ScAmtrak!
The older I get, the longer my "list of things that I swear I will never do again" grows. Mostly this list has consisted of food that has done my body wrong, jobs that were just laughable, and places that made hell look cozy and enlightened. On Sunday, this list grew to include (insert drumroll here) AMTRAK.
Last week, Jackie and I went to Chicago after a multi-year absence. We had a fantastic time doing what we used to do so many years ago when we were just sexually frustrated friends: take long walks along the lakefront, eat ridiculous amounts of sandwiches from our favorite cafe, The Bourgeois Pig; take more long walks through the city; eat ridiculous amounts of crepes from a fantastic creperie located in a not so fantastic location next to a parking garage brightly illuminated by enough fluorescent bulbs to make a ballpark feel jealous; take more long walks. The 100 degree weather with 100% humidity didn't slow us down. Nor did the fact that the Gay Games 2006 were happening, theoretically, "all over the city." I put this in quotes because, while the newspapers talked a lot about the Games, and banners advertising the Games were hung throughout the City, there was almost no evidence of anything even smacking of a Gay Games anywhere. At one point, we thought we may have strolled through a beach volleyball tourney, but only because the gents on either side of the net were wearing speedos so small that no self-respecting banana would dare them call a hammock. The other indication that the Games may be in effect were the large number of lesbians in "sporty" attire. This includes visors, breathable cotton Hawaiian print Patagonia shirts, hemp pants with elastic waistbands, Crocs. One lady with a long mullet and wrap-around shades was wearing an ID tag that said "Athlete." The Olympics have nothing to fear at this point.
I know, I know. Where's the story about Amtrak? Why do I hate Amtrak? Though the answer to this question should be obvious, the buildup makes the payoff even sweeter.
After a fabulous few days, we decided to keep the party going and take a side trip to Canada. With only a couple of hours to make the change in plans or risk missing our flight, we discovered that even if we could afford the last minute trip into Canada, we were going to need a passport because Canada has suddenly decided that it's another country or something. We debated the multiple ways we could sneak in just long enough to miss our plane and completely fuck ourselves (as the canucks say). Apparently, the gays bought out all the hotel space in Chicago and we were forced to stay in a bizarro old hotel called the Belden-Stratford, which was both eerily reminiscent of an Amerisuite and the one in which Jack Nicholson lost his mind in The Shining. This should explain why the Belden-Stratford was the only place for 50 miles that wasn't sold out. As Jackie and I wearily headed towards the elevators, we were followed by a young Sikh carrying about 15 grocery bags and a woman (he wasn't carrying her) I can only presume was his mom. The woman was rubbing her stomach and the guy kept asking her if she was going to throw up and if she needed a lemonade (too acidic, I thought). The guy then, perhaps suffering sympathy pains for his mom and with absolutely no warning, let out a fart so loud that Jackie and I thought for a moment the ceiling might be coming down. We all boarded the elevator and I hoped to not a) laugh my ass off b) get puke on my shoe.
The first room (yes, there turned out to be a second one) we were given at the B-S looked like the site of a game of Clue: wine glasses tipped over, bed unmade, towels all over the bathroom. A game of Clue or a real, old-fashioned homicide. We skedaddled out of there only to be re-assigned to a room with a possible other felony in action: arson. Upon arrival at room #2, I turned the thermostat up a notch and suddenly the whole place smelled like one big three alarm blaze. The Belden-Stratford is apparently manned by two people: Norma Bustamante (the 20 year old concierge) and Carlos (the 50 something "bellboy"). Carlos was sent up to check on the smoke and told me in very broken English that it was my fault since I turned the thermostat down (I gleaned this from a lot of hand gestures that either meant "you've turned the thermostat down" or "you've been flipping the light switch on and off too much"). I tried to argue this point with Carlos, but he offered to hose the place down with lemon air freshener and my anger melted away. Thankfully, we were only staying for one night and the windows opened all the way so we could air the place out and/or consider jumping if things got any worse.
The next day we were able to get into the swanky Drake where we soaked up everything an incredibly over-priced hotel has to offer and in this debauched state made a fateful decision: we would take the train back to NYC. And not just any train, we would spend our life savings on an Amtrak sleeper car! We told ourselves it would be like Murder on the Orient Express. Apparently, Amtrak hasn't seen the movie.
The second we boarded the train, we knew we were in trouble. Images of ballgowns and Humphrey Bogart melted away and the reality was fluorescent lighting and a shower and a toilet that were one entity (we dubbed it the "sh-oilet"). Every sleeper car is assigned an attendant and our's was a nice guy named Ainslie who probably hadn't done anything wrong in his life and was forced to live out this hell on earth helping people like us unclog tiny sinks with crowbars. This tool was Ainslie's one of choice since it was also used to unstick our fold down bed AND the airplane seat that served as our armchair. Had we decided to use the shower portion of the sh-oilet, I have no doubt the crowbar would have been used on that too. Things were looking grim. And then we left the station. If you want to know what it's like to be in a row boat in the ocean in the middle of a monsoon, Amtrak's "Lakeshore Limited" is the way to go. The intense bumping and shaking meant we couldn't enjoy the "scenic" view, which according to the map included Roby, Illinois ("the powerline capital of the U.S.") and Gary, Indiana. Too bad.
The turbulence only stopped when the train did. And it did that a lot. The trip was supposed to take 18 hours. At the 15th hour, we were sitting on the tracks outside of Sandusky, Ohio ("the motel capital of the U.S.") and we knew we were in trouble. This point was reinforced when Ainslie, minus his crowbar, stuck his head in our compartment and offered us some beefstew. We declined and he said it was "mutiny"up in coach. Food had run out, we were stuck on the tracks, and people weren't happy about it. The beefstew was the last resort. Things were looking grimmer. At the 27th hour, with coach passengers chewing on the seats and Jackie and I actually considering using the sh-oilet, we pulled into Penn Station never happier to be at 34th Street than at that moment.
Moral of this story: Fly, bike, boat or walk. Regardless of the distance, any of these would be more comfortable.
Last week, Jackie and I went to Chicago after a multi-year absence. We had a fantastic time doing what we used to do so many years ago when we were just sexually frustrated friends: take long walks along the lakefront, eat ridiculous amounts of sandwiches from our favorite cafe, The Bourgeois Pig; take more long walks through the city; eat ridiculous amounts of crepes from a fantastic creperie located in a not so fantastic location next to a parking garage brightly illuminated by enough fluorescent bulbs to make a ballpark feel jealous; take more long walks. The 100 degree weather with 100% humidity didn't slow us down. Nor did the fact that the Gay Games 2006 were happening, theoretically, "all over the city." I put this in quotes because, while the newspapers talked a lot about the Games, and banners advertising the Games were hung throughout the City, there was almost no evidence of anything even smacking of a Gay Games anywhere. At one point, we thought we may have strolled through a beach volleyball tourney, but only because the gents on either side of the net were wearing speedos so small that no self-respecting banana would dare them call a hammock. The other indication that the Games may be in effect were the large number of lesbians in "sporty" attire. This includes visors, breathable cotton Hawaiian print Patagonia shirts, hemp pants with elastic waistbands, Crocs. One lady with a long mullet and wrap-around shades was wearing an ID tag that said "Athlete." The Olympics have nothing to fear at this point.
I know, I know. Where's the story about Amtrak? Why do I hate Amtrak? Though the answer to this question should be obvious, the buildup makes the payoff even sweeter.
After a fabulous few days, we decided to keep the party going and take a side trip to Canada. With only a couple of hours to make the change in plans or risk missing our flight, we discovered that even if we could afford the last minute trip into Canada, we were going to need a passport because Canada has suddenly decided that it's another country or something. We debated the multiple ways we could sneak in just long enough to miss our plane and completely fuck ourselves (as the canucks say). Apparently, the gays bought out all the hotel space in Chicago and we were forced to stay in a bizarro old hotel called the Belden-Stratford, which was both eerily reminiscent of an Amerisuite and the one in which Jack Nicholson lost his mind in The Shining. This should explain why the Belden-Stratford was the only place for 50 miles that wasn't sold out. As Jackie and I wearily headed towards the elevators, we were followed by a young Sikh carrying about 15 grocery bags and a woman (he wasn't carrying her) I can only presume was his mom. The woman was rubbing her stomach and the guy kept asking her if she was going to throw up and if she needed a lemonade (too acidic, I thought). The guy then, perhaps suffering sympathy pains for his mom and with absolutely no warning, let out a fart so loud that Jackie and I thought for a moment the ceiling might be coming down. We all boarded the elevator and I hoped to not a) laugh my ass off b) get puke on my shoe.
The first room (yes, there turned out to be a second one) we were given at the B-S looked like the site of a game of Clue: wine glasses tipped over, bed unmade, towels all over the bathroom. A game of Clue or a real, old-fashioned homicide. We skedaddled out of there only to be re-assigned to a room with a possible other felony in action: arson. Upon arrival at room #2, I turned the thermostat up a notch and suddenly the whole place smelled like one big three alarm blaze. The Belden-Stratford is apparently manned by two people: Norma Bustamante (the 20 year old concierge) and Carlos (the 50 something "bellboy"). Carlos was sent up to check on the smoke and told me in very broken English that it was my fault since I turned the thermostat down (I gleaned this from a lot of hand gestures that either meant "you've turned the thermostat down" or "you've been flipping the light switch on and off too much"). I tried to argue this point with Carlos, but he offered to hose the place down with lemon air freshener and my anger melted away. Thankfully, we were only staying for one night and the windows opened all the way so we could air the place out and/or consider jumping if things got any worse.
The next day we were able to get into the swanky Drake where we soaked up everything an incredibly over-priced hotel has to offer and in this debauched state made a fateful decision: we would take the train back to NYC. And not just any train, we would spend our life savings on an Amtrak sleeper car! We told ourselves it would be like Murder on the Orient Express. Apparently, Amtrak hasn't seen the movie.
The second we boarded the train, we knew we were in trouble. Images of ballgowns and Humphrey Bogart melted away and the reality was fluorescent lighting and a shower and a toilet that were one entity (we dubbed it the "sh-oilet"). Every sleeper car is assigned an attendant and our's was a nice guy named Ainslie who probably hadn't done anything wrong in his life and was forced to live out this hell on earth helping people like us unclog tiny sinks with crowbars. This tool was Ainslie's one of choice since it was also used to unstick our fold down bed AND the airplane seat that served as our armchair. Had we decided to use the shower portion of the sh-oilet, I have no doubt the crowbar would have been used on that too. Things were looking grim. And then we left the station. If you want to know what it's like to be in a row boat in the ocean in the middle of a monsoon, Amtrak's "Lakeshore Limited" is the way to go. The intense bumping and shaking meant we couldn't enjoy the "scenic" view, which according to the map included Roby, Illinois ("the powerline capital of the U.S.") and Gary, Indiana. Too bad.
The turbulence only stopped when the train did. And it did that a lot. The trip was supposed to take 18 hours. At the 15th hour, we were sitting on the tracks outside of Sandusky, Ohio ("the motel capital of the U.S.") and we knew we were in trouble. This point was reinforced when Ainslie, minus his crowbar, stuck his head in our compartment and offered us some beefstew. We declined and he said it was "mutiny"up in coach. Food had run out, we were stuck on the tracks, and people weren't happy about it. The beefstew was the last resort. Things were looking grimmer. At the 27th hour, with coach passengers chewing on the seats and Jackie and I actually considering using the sh-oilet, we pulled into Penn Station never happier to be at 34th Street than at that moment.
Moral of this story: Fly, bike, boat or walk. Regardless of the distance, any of these would be more comfortable.
posted by Jen Warner at 5:31 AM
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