All Aboard

The first time I had ever set foot on a train, I was not optimistic. As someone who easily gets car sick, air sick, and sea sick, I prefer the fastest route possible to all destinations. Although the train is not something I would normally choose, I was determined it would be a good experience. It was part of an extended family Christmas gift, headed to Chicago for a long weekend. The novelty was appealing and the romantic in me clung to visions of pastoral scenes awash in sunlight and exciting new encounters with interesting people.

We boarded in the early morning, lining up in the old grandeur of the Minneapolis station, our luggage obedient at our sides. Passengers were slow and quiet, still shaking off the night. We settled in and started off. Time stretched out before me, barren from the weight of after school activities or meetings or chores. This notion proved to be difficult for me to grasp right away, but I soon shifted into a white space as blank as paper.

The train was more jarring than I’d thought it would be, walking from car to car I was often tossed about, my legs as unsteady as a young child’s. The observation car had large windows curving up the ceiling with over sized comfortable chairs. Here, the landscape sprawled out in quiet prairies and small towns—and my favorite—the Mississippi River as it held enormous bruised clouds in its wide, still waters.

When dinner was being served, my children and I went to the eating area at our designated time. I found my son sitting next to a pleasant looking woman whom I did not know. I apologized to her for the confusion, that we did not mean to intrude on her meal. She smiled and explained this is how it’s often done with odd numbered people in the dining car. I laughed and happily joined as we made introductions.

My dining companion wore her hair in two caramel colored braids, sported bold framed glasses and hailed from Canada. She loved the train and used it often because she did not like to fly. We chatted with ease about kids and travels and our home countries. Later I learned she was on her way to an intense, several days conference for work. I inquired what she did, then immediately apologized for what would be my behavior for the rest of our conversation.

She was a writer. An international bestselling writer.

She was finishing up her third novel in her trilogy series. I had never had an opportunity to spend dedicated time with a writer of this caliber before, and I took advantage of this. We talked extensively, my children had long since eaten and left. It was a random and glorious discussion about the writing process, the different methods of publication and what inspires us to create over and over again—from nothing.

This happenstance with a stranger was magical in ways only being on a train could provide; the rhythmic sway of chugging along the tracks as the walls hug in close around you, the potential of meeting someone incredible you would not otherwise have, and watching the world fall away in long picturesque miles.

I’m not sure how often I will choose to take the train when travelling. I still easily get car sick, air sick and sea sick. But, I now understand the pull to take the train and just might do it a second time.

With a lot more optimism.

S.M. Freedman was very gracious to me. Not only did we have a conversation of a lifetime, she also showed me generosity once we were both back home. I connected with her on Facebook and bought her first book immediately. She then sent me two signed books of her trilogy of which I will always treasure as a memento of my first train trip, and a damn good read.

You can learn about her novels HERE.