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Diaryland

I Start Fires!

Lexiroth
Her Rainess
Lizsama
'Cedez
Moonie
Pipey
Timofsky
Motro
Squeeky
Lady Maverick
DM
Shoisies
Chokie

2002-10-16

Piggy's specs were nicked at: 10:29 p.m.

Featuring:

The half-assimilated American husband

Lots of cute Coke products

West Virginia's attempt to murder unwary travellers

Our story begins in Toronto's Union Station, wherin the train scene for the X-Men movie was filmed, as if anyone cares. David and I were about to start our two-day train trip down to North Carolina. One of my co-wokers, Pat, told me that my ass would be sorry by the time we were through. Damn it, why does Pat always have to be right.

Our original itinarary included a 12 hour trip to New York, a 9 hour stopover in said city, and then the rest of our lives on the train. The man at the ticket booth offered to shuffle things around a bit: Instead, we would have a 4 hour stopover in NYC and then another 4 hour stopover in Richmond Virginia. We could take the 2 am nighttrain in between. We accepted with many hooray's.

On the train was where we got, and off we went. The ride was pleasant and uneventful until we reached the border and the jolly American Customs Officiers.

David, whose identification is a weird hodgepodge of Canadian and American documents, wasn't the one who had the problem. I did. I had my health card (photo ID), my birth certificate, and my Social Insurance Number, but the three officers firing twenty questions at me at once didn't seem to buy it.

"Where's your return train ticket?"

"We're renting a van and driving back to Canada."

"Do you have a job?"

"Yes."

"Well, we're worried that you're going to stay in America and work illegally."

That's right. I was going to leave my family, my job, my schooling opportunities, and my democratic country with a decent economy so I could illegally job-hunt in the economic hotbed that is North Carolina. Bravo.

Finally, they let me off with "Just make sure you come back to Canada." I should've retorted with a soft "maybe" as they walked away. Just to mix things up a little.

The staff changed over after we hit the border. Mostly New Yorkers, judging by the accents. The conductor transformed from a gentle, shy Canadian boy to a shaved Andre the Giant. The concession stand operator positively frightened me at first, but she turned out to be really cool.

"Can I take this food back?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, am I allowed to take it back to my seat and eat it?"

"Hell yeah! Go right ahead baby. This ain't the plane. Naw, the train is cool."

And the train rolled on.

After 12 hours of my brain trying to gnaw its way out of my skull, we finally rolled into Penn Station and I was jubilant. All my life I've wanted to visit New York City. Now I had four hours to do so. Alas, we were to have our hearts broken.

There were no lockers to put our stuff in. Instead, we had a penis at an Amtrak customer service desk who wanted $4.50 American for every piece of luggage stored. Furthermore, he was closing at 12 am. It was 10 pm, and we'd be there until 2 am. We told the penis thanks but no thanks, and sulked in the "waiting area," which consisted of a few backbreaking chairs.

My passion for big cities burned especially hot that evening, and it was a cruel trick to be stuck in a little train station in the belly of the King of Cities. So against my better judgement I left David to watch our stuff, and I ventured to the surface world. All I could hear was honking.

How to describe New York City?

Well, suppose you take Toronto. Multiply the size of its downtown by 100. Add 500 to its traffic problems. Add 1000000 more to its activity at night, and take away 100% of the tolerance between the different races. That's New York City. I would've liked to explore more than three blocks, but my instincts kept screaming to get the hell out. It was a while before I listened to them; I don't think they could compete with the screams of "Fuck you nigger!" and, "Get the hell out of my way, Pakkie!" And the honking. The endless honking. I don't think I've ever seen so many taxis in my life.

I slipped back into Penn Station like a gopher. And that was New York City. I wonder what it was like before they "cleaned it up," like my dad claims they did. My general impressions can be summed up with the slogan I crafted for the city: "Welcome to New York, as if we gave a shit."

I still wouldn't mind a good visit, though.

Four hours crawled slowly, but we found ways to pass the time. Like staring at walls. I visited the washroom a few times and watched another woman get screamed at by the cleaning lady for accidently entering a barred-off area she was cleaning. Holy moly, I wish I was allowed to scream at customers like that. I don't know if I could, if I was allowed. It's not in my nature to do it, but it seems to be kosher in New York. Before my visit to the washroom restroom, I observed two Amtrak employees tell a girl she was an idiot for losing her ticket. Bizzaro.

I ran into a fellow train traveller, who apparently recognized me even if I didn't remember her. She was from London England. She a black woman, super-nice, and had a glorious accent. Really snappy dresser, too. I'm a big fan of denim.

I was exhausted, however, and my head was an incubator for a hot-poker of a headache. Against David's wishes, I cracked open one of the billion bottles of Tylenol with Codine that we were sneaking in for the in-laws. I guzzled down a Coke and was immediately reminded that America's Coke tastes much sweeter than Canada's. I don't think our Coke has "high fructose." It sounds poisonous. But hey, my head felt better.

Two am finally rolled its sorry ass around, and David and I trudged onto the platform. Oh, how my poor coach-class eyes shot daggers at the wankers fluffing up their pillows in the sleeping car.

Luckily, the train was pretty empty. David took one of the pairs of seats, and I took the one across from him. It was a small space, about 2 by 3 feet with no blankets or pillows. But it was a bed. I balled up my bulky Mickey Mouse sweater, jammed it under my head and completely passed out as soon as the train started rolling.

If you want to wake up screaming, turn to page 20. If you want to let your feet stick out in the aisle for people to trip over, turn to page 35. If you just want out, press the "back" button and return whenever Red decides to update while trying to make it look like she never ripped off Toastyfrog's White Guy Chronicles, which are considerably more interesting, even if they lack man-eating customs officers. Hi-yah!