Trains

For whatever reason, trains have always held my attention.  It doesn't matter what kind of train, but for me there's a romance about them I just can't explain.

Our maternal grandfather had been the head of the trucking division of the Pennsylvania Railroad sometime during the last century, but I doubt that was it.  He was a gruff man, probably a teddy bear inside but with that hard exterior, and I never really knew him, since he died when I was about eight.  Our Mother didn't regale us with stories about his career, other than his putative involvement in the invention of the device that carries multiple cars on trains.  So I don't have a family history on which to fall back.  I just happen to like trains.

I've ridden trains to the East Coast and in Spain.  I would love to take a train ride through the Pacific Northwest and especially through the western portion of Canada.  Odd, but the Orient Express doesn't call to me at all.  Yes, I've read a few of Paul Theroux's books on train rides.  Once I got past his sardonic tone I was able to enjoy them for what they are.

Visually, trains entrance me.  I like nothing more than watching a train from a distance as it snakes its way through the terrain.  Watching a train from up above and either to the side or from behind is also quite nice.  The reason I want to take the trips I do is that I've seen plenty of footage of trains making their ways through the mountains and think that it would be an unforgettable experience.

In fact, when I lived in Spain I took two notable train rides within a week or so of each other.  The first was to Pamplona for the sanfermines, commonly known here as the Bull Runs.  We left Madrid and instead of taking a direct route, went circuitously through Palencia and then Burgos.  That only made the trip that much more memorable, because the train was of an older vintage, much like those I'd seen in old movies, and it was full of revelers getting ready for a week of debauchery and good times.  One specific memory is forever emblazoned in my head:  The train was rounding a bend through some hills and turning to the northeast.  I happened to be by the window which was opened since it was mid-summer and I poked my head out to see people's arms and heads dangling out of the windows in the cars before me, bottles being passed back and forth and the steady hum of singing and shouting barely audible over the noise of the train as it made its way to Pamplona.  It was evocative a scene as I've ever had on a train.

The other notable journey I had on a train was along the Picos de Europa to Arriondas, Spain.  The narrow gauge track wound through the countryside between the peaks to the south and the Bay of Biscay to the north.  Fortunately, it was a perfect summer day, the sun shining with a light breeze blowing.  I had virtually the entire car to myself and although as old as the one I'd taken from Madrid to Pamplona, it was in a better condition and maintained better.  It was almost the perfect train ride.  On one side I could watch the gentle surf of the Atlantic as it washed up on the northern littoral and on the other I could look up at the majestic mountains with snow-capped peaks.

Reading this one might think I had a miniature train set as a child.  I didn't.  I never even had a conductor's cap, although I did buy a pair of overalls that were striped like a conductor's hat would be.  Frankly, miniature train sets hold no interest for me.  I want to ride on the real thing and see the great country through which it passes.

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles