Friday, March 19, 2010
Training Day
I took the Amtrak from Chicago to Quincy last night, something I like to do once a year or so to remind myself of why destroying the Earth with a cross-state Corolla trip is really the lesser of two evils. Really, I am amazed by how irritated it is possible to become in the scope of a mere four and a half hours. I guess part of it is that they start early, because the dining car opens the minute the train leaves the station, which leads to mass hysteria in the aisles as people tromp there and back with their nachos and soft pretzels and cheese sticks in hand. Apparently, luxuriating in the goodness of partially-defrosted chicken strips is an essential part of the travel experience for much of central Illinois.
Of course, there's also the stale wit of fellow passengers to enjoy. Now I had prepared for this by completely covering the empty seat next to me with my belongings and putting in my headphones, but unfortunately I had only loaded enough music to last me a couple of hours, so I ended up unable to accomplish a full drown-out. So I got to enjoy stirring dialogue like "Jessica, stop hitting him" and "I'm on the train, bro. No, I'm on the train. The train." The highlight, though, had to be when the lady sitting behind me breathlessly narrated Us Weekly's coverage of the Oscars for her seatmate:
Do you like Sarah Jessica Parker's dress? Because I liked it. I know they really gave her a hard time for it, but I really liked it. They said it was ill fitting, but I didn't think it was ill fitting. What about Sandra Bullock? I really like her. Did you hear about her husband? I can't believe that. Why would you do that to Sandra Bullock? At least she looked pretty. I really like her lipstick. I want to get some lipstick like that. Should we see that war movie? That Iraq War movie? They said it was good and all but Cheryl said she didn't like it. I don't want to go if I'm going to be all bored by it.
And it went on like that. And I suddenly understood why Anna Karenina threw herself under the train.
I took the Amtrak from Chicago to Quincy last night, something I like to do once a year or so to remind myself of why destroying the Earth with a cross-state Corolla trip is really the lesser of two evils. Really, I am amazed by how irritated it is possible to become in the scope of a mere four and a half hours. I guess part of it is that they start early, because the dining car opens the minute the train leaves the station, which leads to mass hysteria in the aisles as people tromp there and back with their nachos and soft pretzels and cheese sticks in hand. Apparently, luxuriating in the goodness of partially-defrosted chicken strips is an essential part of the travel experience for much of central Illinois.
Of course, there's also the stale wit of fellow passengers to enjoy. Now I had prepared for this by completely covering the empty seat next to me with my belongings and putting in my headphones, but unfortunately I had only loaded enough music to last me a couple of hours, so I ended up unable to accomplish a full drown-out. So I got to enjoy stirring dialogue like "Jessica, stop hitting him" and "I'm on the train, bro. No, I'm on the train. The train." The highlight, though, had to be when the lady sitting behind me breathlessly narrated Us Weekly's coverage of the Oscars for her seatmate:
Do you like Sarah Jessica Parker's dress? Because I liked it. I know they really gave her a hard time for it, but I really liked it. They said it was ill fitting, but I didn't think it was ill fitting. What about Sandra Bullock? I really like her. Did you hear about her husband? I can't believe that. Why would you do that to Sandra Bullock? At least she looked pretty. I really like her lipstick. I want to get some lipstick like that. Should we see that war movie? That Iraq War movie? They said it was good and all but Cheryl said she didn't like it. I don't want to go if I'm going to be all bored by it.
And it went on like that. And I suddenly understood why Anna Karenina threw herself under the train.
