When the guy in the compartment across the hall from me first saw his living quarters he said, "It looked bigger on the web site."
I, however, was not discouraged by the size of the sleeping room. Having pulled two all nighters in sit up coach, my experience resembling that of a caged Tasmanian Devil, I saw this compartment as positively palatial.
It's now five AM and my views have changed. The motel I stayed in two nights ago gave me a king size bed which felt like the Ponderosa, like the Louisiana Purchase, like Einstein's infinite universe. After six hours in this box I feel like Jaffar trapped in a genie's bottle.
On the bright side the ride last night was so turbulent (is that the right word for motion on a train?), I felt secure, swaddled in cushions and steel and glass. The train was so wobbly, so rocky, so frought with centrifugal forces that I kept muttering, "Look up, your derailment draweth neigh." I took consolation that my coffin would be sleek and cherried out with chrome and heavy curtains.
My fear of crashing is not too far fetched. While in New York city two weeks ago a subway conductor fell asleep at the wheel and as the train reached speeds of 82 miles per hour it did not negotiate a curve and derailed with devastating results. As I was jostled and shaken last night worrisome train noises wormed their way into my brain: clattering wheels, creaking compartments, loud chugging motors, high pitched whines. Oh wait, the whining was me.
To the credit of the designers of these tiny sleeping rooms, they've utilized every space wisely and put shelves, movable beds, hidden coat racks, and tiny trash baskets in unusual places, although if the trash includes more than a bottle cap I'll need to call room service which will be problematic; there is no room service.
I am certain these designers played with Transformers as kids. They've made this place a giant toy. Flip this, push that, release that nob, twist that gadget and voila! You can now sleep in a thing that's been flipped, pushed, released, and twisted. Performing these actions, however, requires the litheness and flexibility of a contortionist. One must grab a cushion with their left hand, press down on a peddle with their right foot, and pull out the seat with their right hand all while balancing on their left foot in a moving train. And that's just to find the trash can.
To make the bed one must open the sliding door, put their rump in the hallway, bend at the waist, move the trash can, and play Twister with an octopus. Providing one doesn't lose any fingers with crashing heavy metal objects one is now ready to read before going to bed.
By propping up one arm with the two pillows Amtrak provides, by leaning the other arm on the extra pillow the passenger must provide, and by angling one's torso just right, one can position their paperback book in a dribble of light particles with just enough lumens for cats, bats, or Navy Seals with night vision glasses.
Amtrak has a marketing quandary. On one hand they entice guests with promises of beautiful scenery, gorgeous sun rises and sun sets, and purple mountain majesty. On the other hand they offer sleeping rooms which, once arranged, provide nothing ouside worth viewing but pitch blackness. I thought I saw Polaris but that could have been a distant Arby's sign.
It'll be breakfast soon. I have a hard time tracking time zones so I'm not sure if breakfast will be served 7 AM Central time, Eastern time, or Amtrak time. When I came back from dinner last night I went to my room number five, slid open the door, and there was some guy in his underwear fiddling with my seat cushions. Turns out I went to the wrong room. There are two rooms numbered five. I apologized and continued my wobbly walk to the next car.
Interestingly, the car I am in is the last of the lot. No caboose, just receeding tracks out the back window. To move from car to car one walks up to a steel door with window and big black button that says, "Push." Once pushed the door whooshes open like in Star Trek, although in Star Trek the door whooshes with ease, with a flawless gliding motion which oozes with techy confidence. On this train when one hits the "Push" button one hears a rattling, grating noise like sand in a fishing reel. Then one steps into the netherworld between moving cars and hopes the laws of physics remain consistent and things don't start uncoupling randomly.
One also hopes there are no sleep walkers in my car least they take a wrong turn, hit the "Push" button at the rear of the train, stumble out the back door and find themselves in the middle of nowhere. That Arby's sign is long gone and can't be used for navigation.
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