Thoughts from a Train, American Edition

It has been a long time since I’ve written on the blog. I’ve been busy with life again, in its new exciting and fraught with danger form. Concert seasons have come and gone. Trips abroad have been postponed or cancelled. I’ve suffered largely in silence through the long dark teatime of the soul otherwise known as February.

I write this in an Amtrak roomette on a train bound for Washington DC from Chicago, going from visiting a friend I’ve not seen in years in her natural habitat, to one I’ve seen recently and far from his home.

On this trip, I’ve largely felt out of place.

Toronto was hot, busy, oddly laid out and full of people seemingly unaware that mumbling in a mask doesn’t aid communication. Despite that, I enjoyed it. Toronto has easy access to an island park with quiet beaches, decent transport for what I needed and a stunning view from my 21st floor room. I could picture myself living there, not forever, but for a time.

Then onto Urbana-Champaign, Illinois, where I found myself succumbing to heat and previously acquired sunburn. I learned that the American way is vastly different to my previous experiences at home that it’s actively confusing. I continue to be unable to work out how paying in restaurants works here. The small-town need to drive to get simple supplies. Air conditioning everywhere, rattling and grinding away. Yet meeting the people, I was reminded that I’m not alone in the world, and am able to while away time with new people.

Chicago is a place contradicted in its existence. I know of its prohibition-era history from school, with moonshine served on silver platters on Lake Shore Drive. The art gallery has the original for a painting I’ve seen many times in images, American Gothic - much more imposing in person. As a place it felt alive with people, complete with the full tapestry of life. I couldn’t live there.

Les heures marchent sans cesse et avec leurs rapidité habituel. Le train … dérive.

At time of writing, I’ve been on this train for 21 hours. A significant amount of that time was spent stationary, waiting for freight trains to pass, or for trains going the other direction, or just randomly. With another three hours left, it highlights how the US is fundamentally hobbled by previous decisions to focus around private vehicle travel. The suburbs sprawl, the cars turn right with impunity, and basic supplies are miles away. I could not exist outside of a major urban centre, and even then it would likely be miserable.

The route this train travels ranges from endless plains of Kentucky to mountain tunnels in the Appalachians. I am lucky that I get adequate paid time off work that I could write off a 24 hour weekday stretch for the extremely slow but still direct way round on the train. The average American would not have that luxury.

It’s easy to go abroad and treat everything as being inferior to that we have at home. I don’t want to be that sort of tourist. I just can’t reconcile that in the Land of the Free, the main freedom seems to be to get stuck in your joyless suburb, to go places slowly, and to pay through the nose for the privilege. For the people it suits, I’m sure it’s wonderful. It doesn’t suit me, and I like trains.

Culture shock hits me particularly hard because unpredictability is a big source of anxiety. In the periods of this trip I’ve been on my own, I’ve stuck to my usual “at home” timetable of online-based activities. My friends found this odd, I think, but I’m quite content to be able to experience the world on my terms.