that was coming straight at us. I have never known a storm like it in all my life. Visibility was reduced to no more than 30 feet, the rain cascaded down the window as if a hosepipe had been turned on it and the darkness was only punctured by the lightning which was now hitting the ground less than 200 yards away. The rain was bouncing off the bone-hard ground, and as we went through a cutting the water poured off the red rocks above onto the train as if we were going under a waterfall. For the past six hours every stream, river and creek bed we had passed had been reduced to no more than a trickle if not completely dried up, and the thought of flash floods crossed my mind. Fortunately, we passed through the cloud after no more than ten minutes but for the next half-hour or so the path of the storm could be seen from the sodden ground. Ironically, the rain had sent the window washers scurrying for cover at Albuquerque so my window now had filthy streaks down it, and was no better than it was before.
The weather stayed gloomy as we rolled towards Arizona. Dusk seemed to fall quite early and it was pitch black by the time I sat down to dinner at 7.30, and that was before we crossed the time zone (Arizona doesn’t have summer time for some reason so the clocks went back again). My dinner companions were a middle-aged couple from Merced, California who had travelled up to Indiana via Chicago on the SWC and another train (they did tell me where exactly it was but it was only a small town and a name that I’m not familiar with) to collect her son and were facing their fifth day in Coach, the ordeal broken only by one night in a hotel before they started the return trip. Ouch. This time I went for the shrimp, well aware that the US “shrimp” is ten times the size of what is served under that name in the UK (what you call shrimp we call “King Prawn” or “Tiger Prawn”, the UK “shrimp” is tiny). The food was excellent, and $8 was quite reasonable for a very drinkable half-bottle of wine.

Unlike The Eagles, I wasn’t “standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona” but I became aware that we were stopped at Winslow station for quite some time, and I could see flashing lights in the distance. After about 20 minutes the train pulled out, and as my carriage passed the station building I could see that the source of the flashing lights was a police car, and a young man was having a very animated conversation with an officer of the law. It turned out that the police had been called to throw a couple off the train. They had been drinking large amounts of their own alcohol in the lounge car, and been asked to stop, for as you’re probably aware, you can only drink your own alcohol in your sleeper. They had gone back to Coach where not only did they resume the drinking session, but they started getting rather intimate with each other. Apparently she was a “dancer” of some description (never heard it called that before!) but the upshot of it all was that the performance got so raunchy and having ignored another warning the Train Manager decided that enough was enough and called ahead for the police to meet the train at Winslow and escort them off. In a recent thread somebody mentioned that the “quality” of passenger in coach had been rather low on their trip, and there was no doubt that the coach passengers on the CZ had been rather more – how can I put it – “civilised”? On the SWC coach was very lively and I couldn’t help feeling that one small incident could have sparked something more serious. I asked Simon whether anti-social behaviour was a problem on trains. Mainly, he thought no, and behaviour on trains was better than in society in general. The long-distance trains were certainly better (and safer) than Greyhound but he did have to admit that although incidents were thankfully still rare, things had got worse over the 15 years he been with Amtrak, but interestingly he thought that if there were going to be problems, it was more likely to be on trains in an out of particular areas – Los Angeles and Oakland were two that came to mind. In sleepers, it was more “eccentric”, rather than anti-social behaviour: for example almost naked passengers walking from their compartment to the toilet or shower but he had once come across a passenger who drank 20 sodas in a morning, and another who left his wooden leg in the bathroom!

We were stuck in Flagstaff for nearly half an hour. The delay in Winslow meant that we had missed our slot and had to wait at the station for a freight train coming the opposite way to clear us. A number of locals were very unhappy as the train was blocking a crossing and several youths got so fed up with waiting they risked climbing over the couplings between the last sleeper and the first mail wagon to get to the other side of the street. Eventually we rolled off but we were now nearly an hour late as I headed towards Sleepsville, Ariz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-ona

I vaguely remember opening my eyes at a station but without taking in where we were, and again at Barstow where we were 45 minutes late. The third time I looked at my watch it was 5.00am and time for breakfast. The restaurant was only open between 5.00 and 6.00am; the menu was limited and the meals were served on paper plates with plastic cutlery. Very few people had made it to breakfast and I had the company of a very loud and very large black lady from Fullerton who had an infectious and wicked laugh. I thought she was brilliant and she loved my English humour but our joviality was clearly too much for our other tablemate who said nothing other than “good-morning” and “goodbye” either side of eating his food as fast as he could and disappearing.
Back to the sleeper where the bed had already been taken down and although we were still nearly three hours from LA I started sorting out my stuff. As it started to get light I could see palm trees, shortly followed by traffic, traffic and more traffic. Yes, we were definitely in a built-up metropolitan area and I must admit that even in the States I still get that smug feeling that comes from whizzing past a line of stationary traffic.

The padding in the schedule had cut the deficit and it was announced that we were heading for an on-time arrival, but not before the restaurant manager had, one last time, “introduced all his dining-car crew ”. What we had done to deserve that I don’t know - I though that inflicting cruel and usual punishment on people was illegal in America?

We arrived in LA twelve minutes early. Simon was on hand to help those with luggage, thank everybody for travelling with Amtrak, and reap the rewards of his labours. Everybody tipped him, many handsomely, and I can assure you that he deserved every cent. The Sunset/Eagle was sitting empty on the next platform having arrived several hours before us, but I was turning my attention to Surfliners, as our early arrival meant that I could head up the coast sooner than expected. In fact, I had only half an hour to wait before I could head out of Los Angeles en route to Santa Barbara. The train made several additional stops in the LA suburbs as there had been some problem with the Metrolink services, but we kept to schedule and after about an hour we broke out of the LA smog into glorious sunshine. Even though I’ve travelled it before, the stretch up the Pacific coast from Ventura still has the same “wow!” effect on me as the first time I saw it.

I had originally planned to spend the afternoon in Santa Barbara and catch the evening Surfliner up to Grover Beach but I had been travelling for more than 80 hours and when I saw an Amtrak bus to San Luis Obispo waiting for the train I decided that Stearn’s Wharf could wait until another day, so I climbed aboard and, along with a dozen others, headed north for the final stretch. An on-time arrival at Grover Beach, then the local bus for the last mile to the hotel, and after 85 hours my journey was complete. The weather was blisteringly hot and there are few better places to be when the sun shines than Pismo Beach. However, I remain convinced that only four types of people catch local buses in California - foreign tourists, elderly ladies, Hispanics and the deranged….

Some comments on your experiences:
1. I've never seen shower towels bigger than a small hand towel, not even big enough to wrap around your waist.
2. The Quik-Trak machine is hellishily difficult. You put your credit card in, you take it out, you press a button, and you take out the tickets it prints. That's it! ;-)
3. Des Moines was home of Bill Bryson. So it must be good for something...
4. CZ is, I agree, the best. The SWC is OK. I would actually prefer to take the Eagle next time, which is not as bad as people say it is (3x trips).

I pity the poor dining car trainee who was clearly not given a very good example to learn from. Too bad she seemed to catch most of the flak.

Alas, the San Francisco-Monterey service has been pushed back to 2009. Credit goes to the state's budget problems. Same goes for the revival of the Coast Daylight between SF and LA. But we still have the Coast Starlight that stops just 20 miles away in Salinas. The little rattling Amtrak mini bus gets you the rest of the way to the most beautiful place on Earth.

------------------
Trust God, love your neighbor, and never mistake opinion for truth.
-Mr. Toy

I don't think anything ever quite measures up to your first big train journey. That first time you head out, EVERYTHING is a new experience. But when you're on your second trip (or third, or fourth, or fiftieth), you're already well-acquainted with every aspect of life onboard a train. It's no longer brand new.

Great report, though -- and further proof that whether you experience an excellent, mediocre, or completely hellish trip, it's purely the luck of the draw.

When I traveled on the Southwest Chief a year ago, I was totally impressed with everything on board -- spotless sleeping car, great attendant, excellent service in the diner, etc.

In contrast, when I took the much-celebrated Coast Starlight, the sleeping car attendant was blandly indifferent about virtually everything, and the mealtime scene in the dining car was totally out of control for the entire trip.

But I've loved every trip I've ever taken -- the good, the bad, and the ugly. And let's face it, even the California Zephyr sometimes has a lousy day. Thanks for posting your report.

I've never heard Frank Sinatra had a special penchant for Chicago. After all, he sang New York's un-official anthem, "New York, New York." I know in Chicago there is a diner that was the basis of a Saturday Night Live sketch in which a surly Greek waiter is constantly telling patrons that there is, "No Coke, Pepsi." It's supposed to be a real place, and the staff is just as funny as they are in the sketch.

I think most people venturing to Des Moines wouldn't expect to find an atmosphere or any attractions similar to Chicago or the big coastal cities.

I would like to know more about the Merdian Star and the Denver/Texas service you mentioned.

David

[This message has been edited by dnsommer (edited 11-11-2003).]

See next post.

Dave

During World War II enemy subs cruised the coast of California where he lives. There were secret landings... abductions... bizarre experiments...

I fear I've already said too much.

Dave

Normally if the sleepers are at the rear, it means there wasn't enough time to wye the train. And usually all they wye is the transition.

But I'm puzzed about the two locos. I thought it was always four for the whole trip. Probaly Kansas City is where the others were added.

quote:

---

Originally posted by dnsommer:
Also, at some point we all have to ask ourselves: Can we trust Mr. Toy?

During World War II enemy subs cruised the coast of California where he lives. There were secret landings... abductions... bizarre experiments...

I fear I've already said too much.

Dave

---

Fret not, Dave. My family was in Michigan during the war. Didn't move to California until 1956. I was born some three years later.

------------------
Trust God, love your neighbor, and never mistake opinion for truth.
-Mr. Toy

The Del Monte Club Car

Dave

quote:

---

Originally posted by CHATTER:
Yes, but another one of Old Blue Eye's hits was the song "Chicago," where he crooned, "Chicago, Chicago, it's my kind of town..."

---

I think you're mixing up the two Frank Sinatra songs about Chicago: "Chicago" goes "Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town..." and "My Kind of Town" starts "My kind of town, Chicago is..."

quote:

---

Originally posted by mr williams:
My disappointment with Des Moines was because it is a state capital and a regional centre of 200,000+ yet at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon it was deserted with hardly a car in sight let alone a pedestrian

---

Don't forget that America is primarily a suburban culture. Many suburbanites -- particularly those who've never lived in a city -- are uneasy about venturing into urban areas under any circumstance, let alone after "regular business hours."

Granted, downtown Des Moines doesn't have quite the same allure as, say, Manhattan. But unless a town has several major tourist attractions to draw people in, you'll find the same absence of human activity in virtually every small to mid-size American city all weekend long, and after 5 PM on weekdays.

Many municipalities have tried to fix the problem by turning old downtown railroad stations into upscale shopping malls, and old warehouse districts into bar and restaurant-filled "destinations." But virtually all such attempts have ultimately failed to attract the masses. There's a flurry of interest for a couple of years, and then the entire effort slowly dies.

After all, there's no need for most people to drive into the city when they can easily find everything they need (from burgers to beer to big screen TVs) out in the 'burbs.

Now, compare to county towns of the UK. I live in Wiltshire. In fact, in the county town of Trowbridge. Population 25000, nightlife OK, desirability to live there, next to zero. London - dirty, smelly, full of s*dding tourists and pickpockets, and B-liar Blair. Who would want to live there? Basically, what I'm saying is, it's all down to your own personal perception. Some people will love what others hate.