I have to confess it, I am a rail fan. Not to the degree that I used to be, when I had boxes of old time tables, pictures and magazines and notes taken about GG-1s, Alco PA’s, Pullman 10-2-6’s and the odd parlor car. But given an opportunity I take the train. And, for most of us, after we get outside the tri-state area, that means Amtrak. And, much of the time I am an Amtrak fan.

This is so, mainly, because I remember how really bad it used to be in the days right before Amtrak took over in 1971. (How’s this for rail fan bona fides: I was on the train at the moment Amtrak took over—riding across country in a tiny roomette on what used to be called the City of San Francisco, I think.) Amtrak took over a god-awful mess back then. I know, I was there.

Trains were awful. They were roasting hot in the summer, freezing in the winter and sometimes were bereft of even basic equipment. I was ushered into a car at Penn Station once, only to discover that all the seats in that car had been pruned away from the stems that now stuck up like forlorn stumps up and down the length of the car. I looked quizzically at the conductor, who shrugged and said, “I guess you could stand.” On another occasion, I did have to stand from New York to Providence, standing in a car in which a small child had disgorged the contents of his stomach onto the vestibule. Had no idea a little boy’s stomach could hold so much.

They were so bad that the railroads actively discouraged your riding them. On one occasion, I telephoned the train station near my home at the moment when I could see the San Francisco train standing in the station. Standing right there with its doors open. I asked for the schedule of service into the City. “No train service” the clerk snapped, “take the Greyhound!” Click. On another occasion the railroad took out a half page ad in the San Francisco Chronicle, with a picture of a rail passenger car polished and clean, well lighted, with one passenger aboard. “Fly United,” the ad urged, or take the bus. The lower the ridership turned out to be, the better the chance that the PUC or the ICC or whatever alphabet soup agency was ruining the rails at that time, might let the railroad take the train out of service. So, there came the ads, “don’t buy our product, please.”

Even getting to the train could be arduous. Stations were located in the worst parts of town (think auto dismantlers, flea bag hotels and hookers) and were often reflective of years of railroad poverty and deferred maintenance. Angry pigeons used to fly up and down the concourse at South Station, dive-bombing the Penn Central victims trying to get on the trains. Ceilings were collapsing, lights were out, staff was indifferent and service—well, let’s just say that there is something inherently wrong (in 1970, say ) with a business which not only would not take credit cards, but would not even take a check from a patron. If you wanted a cross-country ticket, (which in those days consisted of a little book with about a dozen coupons in it) you had to take a sack of money downtown to the station and pay in cash.

Amtrak is not the best. I am fond of expressing my skepticism about universal, government run health care by wondering why people would want to hand health care over to the same people who have given us the Post Office, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and Amtrak. But Amtrak has its good points.

The stations are clean and well managed. The Albany train station is brand new, a modern interpretation of a 19th century station, it even has a restaurant. Sort of. Clean, well-kept, beautiful marble sculptures and flooring, art, and clean elevators and escalators. Upstate, between Manhattan and Montreal, a lot of the old stations are restored, often used for other things than trains, but used, at least. And the trains stop here.

The Plattsburgh station is a really down home experience. It takes the minimalist approach, that is, it has one person who meets the one daily train in each direction. She sells no tickets—that happens by telephone or computer these days—and her main job is to tell the victims—uh, customers—how late the train will be. The Adirondack (many of Amtrak’s trains continue the old custom of having names as well as numbers) leaves Manhattan at 8:20 a.m. and arrives, well, let’s just say that it arrives a lot later. Put it this way, don’t make dinner reservations in Plattsburgh. The Plattsburgh station has some cute park benches in the waiting room, a couple of upholstered easy chairs, a tiny table for small children to sit at, and a child’s jig saw puzzle set out on the table awaiting the children. There are houseplants sitting everywhere, including in a long planter that is made in the shape of a wooden locomotive and car set. There is a cold drink machine. There is a clean bathroom, with a plaintive “Put the seat down, please” written in magic marker on the toilet seat. Ah, the arrogance of men.

And, there is train service to a lot of places. And there are quite a few places that even have sleeping car service. You can still get a bedroom to Chicago or a drawing room to Los Angeles, just like the ones that Noel Coward and Marion Davies used to take back in the day. Sleeping car accommodations cost an amount practically equal to the gross domestic product of a small nation, but they were there.

People complain about the food on the train, and the complaints are justified. The little short haul trains are the worst, offering what is euphemistically called a café car. They specialize in sandwiches made many, many days ago, pizza which is microwaved and is often so hot it could peel the paint off the engine cowl, and rather frightening looking cheese burgers. In the long haul trains, like New York to Chicago, the food is better. I actually had the best beef short ribs I ever ate on the Lake Shore Limited in the spring. It is still possible to get your meal served in your bedroom if you are traveling first class, and the staff is cheerful about doing that.

The trains are often slow. New York to Montreal seems to have a top speed of about 25 miles an hour in many sections of the trip. This slow performance is due to old track—track that is not even owned by Amtrak. Amtrak does not own most of its track; it leases it from old railroads that are not interested in maintenance. Between New York and Washington, however, the railroad owns the track and that makes the service much better.

I have no idea what the future of rail passenger service will be. Certainly the corridors, such as Boston to Washington, New York to Buffalo, the California Coast and some areas around Chicago are well served and probably will continue to be. Long distance service is iffy. Amtrak loses pots of money on long distance trains. Someone remarked that Amtrak would lose less money if, when someone reserved a seat from New York to Los Angeles, Amtrak sent them a check for $500.00 and an airline schedule.

On the other hand, airline travel is not any better. As George Will once said, “The world of flight began in 1903, with the Wright Brothers, and there has not been a single quarter in any of the intervening fiscal years in which the airlines have not lost money.”

The next time you are on line at the airport, taking off your shoes, worrying that the pin in your left foot might trip the metal detector, dripping salad dressing from the carry-on meal you bought from the surly clerk in the terminal café, think about the rails. Amtrak is not the best, but it is not half bad.

The Rev’d Lloyd Prator, Rector
Saint John’s in the Village Episcopal Church

New York City