I plopped myself down at the train station in Syracuse, N.Y., after a long and awkward ride from Ithaca, and let out a deep, resounding sigh.
The smell was what got to me first. That stale travel smell. That smell of bedhead and dirty socks and germs everywhere.
That smell of the lavatory not far away, and the smog wafting in from the open door to the adjacent car. That smell of recycled air and microwaved pizza. It was freezing outside, and I knew that even though it was the beginning of my first college spring break, I would be spending the next week in temperatures equally as abysmal.
I didn't need Canc n, I told myself. I just wanted spring. Instead, I was in for another cold, smelly night on the Lake Shore Limited train from New York to Chicago, and it was the last place I wanted to be.
As I have said before, I began my travels on board America's railways several years ago, and after three of the worst days of my life, I vowed never to board a traveling coach again. But the low price of a ticket to Illinois, coupled with the dire lack of funds (and I do mean dire; I tend to wear dirty clothes multiple times because I can't afford laundry detergent), makes the overnight journey through the Northeast seem quite attractive indeed. Now, though, two months after this relapse of bad judgment, I have made the round-trip journey four times for various reasons.
And each trip came with its own horror stories to serve as unfriendly reminders why the Wright brothers were true American heroes. Once, after having to take the train to Chicago to serve as a court witness, my return journey was delayed an extra day. Due to my aforementioned poverty, I barely had enough food money to begin with, but I did manage to budget the rest of my pennies to survive an extra night.
So, after I got on the train (three hours late) the next night, then woke up the following morning to the harsh words "12-hour delay" blaring down from the PA, you can imagine my situation. Already famished, I faced a whole day of not eating and slow, futile anticipation of my arrival. When I finally arrived in Syracuse, I had absolutely no money, and because of the delays, I had missed the last shuttle back to Ithaca.
This meant I had to call the company crying and begging, telling them I would have to sleep and starve out in the blizzard with the rest of the vagabonds if they didn't help me which, at the cost of what dignity I had left, they reluctantly did. Fun weekend. On a separate trip back from Chicago, I arrived at the station late, which put me at the end of the boarding line, which means I took the last (and worst) seat.
It was at the front of the car, it had no windows, was under the harshest light and was positioned just right so that every time an old lady or antsy kid decided to pass into our car, I got a full-fledged sensory experience: I got to feel the icy draft of wind, I got to hear the screeching of the rails at full volume, I got to smell well, let's just say that was the most unpleasant sense of all. My several attempts to move to a different seat were foiled by a rude cabin attendant, and in the end, I had to fight just to get my bad seat back from a 10-year-old, who tried to pull the "finders keepers" card. So much for sleep.
Speaking of colorful cabin attendants, I once was once lucky enough to be paired with a street-smart woman named Jonisha (or something), who claimed to be "strong, black and not afraid to fight for her passengers." She had decided that our particular car was "the ghetto car" and that we all had to watch or backs and not "act a fool" in order to survive the trip. After all, as she felt compelled to share with us, people had been arrested and "shanked" under her watch.
She then told us to sit back, relax and enjoy the trip. On my most recent trip through the state of Illinois with Paulina, the two of us went to the cafe car for some snacks. Paulina paid for her chips, and as I handed the attendant the money for my cookie, I picked up a Chicago Tribune from a stack next to a chair.
Suddenly, the attendant asked me condescendingly, "How do you know that paper is free?" I stopped and apologized, "Oh, I'm sorry, how much do I owe you for it?" He responded, "Nothing, they're free.
But how did you know that?" I stared at the man for several seconds, confused. I felt the little New Yorker swelling up inside of me.
This man was not going to intimidate me. So for the next few minutes, he and I argued back and forth, he wanting to prove his little point (that I should have "asked" him before taking a free newspaper), and I wanting him to know that he didn't get to take out his control issues on me without a fight. Paulina sat there pleading with me to just let it go, and the altercation ended with me getting my newspaper and the angry man behind the counter getting an official complaint on his record.
As it turns out, complaining is something I've gotten really good at. Every time the train is late, I call the hot line, file a complaint with customer relations and walk away with a voucher for free travel (the primary reason I take the train as often as I do). I feel a little despicable, but then I look down at my dirty jeans and think about all the laundry detergent I can buy with $63.
That usually does the trick. After another long night on the Lake Shore Limited, I emerged from the underground labyrinth of Union Station in downtown Chicago and stepped into the 60-degree air. The sun was shining, the Sears Tower stood tall over the city skyline and I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Davis High School graduate Thomas Pardee is a freshman at Ithaca College in New York and a member of the Teens in the Newsroom journalism program. This is one in a series of occasional columns about his college experience.
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