For the late January apocalyptic-blizzard-that-wasn’t in the New York City area, apparently the travel ban that covered some of America’s most heavily populated cities didn’t include bicycles. But despite the lack of snow, neither a bicycle nor an airplane would get me home afterward. Mitch Traphagen photos.
On paper and in my mind, it should have been so easy. But then there was a blizzard … of sorts. And then flights were canceled and the airports closed. And then there was more to do than I had expected. And then there was a ban on all travel. As the saying goes, “People make plans. God laughs.”
My wife and I had moved back to South Hillsborough from the New York City area only a week before. On the day we had planned to load the moving truck, an ice storm hit the city, turning the sidewalk out front into a skating rink. As a result, we tossed everything into the truck on the next day, moving day, left the city late and had a long and less than pleasant trip south.
Since we ran out of time on moving day, the decision was made for me to fly back up to clean up the apartment and gather “just a few things” that we had left behind. It would be a quick and easy trip, in and out and home again. Sitting at the Tampa airport, I checked the weather and it showed a possibility of light snow the coming Monday. By the time I landed in New York, things had changed. Suddenly people were talking about a coming apocalypse.
As the supposed blizzard approached, no one overly freaked out, although the chips and snacks aisle of the local grocery store had already been decimated by the time I forced myself to forage for supplies after succumbing to the notion that my once-easy trip would be extended.
Although the Northeastern blizzard was considered a bust, the weather wasn’t particularly pleasant, with wind and snow leaving a mess — along with a few destroyed umbrellas.
But one way or another, I would get home. In our haste to leave, we left a lot of stuff. All would need to go. I bought an aged back-row beauty somewhat-sportscar. Having bought even older sports cars, sight-unseen, from various Internet auction and sales websites in the past, I felt I had some experience in these matters. But shortly after the purchase, I suddenly remembered that on each of the previous four occasions of doing so, I had, without fail, always ended up underneath the car for some reason or another. Nor had I ever attempted to drive a car with an unknown history a thousand or so miles during the thick of winter.
The apocalypse failed to materialize, at least for the New York City area. The storm did, however, leave behind a good eight to 10 inches of snow. On a crowded city street, that meant it left a huge mess. Only the travel lanes of streets were plowed, the parallel parking area was not — and with nowhere to put the snow, the plows left a large barrier of ice and snow for those hoping to get in or out of a parking spot.
I picked up the car, saw a spot directly in front of our apartment and promptly got stuck in it. I rocked the car back and forth, finally freeing myself, drove around the block without success in finding another spot, and tried again. I got stuck again, this time with the tail end ever so slightly sticking out into the busy street.
And then the pressure was on. I had to get the car loaded with the “just a few things” we had left behind before someone smacked into that exposed tail end. As I ran back and forth, wading through a two-foot snowbank to get to the car, I heard and saw at least one ambulance and two firetrucks careening down the road. Once finished, I ran a mop around to gather the snow and mud I had dragged into the apartment and drove away, a less than graceful escape from New York. I was too exhausted to catch a fading glimpse of the World Trade Center in my rearview mirror as I made my way to I-95 and south toward Florida.
The best way to see I-95 is from the window of Amtrak’s Auto Train.
If there is indeed a paved road to Hell, I would not be surprised if it were adorned with red-white-and-blue signs and the designation I-95. In New Jersey it can be … interesting, and there is little relief in leaving the city. Ahead are Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, D.C. All the potential stuff of which the worst traffic nightmares are made. While people are likely to disagree on most everything, anyone of the significant populations in South Hillsborough who is a snowbird or a transplant from the Northeast will surely agree with that. The freeway, the most heavily traveled road in the United States, can be pure misery in pavement.
For the many snowbirds we have as neighbors this time of year, as well as anyone who has to drive the eastern seaboard, I have empathy for you.
By 9 p.m. I was on the Capitol Beltway around Washington, D.C, and slapping myself to stay alert. Shortly after crossing into Virginia, I pulled off and checked into a hotel. The second drive in a week from New York City to South Hillsborough was coming to an end with 900 miles left to go.
The line of cars was long and moving slowly into the Lorton, Va., Amtrak Auto Train station the next morning. After years of travel along the East Coast, I’ve learned two things: If you are going to drive I-95, the best way to do it is aboard the Auto Train; and don’t expect the Auto Train to be cheap if you are southbound in the winter (particularly after significant snowfall) or northbound in the summer. I managed to get the last roomette in a sleeper car left on the train, and spent my time in the line thinking about the free wine-tasting offered in the lounge car — something Michelle and I had enjoyed on previous trips. It’s a great way to kick off a train adventure.
They say there has been an economic recovery, but somehow it seems we’ve recovered into something different than before. My dining companions that evening were all first-time riders of the Auto Train. On my previous trips, the journey began with that free wine-tasting, along with hors d’oeuvres in the lounge car. Dinner was served on china plates emblazoned with the Amtrak name and logo. The carafes of wine, both red and white, were complimentary and refilled as needed.
Now, however, dinner was served on cheap plastic plates. After-dinner coffee was in a paper cup. There was no wine-tasting to kick off the adventure, nor were there complimentary carafes of wine with dinner. I’m glad I was able to experience it, but am sad that it is no longer. I was sad for my dining companions that they never had the opportunity. Times have changed, although at least they changed slowly on Amtrak. Diverting, rightly or wrongly, from very real traditions takes time. The Amtrak staff, however, was as helpful and courteous as always. At least some things haven’t changed.
An entirely different America can be seen from the window of a train as opposed to through the windshield of an automobile on a major freeway. There are no exit ramps filled with fast-food joints and discount motels on a train. Instead there are millions of trees, the sights of a rail infrastructure, something that once made America great, now crumbling and returning to nature. There is abject poverty of those living literally on the wrong sides of the tracks, but there is also a great deal of hope. Visible from the train window is a renaissance taking place among the boarded-up storefronts of small-town downtowns. The lights are still on, and everywhere you look, people still have hope. And if there is an American Exceptionalism, it is because of that infinite fountain of hope. That is not a political slogan; it is an American attribute.
Although apparent budget cuts at Amtrak have taken a toll, traveling by train is still magical, a throwback to a simpler time.
I sat transfixed in my Superliner Roomette, watching the beauty of the coast pass by. In the end, it was a wonderful way to change worlds, from the frantic pace and energy of the city, to the friendly, laid-back, salt-air warmth of South Hillsborough — by not driving but simply enjoying seeing the world change just outside my window as the minutes, hours and miles ticked by.
All corners and waysides in this nation have beauty — but the East Coast holds something special — from the snow, hardwood trees and great cities of the North to the scrub palms growing in the marshlands of Florida. The palms appear slowly at first and then gain prominence. It is a far different place from the North, yet it is the same place. We are all one people, all simply trying to get by with life, liberty and happiness.
And then suddenly, the train pulled into the station on yet another beautiful winter’s morning in Florida. In the end, it was just another train carrying 700 people to paradise. Before long, my car was offloaded from the large transport and I drove home, coincidentally following a car with New Jersey plates.
For information about the Auto Train, visit tickets.amtrak.com/itd/amtrak/autotrain.
