St. Clair County — With Michael Mee having recently travelled to and from Louisiana by rail and restaurateurs Summer Wright and Moe Thiele having talked with us for an article (in this issue’s Then and Now section) about their new Argo eatery, The Dining Car, there’s been a considerable amount of talk about trains around our newsroom.

Michael and I both have a soft spot for trains, although he’s much more of an aficionado than I am.  He keeps copies of Trains:  The Magazine of Railroading around the office, and the conversation usually turns to trains a couple of times a week.

It’s sad that there’s no longer such a thing as real passenger rail service in America, unless you count Amtrak, which I don’t, because that’s about like comparing a jar of Cheez Whiz to a wheel of Reblochon.  An abandoned rail line is a sad reminder of a time we’ll never see again, all gone with little to remember it besides Steve Goodman and Arlo Guthrie singing the disappearing railroad blues. 

The first time I set foot on a train was many years ago in Scotland.  I’d joined a group touring England, Wales, and the land of the Scots, and one of the trip’s selling points was that we were to return to London from Edinburgh by overnight train. 

Looking forward to that started all kinds of romantic train images playing in my mind:  “The Night Train to Munich,” Hercule Poirot hunting for a killer on the Orient Express, Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes searching for the stolen Star of Rhodesia in Terror by Night, and distinguished gentlemen sharing snifters of brandy over their game of whist in the club car.  I couldn’t wait.

Wouldn’t it be neat to run into a little danger?  Get involved in a bit of international intrigue?  I had it all worked out.  I’d be walking down the corridor to my sleeper when an exotic, mysterious woman would step out of the darkness.  She’d grab my arm, pull me close, and slip a small parcel into my hand.

“Beware of the homburg in compartment four!” she’d whisper into my ear before fading back into the night.  “Don’t fear the clock tower!” A series of harrowing adventures would follow as I tried to decipher the cryptic message.

All of those images were kicked out of my head the second we walked into the train station.  Instead of a spotlessly clean, glitzy place teeming with glamorous people, it was dirty, drab, and practically deserted.

Several of us went to the one concessions vendor who was open to grab a snack before boarding, only to be accosted by the stereotypical drunkard:  rumpled suit, askew tie, red eyes, slurred speech, a day’s growth of beard.  He shuffled from person to person, asking for the loan of a few pounds.  Finding no willing lender, he staggered away to look for better pickings elsewhere.

The situation did not improve when we got to our compartments.  I had in mind spacious, luxurious accommodations rather than the shoebox I walked into.  Upper and lower berths, a tiny nightstand, and an index-card sized window that was too grimy to see through.  A rumbling sound and a slight jerk, and we were on our way.

And that was it.  No mysterious females.  No danger.   No intrigue.  Just a drunk on the platform and Tom Wolfe to put me to sleep. 

It may not have been everything I’d hoped for, but there’s still not much for which I’d trade the experience.  I’m fortunate to have had it.  It isn’t romantic – it isn’t even Americana – but at least it’s a train story.

Everybody should have one.  And it’s a shame that not everyone will.