Kamala Harris has risen brilliantly to the opportunity that fate has given her. She began her short race for president with a smile that outshone the sun, giving the country new hope. She has laid out her case for election deliberately, forcefully, and convincingly.
Her case is a good one. First, and it must be said first, her opponent is a malignant man of the worst character and the most dangerous ambition. She, in contrast, is a dedicated public servant with strong patriotic values. Second, her vision for the country is one of reconciliation and modest but solid advancement. Third, she has been part of an administration that has already accomplished landmark advancement toward the country’s goals.
It is the duty of all citizens of good will to turn out to vote for this remarkable stateswoman. While in the booth, we must also vote for Democrats for Congress, to give the future President Harris the majority to accomplish great things. Let there be no doubt on November 6 that this country has chosen the path of freedom, democracy, and progress.
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.
At the last minute, and after anguished pleas from many Democrats and many more Americans, Joe Biden has withdrawn from the presidential race. At last, without admitting it, he has acquiesced to the reality that his age is catching up to him. This was the reality that Americans were worried about for the last two years and terrified about for the last month.
He has acted when it is very late in the season, when there is almost no time for an open nominating process. So, the party has thrown itself at Vice President Kamala Harris, endorsing her to take on Lying Devil Donald Trump. I’m optimistic. I think she can take the old blowhard. I liked her in 2020, but she couldn’t perform. Then she stumbled through her first two years as vice president. But now, she seems to have found her footing.
I was never a fan of Joe Biden, the Senator from Big Credit. His long career in the Senate contained as many mistakes as successes. Then he turned out to be a very successful president, producing landmark achievements for the Democratic Party and for the country, including bold new programs on climate change, infrastructure improvement, and economic reform.
But even in success, Biden was undermining his legacy. His first big mistake was letting Kamala Harris flounder for two years. His second big mistake was deciding to run for a second term. His third big mistake was refusing to face reality until it was too late for the party to make a considered nomination. Now, we’ll see if his selection of Harris for vice president was one of his successes, or one of his mistakes.
Did you know that Garry Trudeau is to blame for the lousy implementation of handwriting to text on the ipad?
When apple brought out the newton, which was the blackberry killer, doonesbury mercilessly lampooned the handwriting to text errors of the newton. Nonsensical things.
Palm Pilot competitor. ..
Steve Jobs hated the newton. He called it the scribble pad. As soon has he retook control of apple, he killed the newton.
I think he developed an aversion to handwriting to text.
When they released the first ipad, there was no mention of it. a lone developer released a separate app for it, but they were not promoted by apple.
When apple released the first ipad, I bought one. I wanted a tablet that I could write on with a stylus and have display text. There had to be a way. Yes, by going to great lengths you could do it, but it was not part of the operating system. It was an extra application. I didn’t buy another ipad for a long time.
It was after Tim Cook made the pencil work with the low end ipad, I bought again. Handwriting to text was mentioned parenthetically. It was a little easier.
And this is why the ipad is a failure. The most natural way to write is to sit with a pen in one hand and a paper in the other. This is really the only reason for an ipad to exist.
Steve said, so I’ve heard, that when you see a new company bring out their handheld device, ‘if you see a stylus, you know they blew it.’
Once again, the very idea of writing is scorned.
Instead, they have turned the ipad into an always trailing camp follower to the mac. The operating system is clumsy, but it will nearly do what a mac can do. It’s sort of a lightweight production machine. Wow!
I say, if you see a keyboard, you know they blew it.
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.
Providence is about 1600 miles from Austin. By air it takes about five hours. By car it takes about 30 hours. By train it takes about 60 hours. That’s three days and two nights.
Take a look at the route map. First, notice that there is a gap in the network along the Gulf Coast. That section was taken out by Hurricane Katrina. It is scheduled for restoration this year. Something the map doesn’t show is that on most routes, the train only runs once a day, and not fast, either. It’s a skeletal system.
To fly between Providence and Austin can cost: basic economy under $200; first class about $500. To ride between Providence and Austin can cost: coach, under $300; business, up from $300. Here’s the kicker. You’re going to be on the train for two nights. You want a room. A roomette adds about $500 per night, or $1000.
You can compromise by riding coach one night and sleeper one night. That’s what I did this trip. Or, you can fly part way and take the train part way. I’ve done that, riding the Acela to Washington and flying from there. That’s pretty easy, and comfortable—a one-day trip, no overnight.
How about one overnight and a shorter flight?
Here’s something I want to try next. I could fly to Chicago and ride the sleeper from there. I like the crew on the Texas Eagle, and I’d like to see them again. But the tracks have some rough patches. And the dining is decent but not great.
Amtrak pulled all the full service diners for all the trains during covid, or so I’m told. Since then, they’ve restored full service dining to some trains, but not the Texas Eagle.
Or, I could ride the sleeper down to Jacksonville and fly from there. The Silver Star runs from Washington to Florida. And the Silver Star has full dining.
The Crescent runs from New York to New Orleans. If I get off in Atlanta, I can get a direct flight to Austin. Or, I can ride all the way to New Orleans. Then the Sunset Limited to San Antonio and the Texas Eagle into Austin. I don’t know how well the connections match up. I could fly from New Orleans.
The station in Providence is a modest version of the grand stations in Washington and Chicago with high ceilings, a nice concourse, and a café. But the train platforms are downstairs, under the station, and everything down there looks gray with soot and grime.
Providence Station is the reason I had to pick up my bags in Washington and carry them onto the Acela. Providence refuses to provide baggage check service.
The Acela is America’s answer to high-speed rail. It runs from Boston to Washington at speeds up to 140 mph.
The trainsets are fairly new and electric-powered, with leather seats (though gray). The luggage bins above the seats have doors like in an airliner. As with all trains, big windows run down both sides, featuring the outside world rolling by. There’s a quiet car where talking and phone use are forbidden.
The café car is minimal, with seven stools lined up to narrow counters. It’s not a place to linger, though three people are seated on stools working on laptops right now.
As we settle into our seats, I hear the man behind me leaving a voicemail, saying, I’m on the train, and I’ll be making calls for the next several hours…”
It’s irritating. He is as good as his word, making one phone call after another. I turn to my seatmate and comment on being a captive audience to someone’s phone calls. She agrees and says some people don’t understand how rude it is. Our words fall on deaf ears.
I look around the café. It’s four tables, and all are occupied by crew members. It seems on this train, the crew claims the café for their private club, and coach passengers have to eat in the diner, which means they must wait for the first class to finish.
Here the dining is lower than fast food, maybe movie theater food. Microwaved hamburgers, that sort of thing. I line up, order at the counter, and carefully carry my food back to my table in a little paper box. But, in my breakfast box, I also have a nip of vodka and a bottle of orange juice. I’m going to make it.
I sit at my breakfast table, watching the foothills of the Alleghany Mountains roll past. The trees are gorgeous in yellows and oranges. I try to get a few pictures, but many are blurred by the motion,
I’ve moved all my things to the open seats, just outside the diner. I pass through the crew’s café, through the shifting coupling between the cars, and to my seats. I’m feeling pretty ragged after two nights of short sleep.
I think about the train change in Washington. I’m going to have to get my checked bags and carry them to the Acela. I’m a little worried. But, it will work out.
Sunup in the Alleghany foothillsFrom my breakfast table, the passing scene rolls swiftly past.From my breakfast table, the passing scene rolls swiftly past.
RobinCravey 