Amtrak to Chicago.
Up before the birds, we hauled our cases and two exuberant dogs out to the car. They thought they were going somewhere exciting, but they'd soon find out they weren't.
Crash is adorable (though I doubt the neighbours agree). Each morning when Em takes him and Lucky to the car, Crash gets so excited that he races around the front yard barking, barking, barking. He's a black and white spotted blur with a fur seal call, aroof, aroof, aroof, that he honks out as an announcement to the world that he's up, ready and raring to go... even if most everyone else is still sound asleep.
Each and every time he does it, I have to smile. I adore his goofiness. Lucky, in contrast, exhibits a refined grace. She lopes to the front gate, cavorting around her brother while keeping her intent on her mum and the adventure to be had beyond the confines of their front yard. She doesn't expend energy on needless yapping, instead she watches for cues from Emily, then responds and preempts as she sees fit. She's a smart girl, intelligent and faithful. I love her just as much as I do Crash, but in a different way.
We dropped the dogs at Em's work while the world slept around us. The highways were quiet, the sky dark, the cold close. Into Kansas City we went, finding our way to Union Station where we pulled into a near abandoned car park, unloaded our bags and peered around for directions.
Finding the station was easy, but finding the 'station' within the station was much harder. Union Station is a large complex that includes a museum, entertainment facilities, eating areas and, tucked away within its depths, a functional train station. Finding your way from the carpark to the train station is like partaking in a scavenger hunt -- from point A you search for the first clue (a sign pointing toward the building), you obey and scout around the circumference like a blind rat in a maze before deciding that the entrance to the museum might be the only way in. Once inside, signs point toward various attractions, none of which related in any way to the train station itself.
Of the various options, we chose the stairs because it seemed to lead somewhere other than into a closed museum attraction. Because the stairs were impossible with bags, we scouted for an elevator and ascended to another level with more signs, none of which hinted at where the station might be. Fortunately on this level we found two other people, one of whom was wandering in a similarly dazed state as he tried to find the station, and the other who directed us where to go.
By luck, intuition and a stranger's kindness, we made it to the station which is small and tucked away off the main part of the building. Maybe this is a tactic Amtrak uses to make money... getting people to buy tickets and then making it near impossible for them to find where to board the train!? *lol* Well, if that's it then we outsmarted them!!
We presented our printed confirmation at the ticket counter and were given two tickets. We had intended to check in our bags, thinking that's what we should do, but the checking counter closed us just as we walked toward it -- not quite the com. It worked out for the best anyway, because checking the bags would have meant a thirty minute delay in Chicago while they were unloaded, instead we were able to take the bags on board and stow them in the passenger accessible luggage area.
Until the train arrived and boarding commenced, we were denied access to the platform -- which was a blessing because it was frigid outside. Instead we waited in a heated waiting area until we were advised it was time to board.
Once boarding started, we queued up, showed our tickets, walked through a door, down a long open air, elevated corridor, to an elevator, down the elevator and onto the platform. It's like boarding a plane. Very different to what I've come to expect at Southern Cross Station in Melbourne where you line up on the platform and wait for the train. Admittedly, Southern Cross is a terminating station whereas Kansas City is a through way.
Because we thought the train would wait for us, we took our time, even pausing to take photos.
We learned later on in our journey that this is not a smart idea when dealing with Amtrak. If their on-time statistics are good (and I presume they are), then it's for good reason. They're station stops are super fast. Thirty seconds or less at most places. We were fortunate that Kansas City is a larger stop so there was a longer delay, but the smaller stations have no such leeway. On the trip back to Kansas City we saw a young guy running for the train as it was pulling away. He missed it, of course, because once the train is moving, it's moving.
Blissfully unaware at how close we came to missing our train, we trundled on board and were directed to a tucked away cabin below the main deck. These are double decker trains, like the ones that run across central Australia. I've never been on such a large train and it was a thrill to experience this!
Seating was not allocated, but because of the narrowness of the stairs the conductress thought it safer for me to sit downstairs. She also warned us to be quick because the train had less than thirty seconds before it would start off. I thought she was just saying that, but it turns out she wasn't.
This is the route we took -- from Kansas City to Chicago via La Plata; Ford Madison, Iowa and Galesburg, Illinios. There were lots of smaller stops in between too.
The little cabin where we spent most of our journey was dark, cosy and occupied by several passengers who had made the journey all the way from California and didn't seem too delighted to have Kansas City imposters in their midst.
It's typical human behaviour for individuals to take ownership of a seat or space on public transport and to become territorial about it. I feel that quite keenly on long distance flights -- my seat is my home and I dare anyone to mess with it for anything but the briefest of time. So I understood how these people felt, but yet we also had a right to be there too.
I aimed for one set of seats that were empty and was told by a loud voiced black woman that they were taken. I shrugged and headed for the next row, only to be told the same thing. With only two options left (in total there were only three rows with two sets of seats on each side of the aisle), we took the seats at the back and plonked down, expecting to be told that those seats were also taken, but no command came and we were able to relax.
The train started off, literally within a second of us having planted our asses in the seat. We looked at each other and acknowledged that the conductress had been serious. I started getting settled, putting my bags to the side, getting out my camera, my book. The woman who had earlier told us where not to sit piped up and asked if we wanted where she was sitting as she could move. I said no. She fell quiet for a few minutes then offered again, saying it would be no trouble. I again said no. I have a vague recollection that she offered for a third time, but maybe she didn't. By this stage I had classified her as someone to be appeased in case she fell off her rocker and did something strange to us. ;-)
Things fell quiet for a while, with us whispering to each other because it was as quiet as a tomb in that little cabin. I took some photos, and then took photos of ourselves. The flash went off and the woman from two seats forward, who had spoken earlier, leaned into the aisle and said in a demanding tone, 'Did you just take my photo?' I responded no, but I suspect that if I'd have said yes then my camera might have been confiscated.
I admit, I became just a little afraid of that woman. ;-)
We trundled away from Kansas City, enjoying the view, the wide comfortable seats, the generous legroom, foot rests, reclining back-rests, pull-toward-you tray tables and the gentle rocking of a train large and comfortable on its tracks.
I love train travel. Given the choice, it's how I would travel always. The country sprinter trains in Victoria do rock too much and the journey begins to resemble a rough day at sea, but this train had no such similarity and I relaxed to enjoy the ride.
The sun rose across the fields, giving the horizon a pink hue and lighting the trees in gentle shades of orange.
Several freight trains zoomed past us going the other way, often times with no warning other than a whooshing sound and then the absence of light as the train cars blocked our view.
We passed fields and forests, rivers and lakes. Plain scenery and beautiful scenery, none of which I was able to capture well.
Here we crossed the Mississippi River, the widest river I've ever laid eyes upon. The view was made even more magnificent because of the floating ice.
The conductress, a lovely talkative woman, checked on us often, staying to chat with the people whom she had come to know on the journey from the west coast. At one point she spoke about a colleague and, in a joking manner, admitted that he had 'stuffed up'. The slang term seemed unusual as I'm sure that Americans are not familiar with that term and don't use it, preferring the similar 'screwed up' instead.
Her conversation meandered on and several minutes later it became clear why she had used the term 'stuffed up'. Turns out, she lived in Australia as a child, Brisbane to be precise. I spoke up at this point and introduced myself as an Australian whereupon she recounted funny stories about her transition into US culture, confirming with me that the terms she had had difficulty with were ones I understood and empathised with.
One particular story had us all laughing. When she started school here, one of the boys asked her which football team she rooted for. She decked him! Later, when called to account for her violent response, she accused the boy of having insinuated that she was sleeping with the entire football team. Of course, 'rooting' means different things to Americans and Australians. Now everyone in that small cabin understands the difference. lol!
Though seats were not allocated, whenever you are sitting when the conductor checks your tickets is where you are to remain for the journey, aside from meal and bathroom breaks, of course. Depending on your destination, you are guided toward particular carraiges. I guess this is so they are easily able to be sure people get off at the right stop.
We lunched in the dining car, which was an adventure to get to, but worth the effort.
Soon enough we arrived in Chicago. We couldn't see much of the city from the train, and we disembarked into a dark and enclosed station. It felt as though we were underground, but I don't think we were.
I wish I could have taken a photo of the diesel fume clogged platform, lit with orange lights, the concrete black with melted snow and passengers hurrying into the smoky gloom like survivors of some post-apocalyptic catastrophe. Rushed along by the passengers behind us, it seemed that if we should loiter we would be harmed in some unknown way, by the air pollution if nothing else.
The train engines pinged as they idled and the sound was like loose pieces of metal slicing around in a steel cage. I tensed walking past them, sure that something was going to snap off and hurtle through the train's metal frame toward us.
Into the station we went, hauling our bags along the slick concrete. We first stopped at the restrooms -- I have to pee a lot when I'm nervous, then we browsed a ticketing counter where we attempted to make sense of the train and subway systems. There are Metra trains and subway trains, like the tram/train systems that we have in Melbourne except both run on isolated tracks.
We needed to go to Oak Park, but there were two ways to get there. We figured out what trains and stations we needed and opted for the subway as the next Metra train wouldn't arrive for another two hours. Outside we went....
Have I mentioned before that if you are directionally challenged then finding your way around the US is problematic, to say the least. We needed to go south. Though we had a map, we found another posted to a large billboard and tried to use both to orient ourselves. I couldn't make sense of any of it. I do believe that when tired and overwhelmed, my logic skills abandon me. Normally I can read a map. I can even judge directions (i.e. to go left or right). But there on the street in Chicago with a mad world erupting around me, all I could see were lines and names and none of it made any sense.
On the train, Em and I had been reading a book on introversion and how they process stimuli and expend/reserve energy in different ways to extroverts. It's a fascinating book, eye opening and liberating... and, while standing on that street, I felt all my introversion rush to the fore. I wanted someone else to fix this problem of finding our way to the hotel. I understood more than ever why people book and pay for bus tours, or go on cruises, or take package deal holidays where the hardest thing they have to decide is what to eat next or what crappy souvenir to buy for Aunt Edna back home.
Deciding that standing there like dimwits was attracting too much attention, we started in what we thought was the right direction. After two blocks, with our big suitcases rattling along behind us, we determined that it was, in fact, the wrong direction and the right direction was back the way we had come. We checked the map, which I somehow was able to read and understand (maybe the walking had gotten my blood pumping to my brain), and saw that we had to walk eight or so blocks in the other direction to get to Clinton subway station -- eight blocks hauling two heavy suitcases and a backpack each. Em looked dismayed. I felt exhausted and far too much like a tourist to be comfortable. I suggested a cab. Em agreed. Back to the station we went.
Outside the station were cabs parked in a line and men on the sidewalk offering passengers a ride. Naive to the ways of the city, we accepted the first offer of a cab that was made to us. A black man in a heavy coat and beanie guided us to a cab and, as we stood back and waited, he slammed his fist on the boot of the car, over and over. The cab driver ignored him. I thought this all rather strange and wondered how these two men were connected -- surely it only takes one guy to drive a cab. Well, yes it does, as we figured out.
Eventually the cab drive craned his neck to see us and released the boot catch. The black man loaded our bags and advised us that it would be $2 per bag. I mean, seriously... for getting a cab that we could have gotten for ourselves and lifting our bags in that we could have done as well. Figuring that there was no easy way out of this, I opened my purse and searched for four $1 notes. I had only a ten, some larger notes and coins. The guy hauled out a wad of cash and said he'd give me change. Seeing no option, I handed him a ten and he gave me back a series of crumpled notes. All the money here looks the same, so he could have given me the correct change or he could have duped me. I didn't much care. As I got into the car, the man stood by the door and talked non-stop with a hang dog expression on his face. I have no idea what he said because his accent was uncomprehensible. Maybe it was some kind of hard luck story, so I adopted a dutifully sympathetic expression and worked hard on getting into the car as quickly as I could.
Then we were off, driven by a mute cab driver who ignored us as we sat behind plexiglass, hoping he knew where he was going.
Being a tourist in a strange city is both exciting and terrifying. You put your trust in so many people, strangers whom you believe are honorable and trustworthy because they wear a uniform or are associated with something that we as a society deem to be safe. I felt vulnerable in that cab as we were driven through Chicago, down streets I'd never heard of, onto a freeway that led God knows where. I didn't think we would be driven to our doom, but if the driver chose to take us the scenic (and more expensive) route, what recourse would we have?
My fears were without cause and soon we were in Oak Park. The driver made it to the right street and stopped by a vacant lot where 211 should have been. I'd been watching the numbers and realised with dismay that where our hotel should be there was nothing but scoured dirt.
I've heard stories like this -- where a tourist books accommodation over the internet and then turns up to the address only to find that there is nothing there. The driver continued on. Em got out her phone and called the hotel. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, her conversation confirmed my fears as she asked 'who am I speaking with', when her call was answered.
Em asked for the address and explained that we were having trouble finding the hotel. A couple of minutes later, we arrived at our hotel... a real building, not razed earth. :-)
We realised that once again we had fallen victim to the odd numbering and directional systems that plague this country. Initially we had stopped at 211 North Oak, rather than 211 (north) North Oak. I mean, seriously!? ;-)
Our hotel was lovely and oh so cheap at just $30 each per night. We were right in the heart of an historical district with beautiful old buildings and houses, and right opposite the Ernest Hemmingway museum.
Dumping our bags onto the bed and collapsing after them, we shared relieved smiles that we had made it in once piece.
Later that evening, recovered from the trauma of our arrival into Chicago, we walked the main street of Oak Park and fell in love with this prosperous little village that lies amongst the greater sprawl that is the massive city of Chicago.
We dined at a Mexican restaurant where we had mixed margaritas and a platter of mexican food. I LOVE Mexican food, just not the jalapenos. Whoa momma, those bastards pack a punch. If you avoid those then Mexican is delicious!
The restaurant had complimentary corn chips and salsa dips. We didn't read the small card near the bowls that explained what was in each bowl. We dived on in. I tried a green coloured one after I'd tried a couple of the red ones. Completely oblivious to the world of pain that would follow, I heaped a teaspoon of the salsa on my chip and shoved it in my gob. There was a few blissful seconds where everything tasted great, then whammo. My mouth was on fire and my tongue felt as though it could implode. I made hand signals toward the dish with the green goop so as to save Em from a similar fate. It took at least five minutes, many gulps of margarita and four ice chips later before I could say the worst had passed. Em looked so worried for a while, asking if we should get milk which would help. I felt that the embarassment of asking for milk would be worse than the pain of hot jalapenos. :-)
The mixed platter of mexican food was superb though. We had a variety of things that I can't even remember the names of, and none had jalapenos in them.
After dinner, and many mini margaritas, we tottered to the hotel room, tipsy and happy, only to find that we could not get into our room. Our card key would not work. Downstairs we went, struggling to keep a straight face and appear sober, where Mogwai (the super friendly hotel manager who can perform miracles, or so he said) escorted us back upstairs in the oldest lift in Oak Park, and easily opened our door. 'It's all about the angle and pressure', he said. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
We thanked him, but were unconvinced that it was just that. Over the next few days we learned the knack of getting into our room, and I do believe that we lacked the dexterity required to open the door when we'd had a couple of drinks. Good thing we weren't driving. :-)
This has been a long blog posting. Hopefully the following will be shorter and will have more photos, but those might come after our adventure to the Lake of the Ozarks. Or, as mum pointed out, Dukes of Hazard country! :-)
