Because I have a podium and an audience, it is my duty as a columnist to expose the evils of this world as they become apparent to me. (Besides, you know you're already bored in lecture, you over-zealous first-years!) Many of my fellow northerners -- because Northern Virginia counts as the North -- make the trek from Charlottesville to D.C. -- and often further -- by train. What I am about to relate in this column is a disclaimer to all those considering the train's reliability and ease: Heed my warning from this tale of woe and suffering!
It all began the day after my 21st birthday. I was feeling oddly spirited, mostly because I was alive and relatively unscathed, but also because I was still intoxicated from the night before. In response to my parents' urging, I decided to take the train home for the weekend. I had a lot on my agenda for a short trip: places to go, people to see, presents to receive.
I had never taken the train from Charlottesville to D.C. before, but I figured I could rest on the train and arrive in Alexandria in the early evening, refreshed and ready to go out for birthday night round two. As my best friend was in town, she and my mother planned to wait for me at the train station at my arrival time of 6:30.
As my ticket suggested, I arrived at the Charlottesville train station an hour before my train was scheduled to arrive. The kind elderly gentleman behind the ticket counter chuckled at my promptness and informed me that the train from D.C. was "always at least two hours late." Silly me.
Hours later, my fellow passengers and I boarded the train. I quietly watched "The Office" on my laptop and giggled at Pam and Jim's flirtatious hijinks for an hour or two before we passed the Springfield station. Three miles outside of Alexandria, the train eased to a halt and a sinking feeling rose in the pit of my stomach that was not associated with tequila in the slightest. It was a sense of foreboding that only precedes unjust prolonged entrapment. And we were trapped for six hours.
The only piece of information we received was that we were not allowed to evacuate the train because our location was inaccessible, and we weren't allowed to walk along the tracks because we would become a liability. Now, I have had plenty of practice walking back and forth over the train tracks behind the Corner, so I know it can be done with relative ease. I was willing to flirt with danger if it meant I could drink a martini on the Waterfront that much sooner.
For the first couple hours, I tried not to panic. Luckily, I was sitting in the midst of a group of old ladies who, rather than rioting and trampling other passengers, preferred to drape themselves in quilts and blankets and complain about the cool temperature of our common prison. I grumbled about missing my birthday to the sweet elderly woman next to me until she told me she had been on the train from California for days.
In retrospect, I feel an apology is due to my fellow passengers for my behavior during the several hours that followed. I loudly lamented (mostly by sobbing and cursing) to anyone in my phone book who would listen and threatened to harm myself and others if I was not let off of the train. I walked by the train doors -- once or twice open and unguarded -- but fear of the conductors with their pseudo-train power and train laws forced me back to my seat.
The liveliest part of our confinement occurred when a redneck family announced to the train that they were leaving and wouldn't be held captive. I wanted to raise my fist and shout "Hear, hear," but the other passengers looked on silently and disapprovingly, probably because it wasn't anyone else's birthday.
Eventually the police boarded the train, but lurked in the back and informed the passengers closest to them that the train would be moving shortly.
By this time -- and I mean 1 a.m., five hours after I was supposed to arrive at home -- not only my friends, but also my mother had given up hope. It had become a desperate situation, and I was sure I would be on the train not overnight, but indefinitely. But by some miracle, an hour later the train eased forward. Once we arrived in the Alexandria station, I pushed my way past an old lady who was gingerly eased off the train by several employees.
Moral of the story: Train travel is not the answer. It's probably faster to travel by horse and carriage, and definitely by car.
Mary's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at mbaroch@cavalierdaily.com.
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