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Jewish World Review / July 14, 1998 / 19 Tamuz, 5758
Roger Simon
WASHINGTON -- Have I mentioned that I don't like trains? That they are slow and
bumpy and the seats are always broken and that the odors from their washrooms
qualify as weapons of mass destruction?
Some people love trains, however. They would not travel any other way. They look
upon themselves as people who want to enjoy the scenery, luxuriate in life and take the
time to smell the flowers.
I look upon them as people who are afraid to fly.
I prefer planes even though I know that, like bumblebees, nobody knows what holds
them up. Planes weigh about a zillion pounds, and even though they have large
engines, those engines weigh a half-zillion pounds, and there is no way planes should
be able to stay in the air.
In any case, the one time I take trains is when I go from Washington to New York
along Amtrak's famed Northeast Corridor, where Amtrak's famed Metroliners deliver
me to midtown Manhattan with all the luxury and speed that slow, bumpy,
broken-seated, smelly trains can provide.
But this is not the main reason I don't like trains. The main reason I don't like trains is
that people behave differently on trains than they do on planes.
People on planes recognize that each takeoff is a terrifying adventure, and most
(though not all) of them are on best behavior in order to get through the experience.
On trains, people act is if they are in rumpus rooms on wheels.
Take the Gabor family.
I got on the 9 a.m. Metroliner and immediately began my search for that most elusive
of objects on a train: A Seat That Is Not Broken.
(This is sometimes accompanied by A Footrest That Is Not Broken, but don't count on
it.)
I finally found one and was feeling very pleased with myself until the Gabor family burst
on board.
The Gabors were lugging 11 bags, two children and two strollers.
The strollers completed filled the aisles, making it impossible for anybody to pass. This
would not have been so bad if the Gabors could have arranged themselves in their
seats, but they could not.
I call them the Gabors because the matriarch looked like Zsa Zsa, and the four
daughters looked like younger versions of her: tall, blonde and loud.
There were a few men thrown in, husbands, I assume, but they had no speaking parts.
The immediate problem was that all the Gabors wanted window seats and also to sit
next to each other.
That this was impossible did not deter them in the least.
"Where is Toodles?" Mama Gabor kept shouting. "I want Toodles next to me!"
Toodles (I presume this was a nickname and Mama Gabor had not saddled the kid
with this actual moniker) was not budging, however.
"If I sit next to you, I can't sit next to the window!" Toodles kept shouting. She seemed
to take this as an excuse to stand in the aisle from Washington to New York.
Meanwhile, the kids began howling from their strollers, which by now had backed up
passengers in both directions.
A conductor struggled through the car up to the bottleneck and said innocently, "Uh,
those strollers have to go up on the luggage racks."
(A safety note here for all those who think trains are safer than planes: After a
terrifying train crash in Maryland, which resulted in considerable loss of life and injury,
some of which came from flying luggage, it was suggested that trains enclose their
luggage racks, just as airlines do, to keep the luggage from turning into deadly missiles
in event of crash or derailment. Has this been done? I've never seen an enclosed
luggage rack on any train I've ever taken.)
In any case, the Gabors found the conductor's suggestion hilarious.
"You can't put the strollers up!" one said. "There are babies in the strollers!"
Then, they laughed again.
By this time, most of the people waiting in the aisle had turned around and retreated to
other cars. I was trapped in my seat, surrounded by the Gabors.
The conductor mildly suggested to the Gabors that if the howling brats could be placed
in a seat, the strollers then could be folded up and placed in the luggage rack.
The Gabors had a bigger problem, however.
"I don't have a ticket," one of the daughter Gabors coolly announced, as she stood in
the aisle and examined her makeup in a mirror she had fetched from a suitcase-size
purse.
This was a Metroliner train where you are supposed to have a ticket before you get on
board. In fact, there are Amtrak personnel at the gate who aren't supposed to let you
on board without a ticket, but he or she was probably no match for the Gabors.
"What happened to your ticket?" the conductor asked politely.
"My husband has it," the Gabor daughter said, as if he should have known that.
The conductor looked at the silent, hangdog men around the Gabors.
"Which one is he?" the conductor asked.
"None of them!" the Gabor daughter said, and the whole family laughed uproariously
again. "I am not married to any of them!"
Why this was a preposterous notion, I do not know. The Gabor sons-in-law looked as
interchangeable as the Gabor daughters.
"My husband is going on the 1 o'clock," the Gabor daughter said, minutely examining an
eyebrow in the mirror. "He has my ticket. You can get it from him then."
If you tried this on an airline, they would boot you off. They would say, "This is your
problem, lady, not ours. If your husband has your ticket, then you go find him."
But on Amtrak, they are apparently desperate for every customer.
"Well, you could buy a ticket for this train," the conductor said. "And then, your husband
could cash in your ticket."
"I already have a ticket," the Gabor daughter said, talking to her mirror. "Why should I
buy another?" Then, she turned away to engage one of her sisters in a deep
conversation about, I assume, the relative merits of eyebrow pencils vs. tattooing.
The conductor did not know what to do. I wish I had waited around to find out what
solution he came up with, but the Gabor babies were howling so loudly by now that I
couldn't have heard anyway.
I climbed out onto the aisle and confronted the strollers, trying to plan my escape.
"Wait!" Mama Gabor yelled at me, and I instantly stopped.
I admit I was terrified. What did she want from me? My ticket? My services as a baby
sitter?
"Your window seat!" she said. "Toodles needs it! Toodles, grab it quick!"
I ran. Next time, I'm taking a plane. I don't care how much they
Close Amtrak --- PLEASE!
But, through the power of mass delusion, they do fly (and will stay up as long as
everybody on board buys into the delusion -- let one person say, "Hey, there's nothing
holding this thing up!" and watch out, you soon may be corkscrewing into a cornfield).
