Amtrak Destination: Service Hell.... What to do for New Year's, that was the dilemma as with every passing of a year. Everyone has the same problem for which we all come up with different creative solutions. Sometimes that seed of creativity falls on the fertile soil of possibility and from it sprout memories that last a lifetime. There are other times that the same creative seed falls on the barren rock of hapless circumstance, allowing forth the gnarled branches of the unforgettable tree of regret. The following is an account of just such a time. I decided to take the train up the California coast; just a nice leisurely train ride through the mountains, doesn't that sound nice? Yeah, I thought so too! A startling realization hit me as soon as I walked into the travel agency: when Dorothy doused the wicked witch of the west she didn't die, she became a travel agent! I believed this after the first few minutes with my agent and knew it for a fact once my trip was underway. Across the desk from me sat possibly the oldest, rudest, and most disgruntled woman in the history of travel. My every question was stopped mid query with an abrupt one word reply, or ignored altogether as she pecked away at her computer. Finally I just shut up and waited for all this to be over. As the crone passed me the ticket to hell she pointed a knurled, yellow fingernail at the amount to be paid. She was smiling for the first time during our encounter. At least it looked like a smile; well, it bared its teeth nonetheless. I just figured it was due to the prospect of her commission. I would find out later that there was a much more sadistic motive behind those fangs. I flew into LAX with train ticket in hand only to find out I had to ride a bus, that's right, a BUS to Bakersfield to catch the train! The only thing I hate more than walking is bus travel, but I was committed, so I bit down and boarded my "coach." (I'm sure they call it a coach because the word bus usually makes people vomit!) Once I arrived at the train station, I was informed that my train would be 5, count 'em, 5 hours late! Candy bars, coffee, and cigarettes were the main staples of sustenance while I waited. But on the bright side, I became fairly proficient at computer backgammon. (Thank God for my laptop!) Finally at long last I boarded the train. But if I had known what awaited me I would have stayed at the train station. The cars were even filthier than the bus had been and smelled of socks and spoiled milk. And if that wasn't enough, the air was filled with the sound of crying children! I made it to my seat and fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of cackling crones and crying babes. On awakening I headed for the next chapter in Dante's Inferno, breakfast. I asked the conductor about our whereabouts on my way to the dining car. He had no idea of any aspect of the train's schedule, not where it had been, where it was going, or even where it was. That set the stage for my waiter who had no idea that service had anything to do with serving. There is much to be said for continuity. The dining car smelled distinctly of boiled cabbage. Not the smell of cabbage being cooked so much as cabbage that had been previously digested and didn't sit well. There are only so many seats in a car so dining alone was not an option. At first glance this might seem quaint, but we are, after all, relying on the fickle hand of fate to deal our dining cards. I was seated with a mother and son duo, the mother being none too pleased to be sharing breakfast with a tattooed yahoo. The kid, however, was pretty stoked although mom spent way too much time shushing him. He was pretty stoked right up until our food came, that is. The kid ordered blueberry pancakes; the waiter explained that they weren't exactly as described. All he could offer was regular pancakes with blueberry syrup. The kid reluctantly agreed but once the order actually arrived the wailing began. Instead of pancakes the waiter brought half-cooked French toast and blueberry jam. After one bite this kid let out a sound that made my teeth hurt! If that wasn't bad enough, the bacon, eggs and potatoes I ordered had transmuted into some sort of an open-faced omelet. I scarfed down the nine-dollar miscommunication and lit out of there like I had caught fire. Back at my seat I settled in to the sound of squeaking metal and crying children and succumbed once again to fitful nightmares. I was awaken by the sound of a particularly upset child and decided to escape back to the dining car. My lunch companion was John, a Korean salesman who continually insisted on being served Kim Chee, although the waiter had no idea what it was. He finally decided on a chicken pot pie but since he would only eat Korean food insisted on it being called a Korean pot pie. Judging from its appearance it should have been called a previously eaten pot pie. I had a cheeseburger, which turned out to be a dried lifeless chip of wood covered with a filmy sheet of orange and brown supposed-cheese substance. Two slimy brown leaves masquerading as lettuce accompanied it. I ate what I could of it, quietly cursing the crone that had orchestrated this malady. I was afforded two hidden blessings in the indigestion that ensued. One was that I lost the ability to eat for the remainder of the trip. The other was gas, the kind that permeated the air around me with the stench of brimstone so foul that Beelzebub himself would have been proud! This made my fellow travelers quietly take their crying children and move far, far away. Needless to say as soon as I reached my destination, I immediately caught a flight home. In closing if I ever decide to ride a train again nobody will notice because they will be to busy watching the monkeys fly out of my butt! All Rights Reserved © 2001 Go-Go Media, LLC