There is something about Trains that I Like. Out of planes and trains and automobiles they to me are the most romantic. Nine-eleven sort of killed flying and even before that I always hated being in the air. What a cruel trick this was, I thought, as a child, to call it flying but being so utterly trapped in my seat, the opposite of free.
Cars were nice enough; I just didn’t like driving them. It was as if all the worst stereotypes joined forces (Asian; woman; short-tempered; small) and at 5’1” I could barely look over the steering wheel clearly. Once I had a conversation in the basement of a boy I convinced myself I loved in high school, about what the spirit of a car looked like. The beer was brown and in a glass (this was in the end of college when I first learned that beer was meant for a cold tall glass) and he said the spirit of a car in its highest form was a thing of beauty, because really, this was the spirit of a free man. And when you drove that car, really, you were just taking that thing of beauty where it wanted to most go. I thought that was fine as long as a thing of beauty was driving the car itself and I was free to look at both.
But trains. Trains were lovely because you were always moving but you never had to worry about how. There was something blue collar about them and it was great; you ran down the stairs in Penn Station onto the platform with all the hordes of tired businessmen with their beer in brown paper bags the smell of artificial butter popcorn in the air; shooting the shit with the conductors, sometimes jolly more often tired. And best of all you could look out the window and see the grass roll by; it was best especially in New England when the leaves changed and when you rolled past Connecticut dreaming of what doctors and dolled-up wives were behind those white picket fences. Then you thought it would be nice to be invited somewhere fancy for a change because then you could wear sparkly things like the best of them and be admired, but you were raised too pridefully to ever desire such things. To be rich. To be a decorative. It was folly.
And you were always going somewhere. I am talking only about American trains, I can’t speak for any other kinds. It was the American train I loved with those dreams of railroads and going to New York with just a backpack, a handle of bourbon in it and a note from your sweetheart. Maybe going up North through Appalachians and all you had was some E.E. Cummings with you and some pen and paper to write the next big thing. You with all the drunks and suits and so long as it wasn’t St. Patrick’s day on the New Jersey transit it was all beautifully coarse. It was so Americana; and this to a little Chinese American girl was somehow the best thing of all, even if the Amtrak was making nothing but debt and really the tracks weren’t very safe, and no one could afford a damn ticket anyway.