SPENDING TIME ON A TRAIN





Time it was that nearly every family in America had a relative that worked on the railroad. In LOST’s case, both sets of grandparents were so situated. Currently, passenger rail in this country is being starved to a slow death, having had its fiscal feeding tube removed by the Bush Administration in 2001, in order to send the Grover Norquists of the country into paroxysms of quasi-orgasmic ecstasy.

Yesterday LOST and family spent most of the day on Amtrak’s Surfliner, on the way up to and back from Los Angeles to pick up our nephew. The landscape changes dramatically on this trek. From the sandstone cliffs of San Clemente – complete with patio slabs hanging a foot or more into unsupported open space, to the shanty neighborhoods of Pico Rivera – in truth LOST never recalled these areas fondly, but they are really down in the dumps now, even with the occasional dwelling that is being desperately cared for by its owner, roof, paint, yard and fence, almost in the forlorn hope that the Area 51 aliens will happen upon it and beam it to a land called Almost Anywhere Else. From the nearly downtown rail yard - -where the boxcar has been hunted into extinction by the seagoing metal container, to the weed-riven ghost town that used to be the El Toro Marine Corps Air Station. The trek is nothing if not diverse. The underscore of that diversity is the trips northern terminus: paralleling the flood control channel formerly known as the LA River. The large swaths of graffiti, interposed with the flood control inlets - some of which are crudely covered with cloth or other makeshift doors, suggest that condominium development is still strong among the poorest and most desperate among us.

Our time in Los Angeles is perilously short. In part this is due to a breakdown on the outbound trip. It is almost comical to experience this major difference between the airlines, who have made a science out of giving passengers the mushroom treatment, and Amtrak, which aspires to do the same with its charges, but has staff which fails to turn off (or lower) the volume of its walkie-talkies. So despite the calming, accented voice of the conductor, telling us we will be in motion momentarily, we are all too aware that the engine is not responding, and that our engineer “might be able to limp it into Santa Ana, but not much further.”

Amtrak is still staffed by friendly people, people who refuse to act as though their jobs and their employer are being squeezed off. This shouldn’t happen. The opportunities to see the world from this vantage point are priceless. The return trek at night alone is worth the price. To see the same dilapidated dwellings by day lit up in finest Yuletide nighttime splendor is tenderly reminiscent of the Widow’s Mite: people with little to give nonetheless striving to benefit all eyes with a festive display. This display of nighttime beauty is even worth the "F**k and S**T man", sitting in front of me, talking on his cell phone constantly, to what seems like a plethora of girlfriends and ex-girlfriends, and nearly every word is "F**k" and "S**t." The "F**k and S**T" man has the same laptop. Thankfully he does have iTunes, and music (even his variety) hath charms to soothe the savage beast.

A chat with another southbound traveler helps blunt the language. We share chuckles over the northbound leg of the trip - she too was stuck on the siding for 2 hours, only she lost that time from a Holiday family gathering. Still, she laughs about the experience, tempered only by wary hope that it will not be repeated on the southbound leg. A brief stop to allow passage for a northbound train momentarily gives us pause, coming as it does all-too-close to where the morning breakdown occurred. Soon, we're back up and running, and safely, timely deposited at our stop.