My Amtrak Adventure
by Dahris Clair

Dear Mr. Gunn: [Letter from Dahris to Amtrak CEO]

It was with a great deal of pleasure that I looked forward to my first trip on the rails in forty years. What with two cars in a two-person household, the airport reasonably close, it just had never come up. But when my son invited me to come to South Florida to house/pet/sit for two weeks, I declined the air travel in favor of the rails. He tried to dissuade me.

“But, Mom—it’ll take over four hours.” He knows I’m super at arthritic and worried about my comfort.

But, I countered with, “It’ll be fun, like a mini Orient Express. I’ll talk to people, look at the scenery, read when I feel like it. Maybe do a little writing. That’s what I want to do.” I could already visualize the Agatha Christie characters. He acceded to my wishes and made my reservation last April.

I was scheduled to take #91, boarding at the Lakeland Florida station on August 2, 2005. The original time was somewhere around 11:00 a.m. That was good because Lakeland is about an hour and a half by car from New Port Richey where we live.

A couple of weeks before my departure date, I received a call on my voice mail. My departure time was changed to 1:14 p.m., arriving in Ft. Lauderdale at 5:05 p.m. I notified my son of the change.

On the morning of August 2, we left the house at 11:00 a.m., leaving the dog to roam and guard the house. Stopped to pick up one Rx at Walgreen’s, cash from the ATM, and left for Lakeland. At 12:45 p.m. we rushed into the station and approached the stationmaster—I guess that’s what you call him—handed him my ticket. He glanced at it.

“Train’s running late.”

“No problem; so am I.” Then it occurred to me to ask, “How late?”

“Due about three.”

“Three o’clock?”

“Yes. I’d suggest you go and have lunch. Probably better to walk.”

Maybe on his legs. But we followed his directions, went to a place called Crispers. He’d told us Publix had something to do with it. Well, if Shopping’s a pleasure at Publix, maybe eating would be too. Not.

We got back to the station in plenty of time, but the train was running even later. Not expected until four-fifteen. I insisted that my husband leave and tend to the dog before she lost control of her bladder all over my beige carpet. She’s trained, but it had already been five hours. She’s a 60-lb dog and doesn’t leave a mini puddle. Finally he did—leave, I mean.

The train showed up close to the time it was supposed to have arrived in Ft. Lauderdale. I thank God for cell phones—I called my son four times with updates.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, I had to visit the rest (?) room. A laugh and a half. Don’t know what would happen to a 300 lb Bertha in there, but when the train switched tracks and lurched, I was only half-seated and nearly hit the floor. I’m good natured enough to laugh at myself.

The ride was nothing like I’d envisioned. My seatmate had her head buried in a book—a clear indication she wasn’t inclined to conversation. Everyone was well behaved while the conductor sat in an adjacent seat, but when he left all hell broke loose. The passengers became rowdy; two of them playing obscene rap competing with each other to see whose would be loudest. It seemed to inspire one of the more enterprising young Lotharios who rose in his seat and attempted to engage the female in front of me in an assignation, to put it politely. She stood up and screamed a venomous stream of profanities that would have a sailor’s parrot blushing, although she was one of the ones with a CD player. Embarrassed for all womanhood, I didn’t know where to look. It was dark by then, nothing to look at out the window and I didn’t want to make eye contact with anyone. It was a great relief when the conductor passed through again and commanded that the CDs be turned off. He was given resistance, but finally, compliance amidst low grumblings.

You can’t imagine how pleased I was to see the sign for the Ft. Lauderdale station and my waiting son. That was at 9:10 p.m. Dinner at Carrabba’s at 10:00 p.m. Maybe it was the hour, but it lost something.

I’d like to say all went well after that, but it didn’t. Four days into my vacation (?) I fell and broke my ankle. It was that return trip to the Hess Station mistakenly thinking a lottery ticket from there would be luckier than the ones at Publix. Ha! Left the station and stepped off into thin air. An unpainted curb, wouldn’t you know? Wound up with a cast and a walker. Great inhibitor. Did you ever try using a pooper-scooper after three little dogs, all the while hanging on to a walker with one hand? I wouldn’t recommend it.

I decided that I’d not be able to handle a coach seat on the return trip, so I called an Amtrak representative. Told her of my difficulty and asked about upgrading to a compartment.

“No problem. We have a deluxe, disability compartment available, and with your senior discount it comes to an additional $43.35. They’ll bring you your lunch.” "How wonderful! Will I need a confirmation number or something?" She assured me it was all taken care of and instructed me to be at the station one hour earlier, which meant 8:30 a.m. for Train 92’s 9:30 a.m. departure from Ft. Lauderdale on 8/16/05. (I should have known)

My son returned from Amsterdam the night before, got me to the train station on time and I handed my ticket to the stationmaster. Yes, he had a reservation for me – Coach. Oh, no, I tell him. I explained about the cast, the walker, the representative and the disability compartment. “Sorry, ma’am,” (he was very polite) “it’s not in the computer.” I told him I could not negotiate the aisle to the rest room with a walker, nor could I ever get it inside. And how could I keep my leg elevated? "Do you have a compartment available?"

He searched, said there was an availability, but not deluxe, and not disability. It would be an additional seventy something. No, I reiterate, I was told $43.35 with my senior discount. We settled on $51.00, bargaining as if it were a flea market. Then he informed me that I’d have to board on the opposite platform and the elevator is broken.

My heart sank as I looked out and saw nine miles of steps going up and another nine miles going back down.

“How can I possibly do that?”

He shook his head. “Guess you’ll have to go to the next station. That would be Deerfield Beach.”

Overhearing the conversation, the gentleman who handles the baggage said if I could climb up on his cart, he’d get me over there. I’m sure with a little pulling and tugging I could have done it and I agreed. It never happened because there was another announcement over the speaker to the groans of the gang waiting in the station. The train was now due at 11:15 a.m.

My son, playing devil’s advocate whispered, “Mom, it’s not his fault.”

“I know it’s not his fault, but it’s not mine either. It’s somebody’s fault.”

I sat with a Damon Runyon cast of characters who thought I was a character. I attempted to make light of the situation. After all, this had been my choice. I voiced my opinion, “If there’s something you have no control over, let it go and make the best of it.” The gentleman seated behind me turned and asked, “Would you repeat that for my wife?”

Then the stationmaster announced he was ordering pizza for everyone and soft drinks. I hadn’t had time even for coffee before leaving the house so pizza didn’t sound too appetizing.

My son asked when the train was expected.“3:30 p.m.” We got the station’s telephone number and my son took me to The Egg ‘N You, for my favorite poached egg and grits with sausage gravy. Nobody does it better. Then we went to his home to wait it out.

I neglected to mention that everyone had been complaining about the heat in the waiting room. A clerk brought out a giant fan for which she ran an extension cord across the doorway and behind our seats. She had to lock the incoming door so no one would trip over the heavy-duty cord. The Uncle Remus character immediately changed his seat and jumped in front of the fan, effectively blocking a good portion of the moving air while he continued to fan himself with a brochure.

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My son kept calling the station to check on the ETA of the elusive #92, and we returned to the station at 2:30 p.m. No change. Everyone was still grumbling. Uncle Remus and his group worried they’d never make the wedding in Raleigh at 3:00 p.m. the next day. The nice folks from New York were uptight because of the delay, the heat, and the fidgety grandson. There was a constant run on the vending machines and kids with ice cream-covered faces bouncing in and out of their seats. The video machines enjoyed a good run also. I still can’t believe that little kids have so much pocket money.

My son looked very tired since he was forced to stand all the while (no seating available) so I asked the station-master if he could see that I got on the train so that my son could leave and get some much-needed rest. And where was the baggage gentleman? Not around, but good news—the elevator was repaired. Yippee! The stationmaster secured the wheelchair and promised to wait with me. He had been scheduled to leave at 2:30, God bless him, but he stayed. I kept hobbling over to the window just to be sure he was still there and wouldn’t forget me. Around five something, he brought the wheelchair over and piled my carry-on luggage, the box of Australian Chocolates my son had given me, my Nora Roberts book (he picked that up in Walgreen’s while I waited.) I shared the chocolates with the waiting crowd. Uncle Remus, especially, loved them; my purse sat on my lap, the walker hung over my arm and the stationmaster got me into the elevator and across the tracks.

We settled down to wait. Everyone alternated between watching the sign that announced the minutes, and looking down the tracks for the headlight that would signal the arrival of #92. Just like Von Ryan’s Express, the # 92 finally rolled in to the accompaniment of shouts and cheers of the assembled crowd. It was 6:10 p.m. I rewarded my kind friend with a generous tip, (anyone would think it came easy) got on the train, only to find that compartment #2 was the very last one down the aisle and the walker wouldn’t fit. My heart sank for the second time. I hobbled on one foot while trying to hang on to the aisle walls. I collapsed in my seat in the tiny compartment. My dream of the Orient Express went out the window.

The conductor placed my carry-on luggage on the floor and secured the walker somewhere, assuring me it would be available when I deboarded.

Amazing little thing it was—the compartment. All neat and tidy—a clever folding table that opened under my chin—a disguised potty-chair and toy sink situated conveniently at my elbow. What do you do with two passengers? Does one wait out in the hall?

Naim, my server—a very nice gentleman in every sense of the word, laid the table with a linen cloth, linen napkin, etc, and offered me the menu. He said he’d return shortly. Then, a knock at the door announced the conductor. He was collecting tickets. He looked at my destination and asked, "Are you aware that we are not going to Lakeland?"

Lord, give me patience.

"No, I am not."

"They didn't tell you at the station?"

"No, they did not." I had visions of winding up in Kalamazoo.

"We are bypassing Tampa and going to Winter Haven. There will be a bus waiting there to transport you to Lakeland."

"My husband is already on his way to Lakeland." With an, oh, well look, he just hole-punched the ticket and closed the compartment door leaving me to my solitude and wild imaginings. The ride was pleasant enough and the salmon not too bad, although the mashed potatoes had a peculiar, unfamiliar taste. The green beans were delicious. I’d love to have the recipe.

It becomes a Keystone Kops farce when we arrived in Winter Haven. I had been able to contact my husband who decided he’d come there to pick me up rather than wait at Lakeland. The station closed at 4:30 p.m. anyway, so no wheelchair would have been available. I exited the train, thrust my claim check at my husband with one hand while I hung onto the walker with the other, and said, "Hurry, before they put it on the bus." Running was out of the question for me.

After an interminable wait during which I watched his dear grey head going back and forth from the bus to the baggage carrier, he returned with one bag. "Where's the other one?"

"Couldn’t find it. The driver even crawled around inside the baggage area and said it wasn't there. It's only now that I realize there are two claim checks. One is stapled on top of the other." You’d have thought the bus driver would have had the presence of mind to look.

Meanwhile, the bus is pulling out. By the time my husband got the bag in the car, the bus had exited the station. We got onto the roadway and proceeded to follow the bus, not sure whether we were following the one going to Lakeland or to Tampa. We hit a red light and I watched the receding taillights of the bus with increasing frustration.

We finally caught up and it was the bus to Lakeland. Great sigh of relief. The driver took a circuitous route to get to the station, but we tagged along and once there, the bag was unearthed. The end of my saga came with my arrival at home, be it ever so humble and so welcome, at 12:30 a.m. on the morning of August 17.

Another thing—what with the passage and incorporation of The Americans With Disabilities Act, how does the station in Ft. Lauderdale get away without a handicapped stall? There were three stalls, all small, not allowing a walker, let alone a wheel chair, and no grab bars. A dingy place at best with a very difficult to negotiate entrance. One no sooner pushes one very heavy door with one’s butt and attempts to swing the walker around than they are faced with another, equally heavy door in facing another direction.

Two stalls could be combined into one. A taller potty and grab bars would satisfy the requirements and make life easier for your disabled patrons. I suppose that warrants another letter.

Now, Mr. Gunn, you may be rolling in the aisle at this description of my misadventure, but I assure you, that it has a great deal to do with passengers deciding to bypass the rails in favor of something more dependable. You see, it’s people like me, with a story to tell, and those Damon Runyon characters who waited with me in Ft. Lauderdale, who tell their stories to other people who may be considering taking a train that discourages many from so doing. I know advertising is very high-tech today, but good, old-fashioned word of mouth goes a very long way. Remember the adage, “A good word goes far—but a bad word goes farther.”

Is there some good reason why the Europeans can do it so much better than the greatest country in the world? Well, I just thought you should know that I have the makings for a great short story and you may well see my Amtrak saga in a travel magazine.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. D. H. Clair

NOTE: This letter garnered me a personal letter from Mr. Gunn, (after 30 days) an apology and a dissertation on the problems of the underfunded railway system—and a certificate for $50.00, good for one trip on the Amtrak, and valid for one year. Would I do it again? Probably. But this time in a compartment, with a good book, and a legal pad.

Thanks for the journey, Dahris... J. Wolf

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