I'm spending most of the day on the train. The train is called the 'Empire Builder', in honour of the man who put the northern railroads together into the entity which got it to the Pacific. James J Hills put together the first railroad company to build a transcontinental route without public subsidy. It was also the first such company not to go bankrupt in the process.
[The train name reminds me, apropos of nothing at all, that Chicago has honorary street names. For example, the bit if Jackson at the Symphony Center is called 'Bernard Haitink something' (it doesn't really matter whether it's street or avenue or boulevard, because nobody uses that bit anyway: Jackson is a 'boulevard' but over the freeway, the plaque says the 'Jackson Street bridge'). These 'honorary' street names are in brown and white, and sit on the street furniture just above the 'real' name. Isn't that a good idea? The good citizens of Acacia Avenue could happily honour Nelson Mandela (or Garibaldi, for that matter) without confusing their postman or friends.]
Chicago has cooled down a bit, but I'm still dressed too lightly. The train is too cold: consequently, so am I. I have to descend into the baggage compartment to raid my luggage for extra layers. I say 'descend' because the 'Empire Builder' is a double-decker train. There is plenty of space. The conductor is keen to give us all as much room as possible. 'Seniors' are allowed to board first, so I get an early place. Since we're all so spread out, there is little chance of meeting any of my fellow passengers. The young man behind me wants to use 'my' power outlet to charge his phone, but his charger won't go in the space.
The buffet car conductor announces that he's open for business, so I wander off in search of warmth. I walk through the 'Sightseer Lounge' and then along almost half the train looking for the buffet before it dawns on me that it must be downstairs. Having got back to the sightseer lounge and armed myself with a beer from downstairs, I go looking for company. The seats are arranged in half-circles facing out to large windows. I fall in with a bunch of ladies who have been down in Chicago for a hen weekend. They are very entertaining. As soon as I settle down to look at the scenery, the train pulls into Milwaukee, and stops in front of a large concrete wall: some scenery. It is categorised as a 'smoking' stop, so the scene stays like this for some time.
The Dining car conductor announces that she will be coming through the train accepting reservations for dinner. Actually, she calls it 'Dinner in the Diner', and I can' resist thinking, despite going nowhere near any Carolinas, that nothing could be finer.
Dinner introduces me to a lady of about my own age who tells me she's been 'down in Madison doing an 8K'. I deduce from her figure that this is some kind of race. I also meet a young couple heading for Spokane, WA. He works for the London buses: well, that's stretching it a bit: he works for First, who now own most of the yellow school buses in America. She is a Social Worker, looking after children in Milwaukee: she smokes, and has that haunted, trapped look of someone who desperately wants a cigarette (or perhaps it's just the look of someone who tries to care for abused children in Milwaukee). The conductor is sadistic, and likes to announce as we approach each stop "this is not a smoking stop". When we get to the next smoking stop, she is off like she's doing an 8K in Madison. She has her cigarette; we have her pudding.
As the sun begins to set, we cross the mighty Mississippi and turn right into Minnesota: even the natives are excited by the river. We follow it, roughly, into the gathering darkness, all the way to Minneapolis-Saint Paul, the 'Twin Cities'. Amtrak conductors stick your check-in ticket into the rack above your seat. They write a code for your destination on it, so you don't sleep past your stop. Mine says 'M/SP'.
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