Sunday, October 3. Broken Rail. Rolling Wildly Through The Cotton Fields. Disturbing Catfish. Grilled Cheese. Up at six-thirty, after an uninterrupted eight hours of sleep in the lower berth on the southbound City of New Orleans. The train was running just a few minutes behind as the sun came up over Memphis.
I oozed out of my compartment and past the attendant, who was moving bags around for those detraining in Memphis. We recognized each other last night, but neither of us knew why until I asked how long she'd been on the job. Over twenty years, she said. She's the senior attendant on the City of New Orleans. Well, that's how I know her. This is my forty-second trip on this train, and she must have been on at least a couple of those.
"Do you have coffee made?" I asked.
"Uh-huh!?" she replied, turning the second half into two syllables, insinuating that any other answer would be unthinkable. Not only did she have the coffee ready, but it was very good coffee--something I also noticed on the way up to Chicago. Amtrak is beginning to get it.
I grabbed a cup of it and set myself up to write backed-up journal while my mind is fresh. Breakfast could wait until we were past Memphis. Probably a bunch of Memphis people in the diner anyway, trying to catch the meal before they arrive. Eat Clubbers who were in the diner this early probably didn't sleep well. I didn't feel like listening to that this early.
Memphis is a long stop, with the teams of engineers and conductors turning over and the locomotive refueled. The smokers on the train get off and take a puff. One of our group and our sleeping car attendant did this at even the shortest stops.
And then we entered the bad part of the route. The scenery is nice enough. It passes through the Mississippi Delta country, whose vast fields of cotton look snow-covered this time of year. Later, we would pass among man-made ponds where the farm-raised catfish live. In between are small towns with old buildings that almost have a third-world aspect. This is Sunday, however, and lots of the people who live in these places were in their dress-up clothes to attend services, usually at a church no richer-looking than the other buildings along the track.
But I said it was the bad part of the route. What makes it that is the condition of the railroad bed. Some years ago the City of New Orleans moved from its historic, hilly route between Jackson and Memphis--through Canton, Grenada, and Batesville--to the old Yazoo and Mississippi Valley route. That's flatter and maybe even shorter. The freight trains have gone that way for a long time. But it's a rough ride for a passenger train, and you have to really hold on when moving around. Fortunately, we don't have to sleep through that either way.
After an hour of jerking around, the train came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. After a few minutes, the conductor came on to say that a broken rail was detected ahead. (Railroads have sophisticated systems that pick up on such problems.) They had to get a crew to the spot and perform surgery on the high iron. (They clamp it and then they weld it.) A northbound freight train ran across the spot first, before they'd send our flyer over the repair.
This process took well over an hour. A late train is doomed to become even later, as it misses meetings with other trains. But I like trains that run late. It gives me more time on the train. In this case, my writing speed went up as we sat there, the aim of my fingers not thrown off by all the swinging around on the Y&MV rails.
And I finally had breakfast. "Railroad" French toast--the one dish that has been in every train's diner on every train trip I've ever taken. Bacon. Juice. More coffee. (The coffee in the sleeper was better.)
A bunch of Eat Clubbers breakfasted around me. Fatigue had set in, and we weren't as jolly as we were on the way up. Traveling is less draining on trains less than by other means, but except for a few lucky people (I'm one of them) it still takes its toll.
We rolled through the catfish ponds into Jackson and better rails. And lunch. The grilled cheese sandwich from the kids' menu sounded better than anything else, and it was. (A double-decker!) I took a nap from Brookhaven to somewhere south of McComb. I called Mary Ann to let her know of the situation.
We passed in back of Middendorf's, in front of the restaurants on Peavine Road, across the Bonnet Carre spillway, past the school I went to, the empty lot I played in (still empty), and the house where we lived in 1960. I remember watching The City of New Orleans and the Panama Limited pass by, both in Illinois Central brown and orange. Good Lord! That was fifty years ago. The little kid's brain is still with me.
The train pulled in two hours late at five-thirty. All these people I'd been with for five days suddenly dispersed. And there was Mary Ann. Supper? she asked. I told her I'd heard the Charvets say something about Andrea's, where they are regular customers.
The Charvets didn't show up at Andrea's, but Andrea was there. He sent out a pizza. It was the worst pizza I've ever had there, with a crust that seemed to be made out of rough whole-grain flour, but wasn't. We had some bruschettas that were equally hard on the teeth. This was already more food than I needed, what with two meals already taken today. But here came the gnocchi with pesto I ordered--sort of. I wanted a small one, got a big one. The gnocchi were too firm, glutenous--like spaetzle not for the first time. Andrea has completely lost his touch on this potato pasta.
Mary Ann was much luckier. She was also hungrier. Grilled salmon on spinach with the intentionally undercooked herb sauce Andrea puts on fish, veal, and a few other things. She said it was absolutely delicious.
It was only eight o'clock, but I was falling asleep on my way home. Maybe I didn't sleep as well as I thought on the train. Or maybe it's the release of stress. Another group trip in the can. There are no more on the horizon, and I think I like it that way. I need a vacation during which I can just relax.
The Southbound City of New Orleans. Amtrak Train #59, Leaching Chicago 8 p.m., Arriving New Orleans :3:30 p.m. seven days.
Andrea's. Metairie: 3100 19th St. 504-834-8583.
