PUBLISHED JULY 7, 2016
Florida on the rails
By MITCH TRAPHAGEN
MITCH TRAPHAGEN PHOTOS
Reginald, the Amtrak car attendant aboard the Silver Star, is a conscientious and warm man with an incredible perspective and depth of knowledge. He has no idea how many times he has made the run from Florida to New York aboard the Silver Star.
The Silver Star was late. Possibly due to a fire north of the city that had emergency vehicles rushing out and news helicopters hovering. The Amtrak train’s engineers apparently were working to make up for it, however. Before long, Tampa was blowing by as the train exceeded 60 miles per hour, heading east and then north.
It was an eclectic crowd waiting for the train at Tampa’s Union Station. There were a Mennonite couple sitting on one bench with two Tibetan monks sitting on the next bench. There were lots of people that it seemed for whom the train was their only transportation. A few people I spoke with were only traveling as far as Orlando.
I was going to be in it for the long haul, taking the train to near the end, in the New York City area. The trip would last 25 to 28 hours. The day I boarded, I hadn’t known I would be on a train when I had awoken. A last-minute ticket for a “roomette” in a sleeper car opened up — affordably — and I took it. I had two hours to pack up.
Along the 1,522 mile route are towns filled with broken dreams and, more importantly, the show of American resiliance.
I was loaded down with two heavy bags of camera gear and a ridiculously heavy bag of a few clothes and other personal items, along with a large bicycle. By the time I arrived at the station, I looked like 40 miles of bad road after a heavy thunderstorm.
Charles, an Amtrak staff member in the Tampa station, took pity on me. While waiting for the train, sweating profusely in the thick, stagnant late afternoon summer air, he stopped by to suggest I go inside to cool off. And then when the train was approaching and the passengers gathered at their assigned places on the platform, I struggled with the luggage and the bicycle. According to Amtrak, I would be required to load the bike into the baggage car, lifting it to roughly shoulder height.
Again there was Charles. He told me to just leave the bike where it was, that he would handle it. I reached for my wallet to pull out a $5 bill and he put up his hand and smiled.
From the enormous windows of an Amtrak Viewliner, America is stunningly beautiful.
“That isn’t necessary,” he said as he refused the tip. “Find a different way to bless me.”
Traveling by train can be a far more personal way to travel than many other modes of mass transit. You are in a tube barreling up or down the Eastern Seaboard for 25 to 28 hours. In sleeper cars, you can keep your door shut, watching the world pass by outside the huge windows in the privacy of your own space, or you can leave it open and get to know some of those sharing your journey, if only temporarily.
Reginald was the smart and friendly car attendant on my train. At one point on the trip he stopped by to talk and we spoke long enough to share stories and opinions on world affairs. I was amazed at his insight and impressed with his knowledge. It seemed the only thing he didn’t know was how many times he had traveled from Miami to New York aboard the Silver Star. He had long since lost count.
America unfolds as a tapestry outside the large windows of an Amtrak Viewliner. Among the ubiquitous chain stores are the homes of fellow Americans, reflecting the diversity of America, ranging from stately to ramshackle.
Midafternoon on the second day, Reginald dropped off a tasty box of snacks providing a perfect justification for buying a glass of wine. There is something wonderful about snacking, sipping a glass of wine and seeing the beauty of America pass by while in a comfortable, reclining seat, with the train’s horn providing a near constant melody.
The train closed on D.C. near rush hour. Although car traffic is a nightmare in that city, it seems even trains are impacted — we slowed to a crawl in the miles before making a brief stop in Alexandria.
The sun sets on the second day on board the Silver Star from Tampa to New York.
Coming into Washington, D.C., from the south by train is not an impressive experience. Well, unless you like trains. You get a very brief glimpse of the Capitol building but mostly see, and stop in, a massive rail yard with every kind of train imaginable — from the high speed Acela to metro subway trains.
Traveling America by rail is an interesting experience — the wrong side of the tracks could be either or neither side, depending on location. From the train’s windows you can see the cruel end of American dreams along with the resilience that has made this nation exceptional. There are boarded-up downtowns with sparks of hope in pockets of renovations; there are stately mansions and blighted homes. Of the latter, any number of them still maintained their sense of dignity despite that economic progress seemed stunted. The yards of many ramshackle homes were kept clean.
While the majority of America that lies along the tracks is beautiful in its own unique way, there are also places where all pride and hope seem lost. Most unfortunately, that was the case in the arrival to the birth city of our great nation, the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia.
Rolling into the city, the three tracks that make up a substantial portion of the Northeastern United States’ transportation capacity form a shallow valley with mile after mile of apparent tenements at the top. From there it seems that people simply throw their inconvenient trash down to the tracks — trash ranging from dozens, if not hundreds, of old tires, toilets, beds, soiled furniture and the incongruent sight of numerous large children’s toys; stuffed bears and swings, discarded products of happiness thrown into the noxious mix. Although only a few miles in length, it appeared significant enough to be a national embarrassment. I can’t imagine what a foreign visitor would think if catching a train from Florida or our nation’s capital to our nation’s largest and greatest city and seeing the horrid display of callous and uncaring behavior spreading just outside their window. Along the entire trip, despite plenty of poverty, I saw nothing like that anywhere else.
The situation changed and the train rolled into downtown Philadelphia, the impressive, gleaming skyline suggested only wealth and power, belying, perhaps simply ignoring, the poverty just down the tracks.
From the unimaginable blight and the shimmering downtown, the situation changed again and again, ending with a beautiful vision of pure Americana: a carnival with a brightly lit Ferris wheel operating in a solidly American suburban area. It was a place where things seemed like they once were — what wealth there was remained inconspicuous, leaving the people to simply be neighbors and Americans enjoying the fruits of their labors.
Onward north, despite the best efforts of the train’s crew, the beginning delay seemed to compound into further delays along the congested rail system of the northern states. The high-speed Acela trains, which can exceed 135 miles per hour, seemed to have no such concerns, the concussive wave of the bullet-shaped trains flying on the rails between New York and Washington was enough to rattle the windows and slightly compress my chest.
Twenty-eight hours after departing Tampa, the Silver Star rolled into America’s largest city as night was falling. It was time to pack up and bid goodbye to Reginald. He would be spending the night in New York, along with the rest of the crew, and would re-board the Silver Star for its southbound run, towards his Miami home, the next morning.
With dozens of stops on the 1,522-mile trip, each requiring a car attendant to assist whatever passengers may be waiting on the platform, he has learned to sleep when he can during the overnight hours. Although he sees hundreds of passengers each week, to me he was a trusted traveling companion, seemingly omnipresent for a greeting, a few words or simply a smile.
Florida is the world’s vacationland. New York, along with only London, is considered one of the world’s two Alpha++ Cities — they are alone in being cities so powerful, so globally integrated, so important to not only national commerce but also world commerce that they tower above all other of the world’s great cities. There is something wonderful and timeless about arriving there by train. There is something wonderful that Tampa and New York are linked by two steel rails and a daily train. Not all cities are.
As I struggled with my heavy bags, Reginald reached up to offer a hand. He couldn’t possibly have slept much in the past 28 hours, but he still smiled as he took my heavy bags. Tomorrow he’d be back aboard the Silver Star, heading towards Florida and home.
