Coast to Coast, Crossing the USA by Train
The slow pace of discovering what makes the United States “America”
Our train departed from South Station at 9.10am, punctual. We got there in time but not with as much margin as we had wished for as there was morning traffic in central Boston. The train would take about 4 hours to arrive to New York City and that would be the shortest part of our journey.
Since I met my husband Ross, he has been talking about great train adventures. Actually one of the first things we talked about on the day we encountered each other in a Thai beach was his great train journey from Shanghai to Scotland. He had read all the books by Paul Theroux and was a great admirer of travel chronicles.
It only seemed poetic that for his 40th birthday’s celebration we embarked on a journey that would take us from coast to coast, crossing the United States, where we live now. I don’t think Ross remembers, but actually Paul Theroux started his great expedition to Patagonia from the same station in Boston where we took our first train. He crossed the continent North to South and we would cross it East to West.
Although it has become the way of the world, we still ought to lament the fact that aeroplanes have made us insensitive to space; we are encumbered, like lovers in suits of armour. This is obvious. What interests me is the waking in the morning, the progress from the familiar to the slightly odd, to the rather strange, to the totally foreign, and finally to the outlandish. The journey, not the arrival, matters; the voyage, not the landing.
Paul Theoroux, The Old Patagonian Express
We arrived at Penn Station, in central Manhattan around 1.30pm and we would be there almost at the same time the very next day. It was my second time in New York City and the experience was similar to the first one, when my parents came to visit right before Christmas last year. Downtown is chaotic, dirty, smelly, loud and not a very nice place altogether. But it is NYC so that seems to compensate it all. From our hotel one could see the full length of Central Park and that blot of green between skyscrapers created an illusion of serenity.
We were in a celebratory spirit so we didn’t mind the overpriced meals and the crowds blocking the way. After all, we were walking to get to a Broadway show. Street hot dogs and art museums later, we took the tube back to Penn Station to take the Lake Shore Limited to Chicago.
This would be our first overnight train from the journey, and we had what they call a roomette. It’s not a room, the -ette part of it means that you barely have space to stand up between the chairs (or bed) and the door that separates the tiny private space to the alley. But we had a toilet. A no-separation toilet that sat right next to the chair (or bed). It welcomed all the sleeper-cart passengers wide open as people walked by to find their designated space. One per each roomette. Thankfully the toilet extravaganza could be closed down and the converted surface gave some extra space for Ross to stretch his long legs.
From New York City we moved upstate bordering the Hudson River. Passing by small towns unknown to most but famous to locals for its expensive real state. I imagined famed writers, actors, politicians and rich heirs having their mansions nearby. I thought about getting my book out of my bag and reading but there would be time for that, maybe later that evening, or the next morning, or the next one perhaps. My thoughts were interrupted by a dining attendant that asked us which slot we preferred: 5.30pm, 7pm, 7.30pm or 8pm. To the possible shock of my fellow Spaniards, we asked for the 5.30 slot and we would have our dinner at the dedicated car.
It was the right decision. The car was empty, it seemed many people had decided on later dining times or wanted a more private event in their own rooms. A plus was that we got to enjoy the sunset over the river. The meal was plane-like. But it was alright. We were served salads with packed sauces on the side, bread buns and I went for enchiladas as a main, while Ross got served a chicken parmigiana with very sad broccoli florets on the side. The train stopped for an hour in Albany, capital of New York State. And when it resumed, we went back to our small room while the rest of passengers enjoyed their dinners.
Around 8pm someone came to prepare our beds and the chairs where we had been sitting facing each other became the bottom kip while some strings lowered the surface that would be the upper one. Once Ross got up there, I didn’t see him until the morning. We both had windows, so we were happy to watch the time, and space go by.
Unfortunately the Lake Shore Limited passed all the lake shores while we were being rocked asleep. In the morning, we woke up in the Ohio planes, and we had crossed all Pensilvania during the night. Being the state with the most Amish communities in the country, many of them had boarded the train during the night and the sitting carts where a sight of the XIXth century.
The Amish are a religious group from Europe that settled in the Great Plains of North America, specially what is now Pensilvania, Ohio, Illinois and Iowa, and what defines them is the rejection of modern technology and the use of horse wagons for transportation. And yet, some things may be changing from within because we saw many of their members walk around Chicago with a Starbucks cup and we also found a family of them in Gino’s East sharing a deep pan pizza not before capturing it with their phones becoming perhaps the first amishfluencers.
I told Ross that was the best pizza I had had in the States so far. In general, I find pizzas here very unbalanced flavour wise. They are all cheese and meats and there’s no space left for the freshness of the tomato. But that pizza had at least an inch of space for tomato sauce, which I loved. Gino’s East is one of the historical places where deep dish pizzas were created and what differentiates them from the others is that they make their crust with cornmeal instead of flour. It was crumbly, light and flavourful. I loved it. Though a small one was more than enough for two.
After a day spent in the Windy City admiring its architecture and fine art museum, we came back to Union Station to get our next and final train. This was the part of the trip that we were most excited about. Two and a half days crossing planes, mountains and desserts to get to the Pacific Ocean near San Francisco. Amtrak is very good at naming its trains. While we waited for ours in the station we fantasised on boarding the Southwest Chief, the Silver Meteor, the Empire Builder or the Texas Eagle.
The one we got was advertised to be one of the most scenic ones and its name didn’t disappoint to start with: the California Zephyr. “At 2,438 miles (3,924 km), it is Amtrak's longest daily route, and second-longest overall, with travel time between the termini taking approximately 511⁄2 hours.” It took more than that, but we were in no rush. We were there for the journey. Our trip was about the train not so much about getting to the destination.
We had another roomette for this one but when stepped in we discovered it was slightly different. It felt a bit nicer. Perhaps because there was no sign of the toilet. Also because it was cleaner. But it also felt even tighter. After all, the toilet seat was creating some inches more of extra space that this one was lacking. But we were fine with it.
It was a much bigger train than the Lake Shore Limited as it had not only more cars but also a second floor, where we were located. There were shared bathrooms in every cart, and even showers for adventurers on the lower deck. The biggest attraction was the observation car, though. A full car on the upper level framed all in glass with seats facing the outside and a small bar where to enjoy drinks and snacks. On our arrival, we found ourselves a seat and we observed Chicago getting behind and greener neighbourhoods pass in front of us.
Passing through Indiana we had seen hoards of buffalos that impressed us. An hour into our journey from Chicago, Ross got impressed again. It was not an animal sight but the selling prices of houses in a place called Mount Pleasant, Iowa. “The cost of this one”, said Ross while handing me his phone, “is what we pay in Boston in a year of rent! Just image how much we would be saving!”.
He is still thinking about that now. The name is inviting as well. Mount Pleasant. As pleasant were the deers we saw next, tucked in meadows and forests. We crossed most of Nebraska during the night and woke up in Colorado. The first main stop was of course Denver, and we left the train for a stroll. Denver Union Station is crossed by the 105th Meridian which defines the Mountain Time zone. We were two hours behind Boston, an hour behind Chicago and an hour in front San Francisco.
The time changes were slightly messing with us but more did so the altitude. And we were about to go higher, much higher. It was the 12th of May and it was Ross’ birthday. We had planned for it to be spent on the train entirely because that day was promised to be the most epic: we would cross the Rocky Mountains and finish the day off in the Utah desert.
From the view of herds of elk we passed to the eagles as we ascended meandering the mountain. The landscape changed from pasture green to rocky grey and mineral orange to snow white in a matter of hours. Valleys, forests, rivers were our companions as we felt engulfed by nature. After lunch, which consisted of a choice of hot sandwiches, we stopped at Glenwood Springs.
The small town is an oasis in the middle of the mountain. It holds the world's largest mineral hot springs pool, though a local that boarded the train that afternoon asked us not to spread the word as she was happy with it being kept a secret for only a few to enjoy. If anyone asks, you haven’t heard it from me.
We actually met several people on the train as socialising was almost obligatory. We still had to book our dinner times and for breakfast and lunch, all included in the price of the ticket, there were specific time brackets. Once at the dining cart, we were seated by a table of 4 and joined by other two strangers. Sometimes a couple, other times two individuals travelling by themselves. I don’t remember everybody’s names unfortunately but Ross and I chit chatted with a retired couple coming from Australia and spending some months traveling around North America. We also met a Chinese student that had just graduated and was travelling to California first and then taking a bus to Seattle to visit some friends. There was another younger couple that had left the kids with relatives and embarked on an old-time adventure.
One name I do remember is Vineeta’s. She sat in front of me during one of the meals and we started the courtesy talk. “Where are you travelling to”, “Where did you board”, “It’s amazing, isn’t it”. But soon I realised the conversation would get considerably more interesting. She mentioned she was an academic, an Anthropology professor from the National University of Singapore that was travelling during her sabbatical but would go back to New York to watch a cricket game. Indian of origin, her field of study had been the Indian diasporas and Hinduism. I shared my passion for anthropology and for looking at food through that lens and she told me about her research done in the Malayan Railways.
I left my table inspired and went to join Ross in the observation car. It was a popular thing to do, sit there in front of the large windows to look at the landscape. As obvious as it seems, we thought we could just wander by it and find a sit, and it proved to be almost impossible. Still, for some reason there were two seats together by the right window. We observed astounded how snow converted into canyons and then plain sand. 10 minutes before 6pm the train stopped. We had just crossed to Utah half an hour ago and all we could see from our vantage point was sand, bush and a tumbleweed at the centre of it.
According to Google maps we were somewhere but one could imagine humanity had evaporated and the California Zephyr was the last remembrance of it by looking out the windows. There were not even rodents, not even insects. Pure nothingness. And we stayed there, waiting, for 3 and a half hours. It was a precaution. The train had sensed the rails were too hot and that could have been caused by a fire. It seemed scary but we were terribly calm. That’s what the train does to you. We had cards to play with, an inhospitable landscape to look at and a tumbleweed to blame. It was almost comical.
Actually, there had indeed been a fire, so it was good to wait for someone to drive for hours to come inspect the situation. It had been a small fire created by a spark from the previous train. But it was under control now and we could continue our journey. This meant go to bed for Ross and I; and wake up at 3am to get off at Salt Lake City instead of 11pm for others. But there are worse things than wasting your time staring at a tumbleweed for hours.
The following day we woke up in Nevada and the landscape was even more deserted if possible. But with the first rays of sunshine, I witnessed a sight that I (hope) will never forget. A hill on the background and the sun illuminating from behind a golden herd of wild horses galloping freely on a pond that reflected their manes. It only lasted a couple of seconds but at that moment I thought if heaven existed, it would look like that.
That day we arrived at the Bay Area on the afternoon but you could not believe all the worlds we visited between breakfast and dinner. Desert, mountain, forest, more snow, more rivers, more valleys and then agriculture. Back to humanly sights. Reno, what the staff described as “the smallest most famous sin city of the world”, was a bit of hell in between godly creations. But after descending Sierra Nevada, things started to look more and more familiar. So familiar one could think we where somewhere in the Mediterranean.
The last stop was Emeryville, close to Berkeley, CA. And seeing the Pacific Ocean peek out brought a mixture of emotions. It was somewhat an achievement. A beautiful closure to the adventure. But it was also the end of it. 14 states later the journey had concluded.
We had crossed America. We had seen it change literally in front of our eyes. We had experienced its diversity, its vastness. And the question that kept popping was: how is it possible? How a huge country like this one, a country where you can both live in a farm with no sign of life miles around you or in a tiny apartment in crowded Manhattan, how in such a place the word “American” defines them all?
The answer will be found in the thousands of big flags that populate each and every one of the states. Flags that would be mocked in Spain, where I am from, because “you don’t need a flag to remind you where you live”. But here you do. Because without national symbols like the flag, or the holy reverence they have for military and veterans (recently celebrated on Memorial Day) or the big festivities like 4th of July, the country makes no sense as a whole.
A year ago, one week after getting settled in our current apartment, one of my neighbours came to say hi and introduce herself. As we talked about Boston and the area, she told me something that I still think about. She said “this is not America”. Because Massachusetts, or New England to its extend, is not a a real representation of the United States.
Most people in the country don’t live in densely populated cities with rich history, tons of international students and a public transportation system that even if frustrating at times, means the use of the car is not mandatory. Most people live in little islands of land, that sometimes also become ideological constraints. Most people need the constant view of the flags. And don’t get me wrong, you find them profusely in Massachusetts as well. Just in case they need a reminder that the pizza-eating-Amish, the Californian farmer, the Chicago designer, the Baptist from Iowa and they are all proud citizens of the United States of America. A place that is not one place but a thousand.
This was so fun to read, Eli! And your landscape photos are breathtaking! I’ve always dreamed of taking that train route from Chicago to California to see the US. It sounds so lovely to be on a trip where the whole point is to sit and look intently :)
I enjoyed reading about your travels. It's fascinating to think how individuals can have such a unique experience within the same county.