All Aboard the Empire Builder

My favorite place has no address. It greets you at the base of the escalator at 11:53 on a Saturday evening and can only be experienced in the liminal landscapes that stretch between its stations - first the city lights that bleed into farmland before hardening into wilder plains, and finally, the climb.

The journey starts before you step foot onto the platform, before you lift your suitcase over the escalator's first moving step or the conductor shouts, "All aboard!" If you're lucky enough, you arrive at Union Depot forty minutes early. The parking garage glows steadily, warm and bright in the quiet darkness, and you notice a buzz of anticipation inside of you, smiling back. You check the departure time on your ticket, gather your suitcase, triple lock your car, and set out to find the entrance to the building.

There are three sets of doors you pass, all locked. That note of anticipation ever so slightly tilts toward anxiety until you try the fourth door, which swings open on your first tug. The other late-night travelers smile with the same wave of relief, and together, you clamor into the building.

After checking in with the station agent, you take the escalator up to the waiting room floor, which greets you with the sound of loud rhythmic drumming and a warm voice singing in harmony to the merry notes of a flute. You're just in time to witness the final celebrations of a traditional Indian wedding. At first, it seems strange, a wedding reception in a train station, until you step foot in the waiting room.

Lining the outer wall beneath long arched windows is a row of chairs for waiting passengers, and only ten feet away stretches a wall of white curtains encircling the heart of the elegant sweeping hall. Between the cracks in the curtains, you catch glimpses of tables covered in royal blue cloth, the perfect complement to the golden chairs that match the color of the ceiling high above. The wedding party, all dressed in white, dance and clap in unison to the drummer's steady beat, while three men with microphones take turns, one after the other, passing around the lively melody without missing a note. The song rises and falls but never stops, only trails off minutes before your train arrives, as the newlyweds are crowned with flowers and danced out of the building into the warm night.

You sit in the quiet emptiness, stunned with awe, but just for a moment as the station agent arrives and strides to the doorway at the end of the hall. One by one, you stand with the other eager passengers, stretch your limbs and tuck your pillow beneath your arm. A line forms before the conductor even calls, "All aboard!" and just like that, you're through the doorway, moving down the escalator toward the platform below.

The Empire Builder greets you with a cloud of steam, along with the thick aroma of cigarette smoke and hot metal. You count the cars as you walk down the length of the train, brushing eyes with a few of your fellow passengers. An Amish family. A father and his teenage son. An older woman with bright red rainboots and a younger woman carrying a hiking backpack with a large book under her arm. Some are smoking, some are getting in a few more steps, like you probably ought to be doing, and some, like you, are searching each train car for the number that matches their ticket, eager to find a cozy window seat to nest in for the journey ahead. You wonder where they are going, what lives have led them to this moment, if they are visiting someone or going home or just taking the trip for fun. Perhaps you'll get some answers from a few of them in the hours ahead, but for now, you thank the train attendant at the entrance to your car as he lifts your suitcase over the high step and finally, you climb aboard.

Inside the car, the buzz of conversation and movement on the platform fade into a low hum you can't quite hear but feel, as if you're inside a great beast catching its breath. You lift your suitcase onto the luggage holder and follow the spiral of steps to the upper-level coach wrapped in midnight black. A glowing strip of blue-green light marks the aisle, and you follow it between two columns of seats dotted with sleeping passengers to an empty row.

Before climbing into the window seat, you tuck your yellow slip of paper inscribed with the letters LEA in fresh black sharpie, under the overhead board. Your destination, one of the last stops on this train, is a small but mighty town in the Cascade Mountains, known for its Bavarian style village and stunning peak views. In 32 hours, you'll open your eyes to sun-kissed evergreens, deboard at the primitive Icicle Station, devour fresh baked egg biscuits at Argonaut's while you acclimate to land legs again, and follow the river trail until you're hungry enough to slurp down a Yodelin broth bowl beneath the snow-topped peak.

Until then, the next 24 hours of your life belong entirely to this train.

The first six, you spend sleeping, awaking intermittently to the quiet stops and gentle rousings of passengers getting off. Each time you wake, you change positions, rolling from the footrest edge of the two seats to stretch diagonally from the window-side armrest to the aisle. And just as the morning sun begins to blush on your cheek, you awake in fetus position, wrapped in a cocoon of blanket, with your face, arms and knees tucked comfortably into the back of the seat.

You sit up slowly and peer out the window, pressing your cheek against the cool glass. Gone are the twinkling city lights from the night before, and in their place, a silky haze of white morning mist rises from the emerald fields, as if the earth itself is exhaling its toil into the vast golden-pink sky.

You loose a sigh yourself, savoring the way the clickety-clack of the wheels hypnotize the internal pressures and demands of living into a soft and impenetrable stillness. Just for today, there is truly nothing to do but exist, witness the changing landscape, and rest to your heart's content.

Well, perhaps there is one more thing to be done, your growling stomach reminds you. You reach for your phone to check the time just as the intercom sends a rustle through the slumbering car.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and a warm welcome to those who joined us late last night. On behalf of the Empire Builder crew, we want to say thank you for choosing Amtrak and we hope you enjoy your time aboard. It is now 6:30 am, which means the dining car is officially open for service, so come on down for some hot coffee and your choice of entree. We will be serving hot breakfast, first come first serve, until 9:30 am. Once again, the dining car is now open and will be serving breakfast until 9:3o. Wishing you happy travels and thank you again for choosing Amtrak."

With the click of the disconnected intercom, a few passengers begin to stir. Wanting to get ahead of the hungry crowd, you grab your journal, headphones, phone and wallet, and peel yourself from your cozy nest to the center walkway. It takes a minute to find your balance, and even then, you steady yourself against the rocking by gently touching the headrests of the seats as you pass. Long steady strides are best to avoid being knocked over, though luckily for your sleepy legs, the dining car is directly attached to your coach. You pass through the closet sized corridor between the two cars, momentarily washed in a deafening roar before the dining car door closes behind you, and all is soft and peaceful again.

"Good morning! Party of one?" The stewardess greets you with a welcoming smile and ushers you into the first booth. You scoot across the blue cushions and marvel at the simple elegance of the dining car, which is more window than it is wall. The growing sunlight stretches across the white-clothed table, spotlighting the thin silver vase that holds a sprig of baby breath and a single red rose. You order your coffee, pick your entree from the menu and sit back with your eyes closed, trying to savor the magic. You wish to commemorate this tender solitary romance, but just as you reach for your journal, the stewardess ushers another passenger into the seat across from you.

The unsettled look in his eyes mirror your own at the abrupt forced contact. He glances around at the other tables, all empty, and asks, "here? Are you sure?" to which the stewardess responds with a warm but firm nod. You exchange an awkward smile as he scoots into the booth and lifts the menu to his face, which serves as a fine temporary wall to hide behind as you both scramble for something friendly to say.

The coffee arrives as you exchange names and brief synopses. He's a professional violinist, returning home to Seattle after visiting his sister's family and like you, he enjoys reading. By the time you both finish eating - you, a cheesy veggie omelet and he, a plate of sugared French toast - your cheeks are warm and sore from smiling, and you depart with the promise to reconnect in the observation car later this afternoon to exchange books.

For now, you head back to your seat, grab your bag of toiletries, and descend the narrow staircase to the lower level of the train. Three of the lavatories are occupied, leaving only the mother's room in the back corner which, unlike the other tiny airplane style toilets, includes a dressing room the size of a large walk-in closet with two sinks, a full counter, a large wall sized mirror, and a lounging chair. The tender humanity of this quiet cozy space warms your heart, and out of respect for the mothers who might be in need of it, you quickly pull the supplies from your bag and set to work.

You floss and brush the taste of breakfast from your mouth, comb and tie back your hair, cleanse and rinse your face with cold water, and apply deodorant beneath a fresh set of clothes - all routine and necessary forms of self-care that become nothing short of luxurious when confined to a communal, air-conditioned vestibule. You emerge from the lavatory feeling positively reborn, and after a quick stop at your window seat to exchange hygiene for hobbies, you stride gingerly through two coach cars to the observation car at the back of the train.

The most revered car on the Empire Builder is surprisingly empty for 9:00 in the morning. Split into two distinct sections by a set of stairs leading to the cafe below, the front half closely resembles the layout of the dining car, with three booths lining the windows on either side of the aisle. One is occupied by the Amish family you saw the night before, laughing pleasantly and playing cards. You smile at their infectious warmth and make your way to the back, where you find two window-facing rows of chairs, empty save for the woman with red rainboots sipping coffee from a paper cup.

Taking a seat in the row opposite from her, you place your book, journal, and pouch of colored pencils on your lap, fit a set of headphones into your ears, and settle deeply into a world of your own.

For the next three hours, your sense of space and time vanish. You slip in and out of the pages of your novel, drink in the golden green fields giving way to wild grasslands, hold your breath in awe when you're lucky enough to spot a herd of elk in a patch of sagebrush, and pour snippets of prose into your journal, inspired by it all - the leathery skinned ranchers, the cars full of families waiting to cross the tracks, the vast expanse of sky and earth that strips away everything you carried onto this train, until all that is left is something wild, indefinable and raw. Only when the train attendant's tinny intercom voice rips through the barricade of your music, announcing the next stop, do you look around at the now bustling car and remember again who you are.

The stop in Williston is the longest. To shake the persistent sensation of swaying in your legs, you walk the length of the platform fifteen times before collapsing in a patch of trees behind the station. You stretch your arms and legs, engage in a few core exercises, and savor the crisp spring sun breathing fresh air across your skin before the urge to move freely pulls you to your feet again, and you start to run.

After the second lap, you notice a handful of passengers have followed your lead. You smile and laugh as you pass each other, sprinting circles round the brick building for the sheer joy of spaciousness and speed, and when the conductor calls his warning, you happily climb aboard with pleasantly smarting muscles and sink into the comfort of your seat.

You slip into a hazy, dream-rich sleep and wake a couple of hours later to the sun dipping its yellow belly over the western edge of the sky. On the seat next to you sits a book that wasn't there before, the corner of a paper napkin poking out from beneath its cover. You open the book and read the note scribbled in wiggly pen-ink

"I'm getting off at the next stop and do not wish to wake you. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I did. Until next time, - J"

You press the book against your chest, this gift of warmth and kindness from a stranger, and thumb through its pages, wondering how its previous owner might have evolved between its words. Hunger breaks the spell and again rouses you from your nest, so you half stumble your way back to the observation car - not an empty seat in sight now - down the set of stairs to the quiet cafe below. Behind the counter, a man with grey hair clipped short and clean lifts his framed steel-grey eyes from the newspaper in his hands and greets you with a gruff hello. You purchase a cup of coffee and a turkey-swiss wrap, then head back up the stairs to the bustling lounge.

You consider going back to the solitude of your nest, where you can slip into the pages of your new book, undisturbed, before bed. But the train is beginning its mountain ascent, the sun is setting the sky aflame, and the magic of these wild foothills is weaving its electric thread through the hearts of the observation car's occupants. Passengers are removing their headphones, closing their books and turning towards one another. You walk over to a table where a woman in her twenties sits, resting her chin on her palm. You ask to join her and slide into the booth.

For the second time today, you tell the short version of your unique tale, and in exchange, discover that the woman across from you is a foreign exchange student from Germany, traveling across America before returning home. Your lives are vastly different, but you share such sweet pockets of your heart, that even though you know you'll probably never see each other again, you feel as if you're in the company of an old friend.

It appears the table next to you has discovered the same treasure of comradery. Over tiny bottles of prosecco, three men and a woman, all white haired and wrinkled with living, reminisce over past travels, the sweet heartache of raising children, and the work of their calloused hands. Suddenly, the man closest to the window cries out eagerly, "Look! Look!" and just like that, all boundary lines disappear as passengers clamor over to his window, rubbing shoulders to catch a glimpse.

Down in the ravine, moving gracefully between the fir trees, is a pair of moose. Their antlers nearly glow against the backdrop of wild green - a symbol of the majesty flowing abundantly through this land - and for a moment, all is quiet in the observation car, as if everyone is holding their breath.

You steal yourself away, as if floating above it all - a speck of infinity, on the outside looking in. You are a pack of humans, strangers at the end of the railroad, huddled intimately shoulder to shoulder before an ancient power no one dares identify. Individuality and merit all but disappear. You are unified in silent reverence, humbled sweetly to the core. You're not sure how long you stand there, drinking in the emerald rivers and marveling wide-eyed at the untethered forces of ice, rock and pine, but eventually, the sun surrenders to its bed of darkness and all you can see in the window is the murky reflection of your own face.

One by one, you depart with a quiet nod that speaks more deeply than words could ever say - all of you, raw with change. You return to your nest of blankets by the window, and deliciously emptied, drift off into a cocoon of dreams.