It’s a funky old downtown hotel, several steps up from the sidewalk. The esthetic seems to be artsy threadbare. Several good bars are just around the corner. The train station is about a mile away.
A friendly clerk handles check in at the desk and explains that there is hotel bar, but only open on certain nights, and a coffee shop only open in the mornings. She finds the bellman, who then carries my bags up with cheerful solicitude. The main hotel is another half dozen steps up.
The lobby is small, with black couches and bad lighting. Neon signs decorate here and there, and a generous expanse of mirrors improves the sense of space. The floors are tile or planking with occasional rugs.
From the main floor, you go up in a “Lift” that has a door on hinges that opens on a steel cage. The cage travels slowly up and down in a concrete shaft that you could reach out and touch as it slides past, if you were so foolish. The concrete is raw between floors, with a painted red door at each floor. I’m told the hotel was once a brothel.
The lights are garish, I can say that. None meant for reading. All dim and glaring at the same time. The halls are shadowy.
The room is dark with spots of illumination at key points. When the sun comes in the western windows, the light is good. There is a vintage half-couch that molds you into a laid-back posture almost like a hammock. Hm. The bathroom is black tile, gloomy, and there is no hot water.
The television is easy to operate, unlike in most hotels. A tiny desk allows work at a laptop. There are plenty of electrical outlets.
The bed is big and comfortable, with adequate covers and good pillows. I slept well and made it to the train station by 5 am.
Desk clerk at the entranceSteps from the entrance to the lobbyGloomy lobby with neonDoor to the liftThe lift is thirties vintageWindows to the westSemi couch and coat rackTiny desk in the roomOrganizing on the bed
Stopped at La Madeleine for some orange juice. Sat at the table and studied the map. I wanted to cycle from Madeleine to the river without going down a major street—Lamar, Menchaca, S. 1st, S. Congress.
Found two. I chose one:
Jones Road to Packsaddle Pass.
At Packsaddle Pass, turn left and then to Redd.
At Redd, turn right and to Banister.
At Banister, turn left, after several blocks
Dogleg right and to Garden Villa.
At Cardinal, turn left and to S. 5th.
At S. 5th, turn left. Home free.
It would be helpful if Cumberland would connect with Bridgeway.
I had to cross a few major streets, but I never had to ride on one. All easy neighborhood streets. On S. 5th, new apartment complexes joined old ones and crowded out more houses.
I crossed the river on Pflugerville Bridge, and on the north side I discovered Mañana, an airy cafe with as much outdoors as in, with a long shelter for shade. The tables are full. Half the people are chatting with each other, the other half are gazing at their phones. Families with kids occupy several tables. One daydreams while her father looks at his phone.
Stopped at La Madeleine for some orange juice. Sat at the table and studied the map. I wanted to cycle from Madeleine to the river without going down a major street—Lamar, Menchaca, S. 1st, S. Congress.
Found two. I chose one:
Jones Road to Packsaddle Pass.
At Packsaddle Pass, turn left and then to Redd.
At Redd, turn right and to Banister.
At Banister, turn left, And after several blocks
Dogleg right and to Garden Villa.
At Garden Villa, turn left to Cardinal.
At Cardinal, turn left and to S. 5th.
At S. 5th, turn left. Home free.
Roll down to the river.
It would be helpful if Cumberland would connect with Bridgeway.
I had to cross a few major streets, but I never had to ride on one. All easy neighborhood streets. On S. 5th, new apartment complexes joined old ones and crowded out more houses.
I crossed the river on Pflugerville Bridge, and on the north side I discovered Mañana, an airy cafe with as much outdoors as in, with a long shelter for shade. The tables are full. Half the people are chatting with each other, the other half are gazing at their phones. Families with kids occupy several tables. One daydreams while her father looks at his phone.
On board the Acela, riding first class. I made a bid for an upgrade to my business class seat, and it was accepted. Free breakfast and Bloody Mary served at my seat.
The first class car is not quite full, but nearly so. It’s very roomy— only three seats per row.
It’s about an hour to arrival in New York. We’ll track down the west side of Narraganset Bay, inland through Kingston and Westerly, then west across Connecticut, within sight of Long Island Sound, to the old post office across 8th Avenue from Penn Station.
We’re going to Moynihan Train Hall. There I’ll have an hour and twenty minutes to check my bag and board the Crescent to New Orleans.
This run from Providence to New York is feeling pretty familiar. I’ve done it more than a half dozen times, I think. This trip is different.
Why is this trip different? Well, this is my first train ride to New Orleans. It’s my first time in New Orleans in a long time. But, it’s more than that. This trip feels different because I am carrying a ring in my pocket.
No, this place has recently been renovated, and it looks good. It’s clean, modern, and well-organized. It’s an old post office, I’m told, and the classic structure is there, but new design and order gives a relaxed and efficient feel. It’s well-organized, with clean lines and clear signage. There is, of course, also the young man who instructs you to walk through a maze of webbed tape to get to an entrance ten feet away.
Moynihan is the hub or a hub for over a dozen trains:
So far I’ve ridden the Acela, the Northeast Regional, and the Lake Shore Limited. The Crescent will be my Fourth train out of Moynihan. I have my eye on the Silver Service / Palmetto.
Off the Main Hall, the Irish Exit Bar offers not just many Irish whiskies, but a busy pub atmosphere. It’s comfortable. I can imagine ducking in here for a drink if I worked in the neighborhood.
The Crescent
Are you pining for a dose of Dixie? Amtrak has just the thing. Rolling down the Eastern Seaboard, swinging west through Atlanta, and rolling across the Deep South, Amtrak’s Crescent will carry you from New York to New Orleans. You’ll ride just about 1300 miles in 30 hours— a stately 40 miles per hour.
A coach seat costs only $220, which is very affordable. But, it’s an overnight trip, you know. You might want a private room. The lowest rate private room, or the “roomette,” starts at only $600. I rode in that. A bedroom with bath runs $1200. I rode in that, too.
These prices are variable. Amtrak has adopted one of the worst features of air travel—tickets that constantly change prices. And after you make your reservation, you get an invitation to bid for upgrade to a higher class at a discount. It’s a mess.
Riding in the roomette is first class. First of all, of course, you have a private room with seating for two, and at night a cozy bunk. Meals in the dining car (or delivered to your room) are complimentary, with one free adult beverage at supper. The bedroom is even firster class, with more space, a couch, and a lower berth bed that will accommodate two very close friends sleeping abreast.
You may see a little benign neglect on board. A crew member told me that the Crescent is the stepchild of Amtrak and is always the last to get new equipment. The service does seem inferior to other trains, especially the food service, where the cafe man doesn’t even bother to peel the cellophane off the packaged dinners. Neither does he set tables for the diners. All the meals come in bags, like fast food.
South on the Crescent
I board the Crescent southbound. It’s two engines and six cars: three coaches, a café car, and two sleepers. We leave the station at 2:15 pm
Sleeper
I board a sleeper and make my way to my roomette, that tiny room that manages to hold seating for two and then convert to two bunks. Unlike on the Texas Eagle, the roomette on the Crescent also has a sink and commode. I’m comfortable enough. I feel lazy and recline my seat. I spend most of the afternoon reading my book and dozing in my room.
After supper, I ask the sleeper man to make up the top bunk, leaving a tiny sitting room below still intact and available to me, since I often get up in the middle of the night to read or write. I slept okay.
Café car
Morning sun streams in the windows of the café car. Woodlands stream by outside.
So far the food has been pretty bad. The chicken Parmesan I had last night was tolerable. The omelet breakfast was barely edible. The café cook starts the morning in a bad mood, but she cheers up as the day wears on.
Most of the crew is pretty friendly. Lala, the sleeper gal, is a sweet girl and very chatty. She’s a peach. Everyone on this crew is black.
I’m on the first class end of the car. Behind me are hitched the two sleeper cars. Forward, past the booths is the café counter, then the coach end of the café car, and ahead of that we are hitched onto three coach cars that are hitched to the engine.
Not long after breakfast we pull into Atlanta. I get off the train and take some good shots of Atlanta. But, I always think of the best shot when it’s too late. I head back to the café car for another cup of coffee.
We’re rolling through the Southern Hardwood Forest. Most of these woods have been cut over in the last ten or twenty years. Some tracts were just clearcut yesterday. I’m watching the sun angle through skinny tree trunks in the woods near the tracks. Most of the trees are still young and spindly, rising straight up to the sky in an urgent competition for the sunlight.
The lumber industry has moved from the northwest to the southeast.
I’m talking with Kim, a retiree, who says his family owned sawmills in the northwest. I talk with Kim until I am talked out, and then his wife Becky joins us and starts over from the top.
From here we arc south and west to New Orleans. Birmingham is the major city of note between here and there.
I feel lazy. I weave back to my room, swaying from one side of the passageway to the other. I leave the door open and recline in my chair. I settle in to read and doze.
The train continues rolling through rolling hills and forest bottomland. Lala, the sleeper gal, comes by. She says, “It’s nothing but trees and land, but it’s got some beauty.”
She’s right.
The problem with shooting scenery from the train is that by the time you shoot, the scene has changed. Reminds me of Heraclitus, who said, “No man ever steps in the same river twice.”
You grab the camera to shoot a beautiful tree-lined stream, but you get a picture of a rusty mobile home surrounded by rusty old trucks and trash. You’re in Dixie.
Crossing into Alabama, we enter the Central Time Zone. Damn, that adds an hour to the wait for lunch.
Every now and then we have to stop on a sidetrack while slow freight trains rumble past us.
New Orleans
We pull into the New Orleans Union Station about 9 pm. I quickly walk outside and catch a taxi. We head toward the French Quarter, which is not far.
Trying to cross Canal Street, we run into blockaded side streets. Something to do with Mardi Gras, though Mardi Gras is weeks away. I get out into the dark street and walk a few blocks to the hotel.
Hotel Monteleone is a fine old hotel with a busy lobby, a gracious restaurant, and a classy bar. I take the elevator up and find my room. My Sweetheart is there. She flew over from Austin to meet me. We have a little reunion.
The next days go by quickly. We stroll around the French Quarter. We walk along the river. We take a cruise on the Riverboat Natchez, where a live Dixieland band is playing in the third deck lounge. We shop for postcards and pralines. We walk up and down old streets full of people.
The time comes to return to New England. Sweetheart will go with me. On her finger is the ring I carried down in my pocket.
New Orleans Union Station is built in the grand style but not on the grand scale of Washington Union or Chicago Union. It’s also cluttered with a cheap and flimsy Greyhound counter.
North on the Crescent
The Crescent northbound leaves the station.
On this trip, I’m in a full bedroom with basin, toilet, and shower, because I have my Sweetheart with me. The room is amazingly compact.
Sweetheart is wearing the ring that I brought down in my pocket. This is a small symbol of a big change.
On the Crescent northbound, the service seems up to standard. The crew chatter in the cafe car is mostly about bodybuilding, fights with family members, and hostile work environments.
The track has been pretty smooth most of the way. Now the train retraces its route, running from New Orleans to Washington, through the Southern Hardwood Forest.
I love sitting and watching the forests go by, occasionally enclosing weathered shacks and rusty sheet-metal dwellings. Then there are the pastures, the housing subdivisions, the little old towns, and big cities like Birmingham and Atlanta. We got down for a walk trainside in Birmingham. We passed Atlanta after bedtime, so we missed it.
I would like to take more pictures from the train, but the windows are pretty dirty. Amtrak promotes the grand vistas and big picture windows, justifiably, so they ought wash the windows before every trip. Show some pride!
The beds in the bedroom are almost as big as a twin bed, so Sweetheart and I slept close together on the lower bed last night. We both slept surprisingly well.
Rolling north through Virginia on a sunny morning, we’re just a few hours out from Washington, DC and the end of our time on the Crescent. The route runs from New York City to New Orleans. Coming down, I took the full route, boarding in New York. Going back, the agent booked me to change trains in Washington. So, from Washington we’ll ride the Acela north, through New York, to Providence.
Why do I ride the rails? First, because it’s the mode of travel that contributes least to the destruction of the natural world. Second, because it’s miles better than the flying torture chambers of the airlines. Third, because it’s much less work than driving. Most of all, because it restores romance to the sense of travel. It’s adventure!
I had a hard time sleeping this trip, going north. My insomnia is unpredictable. My trip going south, crossing different track during the night, I slept well in the roomette. Can’t say much for sleeping in coach: it’s possible.
Think about all those train stations named Union. Remember that President Lincoln, while he was wrestling with a civil war, promoted the building of the first coast to coast track that tied the Union together. We can do it again.
Look for upcoming adventures:
The rolling stock; The tracks; The politics; The funding; The cost; The alternatives.
RobinCravey 