That Time I Decided to Ride Amtrak.

Amtrak Lincoln Service / Ann Rutledge layover

It is 72 degrees in St. Louis today, and it is January. This, by itself, would be considered unusual, except that today, something even more unusual is happening:

I am traveling on Amtrak.

When I was a kid, living just outside Washington, D.C., I used to love traveling by train. I loved riding D.C.’s subway, the Metro. I knew every stop on the Red Line. I knew every transfer point. I used to love traveling down to D.C.’s Union Station, and on the rare occasion in which we got to hop on a train and head to New York, I was always terribly excited. Such an elegant, simple form of transportation, I thought; a big coal engine powering towards the big city.(1)

Still, when I got older, riding trains lost its luster. I remember when I was a kid, I saw an episode of “Reading Rainbow.” LeVar Burton rode along the American Southwest by train, sleeping in a private sleeping car, the cities rolling by as he dreamt.(2) No billboards, no roadside chains. Just a railroad cutting a wide swatch through open countryside.

When I went to school out in Missouri, I told my friends that I wanted to go home for winter break once by Amtrak. Just a short train from St. Louis to Chicago, then an overnight home to D.C. My friends looked at me like I was suggesting Spring Break: Darfur.

Looking back, I’m not all that suprised by their reaction. I’d like to think my friends feel the way most Americans feel about Amtrak: As though it’s slightly less desirable than traveling via oxen-led wagon. Travel to Europe, and the trains there are new, fast, clean. Barcelona to Madrid in 2.5 hours! Wide seats! Quiet cars!

By comparison, Amtrak feels like riding in a Yugo. Right now, I am sitting in an Amtrak car, traveling north to Chicago. To travel the distance via Megabus — the low-fare coach famous for $1 seats — would’ve cost me $66 each way. On Amtrak? $28.80.

Megabus comes with 120 volt electrical ports at every seat, and WiFi throughout.

This Amtrak train, by comparison, lacks air conditioning. It’s 72 degrees outside, and pushing 80 inside the car.

I am sweating and sweating, and I have already stripped off two layers of outerwear, and I am starting to understand why Americans look at the Amtrak experience the way it very well may be intended:

As a form of punishment.


Lake Shore Limited

Flying kind of feels like that too, these days. It didn’t use to. I remember this airline that used to fly out of D.C.’s National Airport, called Business Express. They served me biscotti cookies, and it’s likely that no one in recorded human history has reacted to biscotti cookies with quite as much excitement as I did that day. Flights meant meals, and airplane wings to pin to your coat, and sometimes even in-flight movies. I reminded my mom the other day of the flight we took out to Salt Lake City when I was in first grade. I told her that they showed “Mrs. Doubtfire” on the flight.

She wanted to know how I could remember such a thing, but really, how could I ever forget?

I was 6.

They showed a funny movie on an airplane.

At that point in my life, it was probably the single funniest movie I’d ever seen.

I was in the sky, watching a funny movie.

How could I ever forget that?


I’m actually not moving from this very Amtrak car, even as the temperatures rise. The motor for the A/C whirs and whirs, but nothing cool seems to blow out of the vents. The car up ahead is cooler, maybe even in the 70s. But it’s also packed with teenagers, and loud. My car, for all the heat, is at least quiet. People keep standing up from my car and moving elsewhere. The car keeps getting less and less crowded. And somehow, the thought of five hours in a quiet sauna seems to beat five hours of noisy chill.


Amtrak Hilltopper (1978)

We stop in Alton, Illinois. There is a sign on the platform, white text on blue background, that says so. It is about the size of a piece of loose leaf paper.(3)

This is somewhere, I guess.


There are a lot of kids on this train, and I think I’m starting to understand why parents — especially the single parents who seem abundant on this train — would prefer Amtrak to other forms of transport: It’s easy to be a kid on a train. There’s lots of space to move, and there’s no real understanding among the passengers about how to behave on these things. The couple behind me is gossiping and eating Triscuits. In the car behind me, a group of teenage girls moves in pack, squealing each time the train takes a bump and throws them off their stride. Two girls in black, kind of in goth dress but without any of the hallmark makeup, appear to be power walking up and down the train, though I’d expect to see a pedometer or two soon if they’re to keep up this pace. The kids, meanwhile, almost skip-walk through the train, alternately noisy and silent.

We’re traveling through strange, unidentifiable land, and as long as people keep their hands and feet inside the vehicle, nobody seems to even notice — or at least, mind — what anyone else is up to.


I suppose I’m building to a point here, which is that travel has this strange, wondrous quality when you’re a child. It’s magic, really: The Journey! To unknown lands! The airplane stewardness hands you a pair of pin-on wings, and suddenly you feel like an explorer of the skies, venturing into the unknown. Or you’re on the road, and the miles roll by in your mom’s stationwagon. You’re playing the license plate game, and every state feels like a new discovery. It is new, and it is strange, and it is wonderful, so much so that you hardly even notice how uncomfortable travel is.

Or maybe uncomfortable is the wrong word. Unremarkable is more like it. The thrill of travel wears off. It becomes common, and then dull, and then a nuisance. This trip to Chicago? Five hours, and even though I don’t have to do anything other than sit here, it’s almost annoyingly plain. A big part of these trips — or layover-induced waiting, for that matter — is just finding a way to endure the boredom.

Maybe that’s why adults hardly ever seem to get excited about travel. I can remember only one exception: In seventh grade, my family flew to London, and we did so in British Airways’ business class. When we landed at Heathrow, my father and I were the last ones to disembark. Neither of us wanted to leave the plane. We’d never before been treated with such hospitality.


Amtrak's "The Capitol Limited"

I start looking for that old travel magic, and I find it in the seat pocket. Well, the lack of things in the seat pocket, at least. There’s no magazine on this train. Nothing but a safety guide. On airplanes, I love flipping open the in-pocket magazine to the back pages, and tracing my fingers over the route map. There’s no such map here, and no signage as to where we’re actually traveling. This train makes stops, but I don’t know where. I am somewhere in Illinois, and I am traveling at moderate speed in the general direction of Chicago. I have no real idea where I am. I do not know the route. Aside from a passing Wal-Mart, nothing much seems familiar.

I am headed towards Chicago, and I am confident that I will get there, though I do not exactly know how.


We make a stop in Carlinville. The station is about the size of a Chevrolet Suburban. Maybe smaller. It’s not clear how the conductor even knows to stop there. I imagine some days, the train passes right on through Carlinville, only to realize at the next stop that they’ve left passengers behind.


The air conditioning comes on. Well, maybe not A/C. But air that could definitely be described as “not hot.” This, as far as I am concerned, is major progress.

I’m upgrading my Amtrak experience from “travel-themed punishment” to “not entirely uncomfortable.”

I’m also beginning to notice — and I’m not sure if it was like this the whole time, or it’s just because the sun is down at about 10 o’clock on the horizon, and the light is just so — but the windows seem shaded in such a way that the world outside has this sepia glow. I feel like I’m traveling through a moving Instapaper portrait of America, and it’s actually rather soothing.

I’ve decided to re-upgrade my Amtrak experience to “not all that bad, now that I think about it.”

And other things, too: The seats are decently wide, and the leg room is considerably more generous than coach seats on planes. Parking at St. Louis was easy — even securely gated — and I didn’t have to put my bag through an x-ray machine or take my shoes off before getting on the train.

I decide to hold my Amtrak experience at “not all that bad, now that I think about it.” For now, at least.


Amtrak 353

We coast into Springfield. That seems like the right verb here. Speeds into Springfield is certainly not right. It doesn’t seem like the conductor is trying to stop the train, either. Mostly, it seems like he’s taken his foot off the pedal, and we’re just hoping to lose inertia by the time the platform arrives.

We coast into Springfield.

On the left is a big domed building, that concrete-gray that all the government buildings back home have, and then a darker gray dome on top. I am not sure if it is gray, or cobalt, or maybe a charcoal offshoot of gray. I don’t know much about colors, but I do know enough about domes to guess that it’s the Capital building for this state. It is probably the last thing I will see before it gets dark.

And it is getting seriously dark now. The not-hot air continues to blow above me, and Chicago is up ahead, though I am not sure where. I am confident I will get there, but I do not now how.

The train starts to fill up. I’ve got an empty seat beside me for now, but I probably won’t by the next stop. There are four or five cars on this train, 19 rows in each car, four seats in each row. The ticket-taker tells me that by Chicago, they’ll all be full.

Who knew that this many people still traveled by train?

We coast into Springfield, and then we roll onward to Chicago, into the dark.

  1. Of course, I didn’t grow up in the 1820s, but I was riding in coach. You can’t really see much from way back there. Also: When you’re a kid, you believe what you want to believe. So… yeah. Coal engine it was.
  2. I just Googled “LeVar Burton Amtrak” and the VERY episode I was thinking of is available for streaming, in full. Internet, you amaze me sometimes.
  3. The sign, that is, not Alton, though it’s possible the latter is true as well.

What Happens When You Call Three Airline 1-800 Numbers in One Night… And Then Zappos.

Travel Sponsor: Zappos

So this is the story of how I called three airline customer care numbers in one night — and then Zappos.

And then I understood.

Now, I don’t recommend calling multiple airline customer care hotlines within the span of an hour. They’ll make you mad. At the first airline, it took me 15 minutes to get on the line with someone — and that’s only after pressing every button on my phone five times just to figure out the secret code to get to an actual human. At the second, the customer care rep actually snarled at me over the phone. By the third call, I was numb.

Airlines have gotten pretty good at replicating the in-flight experience over the phone, it seems.

Then I called Zappos. And this is where all the happy-smiling-elves, over-the-rainbow stuff that I’d been hearing about Zappos comes into play.

Last month, I decided to buy two pairs of boots on their site. I found the ones I wanted. Clicked buy. Got the confirmation email that they’d been sent. And for three days, I checked each morning to see when my shoes would be arriving.

I was weirdly excited for these shoes. I’ve never owned a pair of decent boots before. The thought of looking all professional was… kinda cool, actually.

Anyway, it’s Thursday, and I check the UPS site. The package had been delivered, it said. I walked home, walked to my mailbox… and nothing.

I went to my apartment. Nothing sitting on my door.

I took a loop around the apartment building. Then outside.


I call the landlord. Anyplace else I should be checking?


So I call Zappos. And they tell me: Yeah, it’s not all that uncommon that around Christmas that people steal packages. But that’s alright. UPS insures everything we send. When we get your shoes back in stock, we’ll just send you a new pair.


Two weeks pass, and I check the Zappos website. One pair of my shoes is in stock. I give Zappos a call.

Just as before, a human picks up quickly. She’s cheery, pleasant. Even makes small talk about state abbreviations.(1) I tell her about my issue. She looks through it, tells me not to worry about the stolen shoes. Tells me she’s happy to refund the money for the pair of boots that isn’t in stock, and she’ll send me the other boots right away.

And, just for being patient with us: We’re upgrading you to VIP status, so you can get way faster shipping.


I get the confirmation email from Zappos this morning. The boots will be here this very afternoon.

Really sweet!

And this time — I’m not taking any chances. I’m having them shipped to work.

  1. “MO! I’d never heard someone pronounce your state’s abbreviation as a word before!”

Buy Into Your Own Demise, or Make Things More Awesome. (Your Choice.)

Best Buy

Forbes ran a story on their website this week about Best Buy. The lead paragraph read:

“Electronics retailer Best Buy is headed for the exits. I can’t say when exactly, but my guess is that it’s only a matter of time, maybe a few more years.”

Then it went on to detail numerous problems with Best Buy’s supply chain.

Now, I have a friend who’s about to start a new job this year with Best Buy. She’ll be working with their supply chain. So I sent her the link.

Naturally, she was bummed. She started saying that, well, at least she’d get a nice line on her résumé out of the job. At least she wasn’t really planning on staying there all that long.

And that crushed me. Because it wasn’t too long ago that I was reading headlines like this about my own industry:

“Sometime soon, millions of people may find themselves unwittingly involved in a test that could profoundly change their daily routines, local economies and civic lives.

“They’ll have to figure out how to keep up with City Hall, their neighborhoods and their kids’ schools — as well as store openings, new products and sales — without a 170-year-old staple of daily life: a local newspaper.”

Newspapers and big-box stores: we’re not all that different. So I sent my soon-to-be-working-at-Best-Buy friend back an email. It read:

Hey, I work in journalism. My senior year, I every morning, I went to a site called Paper Cuts to see which newspapers were slashing newsroom jobs that day. I say this all the time: Journalism companies are in love with their own demise. Back then, I was too.

And looking back, I’m horrified. Why glorify your own downfall? We journalists have infinite tools at our disposal. Why not spend more time focusing on making journalism more awesome?

Anyway, I suppose that’s the challenge before you: Either buy into Best Buy’s slow demise, or get working at making everything you touch more awesome.

Time to get into the latter category. I hope my friend at Best Buy will. I hope my friends in journalism will, too.

Things That Comfort Me When Every Fucking Thing Goes Wrong: Heartbroken Iowa Fans.

Smith & Nephew Journey Deuce Bi-compartmental unit) 3 of 3 Michael L. Baird's right knee as shown in x-ray 11 June 2008

Things tend to go wrong. This is a series of blog posts about the things I think about during those moments when the wrong things happen.

Two years ago, I was pretty sure I’d just torn something in my knee. I’d gotten these new running shoes that were supposed to encourage me to run on the balls of my feet. They were supposed to change my running motion and turn me into some sort of super-runner. I was going to run like I’d spent my youth in the sub-Sahara.

Except that I didn’t follow the instructions quite right. I was told to start slow. Run a half-mile at first. Then a mile. Then maybe 1.5, and keep at that pace for a few days. Add up the milage slowly.

But I got impatient. I only run two or three times a week, max, and it felt stupid to run for four minutes and then stop. And then come back the next day, run seven minutes, and stop.

So I did the mile run. Then the two. Then the next day, I ran like Jenny was yelling at me. Four, maybe five miles. I felt great.

The next day, I woke up, and I couldn’t move. I was a 22-year-old with a geriatric’s knees.

I went to yoga and talked to my teacher. She tried some stuff. I iced the knee. I heated the knee. I stretched the knee.

For four months.

It got a little better.

I’d long since put away the special shoes, so I’m not sure what made me do it. Maybe I was cocky. Maybe I was dumb.

But I decided to try out the shoes again. I liked them. Or, rather — I wanted to like them. I thought I was supposed to like them.

I went for a short run, maybe two miles. This was in June 2010. I felt alright.

I woke up in the morning, and my knee was worse than ever. And this time, no amount of ice, no amount of yoga could make it better.

I had to get it fixed immediately. I had just made a big decision: I was going to give this news syndicate, Stry, a chance. I was leaving for Biloxi, Miss., in two weeks. I was leaving my job, my paycheck — and my health care situation wasn’t exactly figured out.

I found the doctors in San Antonio who worked on the Spurs. If anybody could figure out my knees, it was going to be these guys.

They tested it out. The doc put some pressure on my knee. My eyes went screwy.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” the doc said. “Probably a torn meniscus. Maybe an ACL. We’ll take an MRI.”

They did. I went home and tried to cry, but I was too busy worrying to even make that happen. I had torn up my knee, and I was moving away from my job, and a paycheck, and health care. I was going to Biloxi for three months, and I wasn’t sure I could walk.

The MRI took a few days to process. I worried constantly. What if it was a torn ACL? What if they had to operate? What if I had to walk around Biloxi on crutches? How the hell was I going to interview people on crutches?

I worried myself into that state where I could hardly move, save for going to work and ordering breakfast tacos through a drive-thru window. I waited for the call. I feared the call.

Then the call came, and it turned out I had massive swelling in the knee. No damage. No tear. Put it on ice, and it’ll be fine, son.

So, onto the happy thought for the moment: There’s this video I edited freshman year. It was the first weekend of the NCAA Tournament. My friend, Tyler, was shooting some video for a journalism class. He’d gone down to a local bar to get footage of fans watching the early games. The bar was full of Iowa fans, and that day, Iowa — the no. 3 seed — lost to Northwestern State on a buzzer beater.

And Tyler got the most amazing footage of a group of middle-aged white guys, their Hawkeye hearts absolutely breaking in real time.

I like to watch that clip, sometimes, and think about how easy it is to get caught up in the unimportant things. I think about how easy it is to take a tiny thing and magnify it beyond any sort of reasonable scale. I think about how I get mad over things I can’t control.

I did it with my knee, and I’ve done it since. But something about seeing what I actually look like in those lousy moments — and the guys in that YouTube video look exactly like I look when every fucking thing goes wrong — typically reminds me of how I need to get a grip and get over it.

Here’s to you, Hawkeye fans, for helping me get there.