TACOMA, WASH. -- It's been nearly two hours since the Amtrak train bound for Chicago stopped at the border crossing in Port Huron, Mich. The armed U.S. customs agents have left and I settle back in my coach seat to enjoy the sack lunch my wife, Moira, had packed for me back home in Toronto.
That's when the agricultural inspector comes aboard and asks whether I am carrying any fruit, vegetables or meat products.
"Well, I do have a salami sandwich that I was just about to eat." "Sorry," he says, holding out a plastic bag stuffed with other ill-fated sandwiches. "I'm sure you've heard about mad-cow disease."
"But I'm going to eat it, not sell it," I protest.
"Sorry," he replies.
Nine hours later, the train rolls into Chicago, ending the first leg of a rail trip that will eventually take me to the Pacific Northwest. Since I had plenty of time and a real hunger to visit parts of the United States I had never seen -- New Orleans, San Antonio, Tucson and the Great Southwest -- I was looking forward to the leisurely pace of the rails. And with the flexibility of a $700 off-season North American rail pass good for 30 days of travel anywhere on the Via or Amtrak rail lines, I wanted to see whether I could relive the carefree days of living out of a backpack, stopping anywhere I pleased to visit new places, see old friends and crash in cheap hostels.
The cab driver in Chicago is chagrined. He can't find the Hostelling International USA location where I had planned to spend my first night on the road. After all, finding a bed in The Loop for $30 (all amounts in U.S. dollars) a night is not to be passed up.
He leaves me in front of a residence at De Paul University. "They put up travelling students here," he says, and drives into the night.
I tell my sad story to a young receptionist, but she doesn't know where the hostel is and, no, there's no room available here tonight.
As I prepare to head back into the frigid Chicago night, the cab driver returns. He has found the hostel, a mere three blocks away.
He checked with the receptionist to make sure there was space available, and then come back for me.
He doesn't drop the flag and refuses a $5 tip -- a great ambassador for a great city.
The Chicago hostel, run by Hostels International, is a treasure: Clean dormitories filled with interesting people -- mainly twentysomethings except for another fiftysomething like me -- from around the world. For the next three days it would be my base as I enjoyed the sights -- Grant Park, the Water Tower and Art Institute of Chicago, to name a few -- in a city that knows how to live by a lake.
Three hours south of Chicago, it's time for dinner on the City of New Orleans, the train rhapsodized by Arlo Guthrie. Sharing my table tonight -- no one eats alone in a railway dining car -- are Lynn, a divorced mom and computer vendor on a business trip; Wayne, a retired Amtrak employee who rides for free every year; and Bob, a retiree from Minneapolis who is en route to a choral event in Baton Rouge.
The conversation is lively, and the food is far better than I had anticipated. Entrées include Delmonico steak and sautéed chicken breast, with well-prepared side dishes of vegetables and rice. Several types of wine are available; dessert is extra. Prices range from $8 to $16 (U.S.) -- and no charge for sleeping car passengers, whose ranks I had joined for the 24-hour trip to the Big Easy. (The two free meals I enjoy take the sting out of the extra $110 it cost to ensure a good night's sleep, money I never would have spent 40 years ago.)
The next day, I haul out my guitar and head for the lounge car where Bob and I spend a couple of hours running through a handful of jazz standards as the train rolls through the lush Mississippi Valley.
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