My time in New York last weekend was hectic but enjoyable. You can read all about my appearance at the Putting the "B" in LGBT national summit
here and
here. The real story, though, was the tale of horror that was my train ride from D.C. to NYC. It's an experience after which I shall never ride Amtrak again.
What made it so bad? A series of unfortunate events.
My train left Washington's Union Station on time at 4:05 p.m. And everything was paced like clockwork for the first few stops. We hit New Carrollton at 4:15 p.m., Baltimore-Washington International Airport at 4:30 p.m., then Baltimore at 4:45 p.m. The train slowed to a halt, though, as we neared Wilmington, Del. We were told the train ahead of us had broken down, but the crew was making some temporary repairs and we all would be moving shortly. We eventually resumed course, pulling into Wilmington about 30 minutes late at 6:05 p.m.
While in Wilmington, we took on many of the troubled train's passengers, who apparently were told they could ride with us or wait there until repairs had been completed. It wasn't a problem and our train made additional stops without losing more time. We made it to Philadelphia at 6:27 p.m., then to Trenton, N.J., at 6:55 p.m.
Just a few minutes outside of Trenton, though, our emergency brakes quickly brought the train to a halt. As we awaited some explanation, an odd smell came through the car. It smelled a bit like burnt rubber, but there was some odd, additional scent, too. The conductor then announced that we had struck "a tresspasser" on the tracks — someone who had apparently worked through the fences and into harm's way.
A few minutes later, the conductor updated his report to inform us that the man had been killed in the collision and the train was now under orders to hold its position so police could investigate the scene. We were told Amtrak had "no idea" when our train could resume course. We were to sit tight as our conductor explored his options. Eventually, a plan was developed so that another Amtrak train would pull alongside our train on a parallel track, stop and allow us to disembark and join its crowd. Trapped by the situation, my train's passengers collective shrugged and prepared to wait for our rescue train.
Interestingly, as we awaited our rescue train, our conductor at one point alerted us to the fact that another Amtrak train was about to pass us on the left. If we turned to look, we would see it just now as it moved past us. That train, we were told, was the train that had been in front of us and broken down near Wilmington. It would now beat us to New York City. Isn't that cute? Uh huh.
We were not told why that train could not be bothered to stop.
Our rescue train eventually arrived, but before we could disembark, we were repeatedly and strongly cautioned that we could not touch both trains simultaneously. Apparently, once a train leaves the station, its exterior conducts a current. If we touch one train, we get a strong shock. If we touch both trains, we complete the circuit and get fried by 10,000 volts. To stay safe, we were to step down to the ground, walk a short and somewhat narrow distance to the next train's door, then board. I felt bad for the elderly couple from Kansas that was sitting behind me. They didn't seem to like this idea. And honestly, neither did I.
We all made it (although I heard at least one person got shocked) but we weren't treated to much of a reward. Our rescue train, it turned out, was populated by surly Brooklynites who had been aboard for 27 hours. The train, bound for NYC, originated in Miami. It was standing room only for all us latecomers, including the elderly. And because the train was now burdened with a heavier-than-usual load, we were precluded from traveling at normal speed. We had to essentially crawl our way to New York.
Our train reached Newark International Airport at 9:59 p.m. — a full 185 minutes late. We rolled into downtown Newark at 10:09 p.m. Heartened that our next stop was New York's Penn Station, though, we focused on the finish line and tried to forget just how terribly late we were running. But then, beneath the Hudson River and just a stone's throw from Penn Station, our train again slowed and stopped. The conductor told us that our train had been experiencing engine problems since it left Miami and those problems had struck again. Because we were so close to the station, no attempt would even be made to fix things. Instead, Amtrak was going to send a locomotive down from Penn Station to latch onto us and pull us home.
In a situation such as this, you could laugh or you could cry. Most of us laughed. Most of us.
When we finally pulled into Penn Station, it was 11:15 p.m. We were precisely four hours late. So what did Amtrak give us for our trouble? How did it apologize for this inordinate delay? How did it hope to salvage whatever reputation it might have following this fiasco?
"Sorry. We hope to see you again soon."
I loved this new spin on sloppy joes. The added vegetables and cheese make for a fun treat.
