TRAVELnM onday,nGonna Takena DysfunctionalnJourneynby Stephen PiovizernNews Item: AMTRAKnDerails North ofnNew York Cityn9; 30 A.M.—^Arose after annevening of drinking, soft-shellnJazz and mainstream crabs; oops—ndyslexia margarita. My sister’s cleaningnlady arrives with an armload of TitonPuente records and an Electrolux withoutna muffler; I decide to skip coffee andnhead right to the train station; lookingnforward to a leisurely trip back to Bostonnnestled in the upholstered arms of AM­nTRAK, one of the last civilized modesnof transport.n10:14 A.M.—The usual cheery ride onnthe subway—all ads about hemorrhoids,nAIDS, bad teeth, upset stomach, badnfeet, headaches, hair loss, and boils; allnfeature indistinguishable “before” andn”after” examples. I leave car itchy, tickridden,nwoozy, and stiff.nJ0:30 A.M.—Penn. Station frantic;nschedule board has my train—the 11:06nto Boston—“canceled.” The informationnlady addresses herself to “all travelersnto New England,” and I hear for thenfirst time the dreaded phrase—“Reroutingnpassengers by bus to New Rochelle.”nJ0;50 A.M.—The ticket seller asks ifnPve heard about the accident north ofnthe city. He himself is skeptical of then50/CHRONICLESncontingency plan and says—“Do younstill want the ticket?” A little voice innmy head says “Take the plane,” but andark vision of the mounting 18 percentnmonthly interest charge on my Visa cardncrushes it.nJ J :06 A.M.—Five hundred of us standnsheep-like on the street in front of thenstation, clutching our valuables to ournbosoms; the passing of the original departurentime is marked only by the lownhum of people in blue uniforms loiteringnabout, talking to each other onnwalkie-talkies.nJ J: J 5 A.M.—Two buses arrive and thenrule of law no longer pertains; all fivenhundred try to jam their luggage in andnclimb on board; drivers and blue-shirtsnwatch the process unfold dispassionately.n11:S5 A.M.—Increasingly decrepit busesncome and go in pairs, disgorging andnloading. I finally board and am happynto sit next to the lovely, jocular Emily.n12:15 P.M.—I’m beginning to questionnour driver’s decision to leave Manhattannvia Madison Avenue; he goesnfrom West 34th Street all the way to thennortheast tip of Manhattan; passengersnare growing restive.nJ 2:45 P.M.—At last, arrival at NewnRochelle. We pull into the station andnanother man in AMTRAK blue wavesnus out of the parking lot, around the cornernto—where?nJ:00 P.M.—A man sitting on a lawnnchair in front of his split-level homenlooks up from his newspaper and wondersnwhy a large, beat-up Carey bus,ndriven by a confused Latino, is careeningnwildly through his quiet suburbannneighborhood. Sabotage afoot, peutetre?nEveryone knows trains and busesnare the rat and terrier of the transportationnworld.nJ:JO P.M.—Driver swallows pride andnasks for directions at a gas station. Hecklingnfrom passengers growing bolder.nJ :20 P.M.—We finally arrive at a trainnstation; unfortunately, it’s not the AM­nTRAK station. It may be as close as we’llnever get, but I’m deterred from defectingnby ominous “Third Rail” signs.n1:25 P.M.—The use of amulets and incantationsnand the ritual dismembermentnof a Garfield doll were extremensteps to take, but they seemed to havenworked—we’ve found AMTRAK NewnRochelle. Upon exiting the bus, I catch anlook at the driver’s name tag—“RamonnDe Sade.”n1:28 P.M.—The long wait for our ar­nnnrival seems to have had an unnerving effectnupon those waiting on the train: anman runs down the aisle, pursued by anwoman who sprays him with soda whilenyelling “You bastard! That’s my seat! 1ntold you it was my seat!” Not the LovenTrain.nJ:30 P.M.—There are no seats, per se,nso we’ve settled in at a table in the diningncar. The space under the table isncompletely taken up by other people’snluggage, which means 1 can either havenmy legs battered in the aisle, or work onnmy Full Lotus position.n1:36 P.M.—The landscape seems to benmoving past my window—obviously annelaborate hoax or hallucination.n1:37 P.M.—Neither; we’re actuallynmoving. A fat conductor comes lurchingnup the aisle, demanding our ticketsnand berating us for making his train late.n”A healthy exception,” I think to myself,n”of the ‘fat and jolly’ syndrome.” Thenphrase “knuckle sandwich” drifts overnfrom a nearby table. This reminds menof my empty stomach, but there is nonfood in the dining car. They do offer usnsoft drinks—“because we care aboutnyou.”n3:J5 P.M.—We’ve come to “Old Saybrook”nstation. Too bad no one botherednto tell my pal Emily that she shouldnhave changed trains in New Haven if shenwas serious about getting to Wallingford.n7:00 P.M.—Eight hours after scheduledndeparture, five and a half after actualndeparture, we arrive at South Station,nBoston. Like other intrepidntravelers before me—Marco Polo, GusnGrissom, Gulliver—I bend to kiss thenconcrete of the loading platform andnvow to publish my journal entries so thatnothers may learn that AMTRAK’s corporatenoffice is in Washington, D. G.,nand that the name of its GEO is W.nGraham Glaytor, Jr. I’ve dropped him anfriendly line, and if you were on then11:06 to Boston with me, I hope you do,ntoo.nStephen Pwvizer writes fromnCambridge, Massachusetts.nW \ SI USCK lur.KSnC;IIR()M(;M’,SnloLI 1 Kl-I lnIIM.Knl-8()()-877–5459n