The Train as Time Machine

"There isn't a train I wouldn't take," Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote, "no matter where it's going." Me, too.

Sure, cars are convenient and democratic -- you can choose what route you'll take, and when. Planes are time-efficient for long-distance travel. But in this era of maximum airline discomfort and high gasoline prices, I much prefer the manifold pleasures and endless possibilities of the train. Truth be told, I always have.

Commuting from Fairfield, Connecticut, to work in Manhattan, I chose to take the train. On long trips abroad and in the United States, I go out of my way to ride the rails. My old friends who live in Bethesda, Maryland, always drive up to visit me; I always take the train to visit them.

I think of the train as a kind of time machine, transporting me back to a less hectic, more contemplative age. For hours, in limbo between here and there, I disconnect from my everyday responsibilities and pressures: cell phone dark, laptop untouched, book unread. I give myself up to the experience of the train.

I remember riding the Broadway Limited back when it was the ultimate in American train travel. The trip, Manhattan to Chicago, took precisely 17 hours and 5 minutes -- enough time to enter upon a new dimension, to temporarily become a different person. Time to sit by the window, absorbing the magnitude and variety of America passing by; to be friendly to strangers; to reflect on my past and future, and to daydream.

Through my window, I caught glimpses of fast-running rivers, fields of corn, and verdant parks, as well as slums and junkyards, soot-belching power plants, and abandoned factories. At rural stations, served by just a single train a day, old men sat on benches, smoking pipes, and waved as we rushed by. In small towns, cars lined up behind barriers on either side of the tracks, waiting for us to pass through.

But all that was out there, beyond the window. The little world of the train was pleasant and orderly under the watchful eyes of the conductor, the waiters, the porters. They shepherded us to our meals, politely answered our silliest questions, and patiently explained the mysteries of my sleeping compartment. On my way to and from the dining car I took stock of my fellow passengers: a gray-haired matron with pigtailed grandchild in tow, a pair of businessmen jointly poring over what looked like a racing form, a young couple holding hands. Before the train pulled into Chicago, they would become at least as familiar to me as most of my apartment house neighbors.

Meals were served on white tablecloths with piles of gleaming silver utensils and vases of red and white carnations. The food was delicious. I still remember the roast beef dinner as well as the inexpensive price. At each meal, I sat across the table from a stranger, and we talked. It would have been awkward otherwise, of course, but the shared experience of the train bred friendliness. We nodded and smiled in passing, held doors open for each other, offered people across the aisle the magazines we were finished with. At mealtime, I ended up opposite a minister, a convention-bound union official, and an accountant. We talked about the train, about why we were on it, about our lives outside. There were, however, no exchanges of secrets "never told anyone," no promises to "get together" after the trip. The finery at table and the very correct and sober behavior of the gray-haired waiters helped preserve a comfortable distance.

Times change, but trains have changed less than most things. The mournful whistle still sounds, the cars still bounce enough to make it risky to order hot soup, there's still a long line at the bar car. And I still enjoy the enforced idleness, the chance to explore my inner scenery as well as the outward variety, and the unscripted encounters with friendly strangers. Agatha Christie said it well: "To travel by train is to see nature and human beings, towns and churches and rivers, in fact, to see life."

Robert W. Stock, a New York Times alumnus, is a writer and editor based in New York.

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