September 13 – Day 7: More Train Trouble Than a Heroine In a Melodrama
A few weeks ago, I was watching
Ken Burns’s documentary about Mark Twain. It’s in two parts, mainly dealing
with Sam Clemens’s life before and after The
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. As Part Two unrolled, the story came to the
part of his life when he lived in Hartford, CT, in a huge house that was built
to his specifications. As he made more and more bad business investments, he
became less and less able to afford the house, and it got to the point where he
had to rent out rooms and finally abandon it altogether. As with the Marx
Brothers and Houdini houses of yesterday, it was one of those places I’d always
wanted to visit, but had never taken the opportunity.
As I watched the show, though, I realized that Hartford isn’t that far from New York, and that I could probably make a day trip out of it. Hartford turns out to be farther than I thought, but after looking at the Amtrak schedules, I realized that, not only could I do it, I could throw in a little treat for myself.
The version of the trip that made the most sense for me was to leave Penn Station about 11:30, arrive in Hartford a little after 2:00, walk the mile or so from Hartford Union Station to the Twain house, and take a tour at 3:30. I originally had a 2:30 reservation but, having ridden Amtrak before, realized I’d better give myself some extra time in case the train was running late.
I decided to take the risk of eating a bagel and cream cheese on the run, and it paid off. It was a little messy, but kept enough of its structural integrity to make it worthwhile. I arrived at Penn Station at around 10:45 and was surprised to see that there wasn’t even a track listed for my train yet. I was not surprised to see that it was delayed; my 11:33 departure time had been pushed back to 11:36; no big deal. A few minutes later, and that was pushed back to 11:43. As it got later, trains that were scheduled to depart after mine came and went, and yet there was still no sign of my train.
At 11:42, I posted on Facebook that the train I was waiting for, which was supposed to leave in one minute, still didn’t have a track. After about ten seconds, the boarding announcement was made, and I got in line for the escalator down to the track.
(One thing I did discover is that I have a super-power: if I complain on my phone about Amtrak trains not arriving on time, they show up moments later. I need to keep this power in reserve.)
I got on the train and found myself, by coincidence, in a “Quiet Car;” that is to say, there are no phone calls or loud and/or prolonged conversations allowed. That suited me fine. What I discovered in the Quiet Car were two things that would haunt me the rest of the day. The first is that, while Amtrak cars are thoughtfully provided with two electrical outlets for every row of seats, those outlets are under the window, which gives the person in the window seat a decided advantage. It’d be very awkward for the person in the aisle seat to plug in something over the other person, especially if they’re a stranger. The second issue is that the conductors are extremely lax in cracking down on people who hog two seats. Time and time again in the three legs of my journey, I saw people (and was one of them) wandering up and down the aisle, trying to find a seat. In way too many cases, a person would take a window seat and put their luggage on the aisle seat, or stretch out, or just take up as much space as possible on an already-crowded train. On my first leg, the conductor made an announcement that said, in no uncertain terms, that there were seats at the tables in the club/dining car, but they were for four people, there was no seat saving, and passengers needed to make room for others.
Fortunately, there was actually plenty of room in the Quiet Car, so it wasn’t an issue. The trip proceeded relatively smoothly (we won’t talk about the bathrooms) until we got to New Haven (which, in retrospect, was destined to be the raspberry seed in my wisdom tooth). Now, here’s the thing about New Haven: it’s a college town, full of eggheads, many of whom carry their eggheadedness proudly and unashamedly, no matter how it affects others. In this case, what I assume was one of those eggheads got on the train in the Quiet Car speaking loudly on his cell phone about some ultra-important matter. One of the other things about New Haven Union Station is that it serves two different train lines; not just Amtrak, but also a local commuter line. While the egghead was making his call, the conductor made repeated announcements that Amtrak does not honor tickets from this other line, so any passengers who wanted to use them needed to get off—NOW. My chatty friend did not hear that and—unfortunately before we left the station—he gave his ticket to the conductor, who promptly informed him—repeating the message he’d talked loudly through—that they didn’t accept tickets from the other train. It took him a good fifteen seconds to process this complex information, then he ran off the train, angry at Amtrak for wasting his valuable time. (What saved him is that our train had to change its engine from electric to diesel. Why, I do not know—and it was especially odd, since the converse—changing from diesel to electric—did not apply on the return journey.)
We finally left New Haven behind and continued to Hartford without further incident. When we arrived, I found Hartford very odd. The state capital, and still the Insurance Capital of the World, it combines a small-town atmosphere (its population is only about 125,000) with giant skyscrapers and heavy rush-hour traffic. My plan was to walk the mile to and from the Twain House, so I set off. On the way, I passed piles of those damn Lime bikes, just waiting for some sucker to rent them. Most of them were gone on the return trip, so I guess Hartford has its own population of suckers.
The walk itself was uneventful, but the Twain House is not in the best part of town, which surprised me. The avenue there was full of nail salons, laundromats, not-so-convenient convenience stores, and a number of empty storefronts—including a barber shop and an old-fashioned chrome-sided diner. How can you not keep those businesses open?
It was almost as hot and humid there as it is here, so by the time I arrived at the House, I was pretty drenched. I walked up the hill past the house and proceeded into the visitor center, where I was able to cool off, get some water, and walk through an exhibit about Twain’s relationship with animals (short version: it was much more favorable than his relationship with humans). Since it was nearly 3:30, I went down to the desk, got my ticket, and joined the tour.
There were 16 of us, and our tour guide (a guy named Tony) tried to be funny, but his audience just wasn’t getting it. I liked him, but he didn’t go over as well as he might have with a sharper crowd. (It also might have helped if a bunch of them hadn’t been native German speakers or, like one guy, obsessed with the differences in the widths of the floor boards in the bedrooms and other rooms, or the woman who was determined to find out if Clemens had used the desk in the guest bedroom.)
No; no, he didn't.
Regardless, it’s an incredibly impressive house, but for all its size (11,000 square feet), it felt human scale. The rooms are beautifully re-created (with some of the original furniture pieces), despite its history of being sold to another family in the early 20th century, spending decades as a boys’ school, and nearly being demolished by a developer. The thing that most surprised me was Clemens’s office/writing room/billiards room on the top floor. In the photos and footage I’ve seen of it, it seemed spacious, but it was tiny. Big enough for a couple of desks, a billiards table, some chairs, and that’s about it. (I don’t envy the workmen who had to wrestle that billiards table up three flights of narrow stairs.)
Here’s the weird part. When we were in the dining room, Tony mentioned that, occasionally when it gets humid, the wood in the house expands and releases traces of cigar smoke from decades past. I don’t know how much truth is in that, but in that billiards room, I smelled cigar smoke. I was imaging the conversations that much have gone on in there, but I definitely detected some slight traces of cigar smoke (not cigarettes, not pipes; cigars). Maybe it was an overactive imagination, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
I'm just sayin'
The tour takes an hour (which flew by), and at the end, Tony had to rush back to the front desk and left us to take pictures. (Photos aren’t allowed in the interior.) As I lined up a shot, I realized there are really only two good angles to take photos, both on the east side of the house. The west and north sides are obscured by the terrain and trees, and the south side doesn’t provide a lot because of the carriage house and the visitor center.
The way you always see it.
There's a reason.
When I was done with my photos, I went back to the gift shop and looked around, but didn’t see much I wanted. I already have many of the books, and those I don’t (like the new editions of the autobiography) are too big. I settled on a paperback of The Gilded Age, a satirical novel he co-wrote tearing down the monied classes that were threatening to destroy American democracy with their rapaciousness. I just can’t see any parallels to today.
After that, it was back down the hill to the train station, where I walked through the same beaten-up neighborhood, didn’t see the Lime bikes, and avoided traffic. Once in the station, I had about an hour to kill, so I bought a muffin at the Dunkin’ Donuts, and eventually made my way up to the track, which wasn’t easy. The main building dates to 1889, was rebuilt after a fire in 1914, restored in 1987, and is pretty much unused today. It’s a huge lobby with no apparent connection to the tracks. (Wikipedia tells me that those tracks have become too weak to support the weight of a train, so north-and southbound trains have to use the same track.) I came back to where I’d been (which is also a bus station), and saw that the entrance to the actual tracks is in a different part of the room. I saw the sign that said my train was boarding, but I soon learned that’s a trick Amtrak likes to play on its passengers.
Move along; nothing to see here.
I came up to the platform, where a number of people were already waiting, and saw the message board there tell me that the train I was waiting for was either approaching, boarding, or departing, none of which was the case. A northbound train came and went, and eventually, our train arrived. I got on and was searching for another Quiet Car, but none was to be seen. I figured it might be up ahead, so I headed there and was stopped by the conductor, who asked me where I was going. I didn’t know if she meant right now or my ultimate destination, so I hesitated and said “New Haven,” which was apparently not the answer she was looking for. She indicated that the car ahead was closed (on an already-crowded train), so I wandered up and down the aisle until I finally found a seat. The problem was it was part of a four-person setup, with the benches facing each other and virtually no room between them. One set of seats was occupied by an older couple who made room while I squeezed into the other seats, sitting sideways because A) there was no room for all six of our legs, and B) I wanted to inconvenience them as little as possible. They ended up getting off two stops later, so it while it wasn’t a big deal, it was a pain.
When I was making my train reservation, I saw that I was going to have to change trains in New Haven regardless of when I went. I thought about the town and remembered that there’s a restaurant there called Louis’ Lunch, which claims to be where the hamburger sandwich was invented in 1895, and even uses the same cookers to make them. Ever since I heard about this place, I wanted to visit. I realized that, by taking the 6:00 train out of Hartford, I’d have an hour between trains in New Haven, and since the restaurant is less than a mile away, I could just make it there and back—especially if I took a cab—and there are always taxis at train stations, aren’t there?
It's about as big as this photo.
I got off the train and saw that my map app was showing it was only a 12-minute walk to the burger place, so I now had extra time, even if there were somehow no cabs. (This should have been my first warning.) It was pretty much a straight shot to the restaurant, so I went in, ordered, and waited. My plan was to eat there, then rush back to the train, but as it took longer and longer to cook my burger, the closer I was getting to train time. I hasten to add here that that lateness wasn’t due to incompetence; it’s because of the way they cook the burgers. They grind their own proprietary blend of meat into patties each day, then put them in a basket that holds four of them in place at a time in a cast-iron Victorian sort-of chimney heated by a gas flame. (There’s a sign behind the cookers that says the design and style are patented and copyrighted, so don’t even think about copying them.) They also get a special white bread from a local bakery that they run through a rotisserie toaster that browns one side of the bread. They slap it all together with cheese, tomato, and onion, and that’s that. It’s a simple operation: burgers; potato salad or chips; soda, Snapple, or water; and pie. Cash only.
Ocular proof.
My train was due to leave at 9:06, and even knowing I had a 12-minute walk back, I knew I needed to leave by 8:45 at the latest. It was getting too close, so I changed my order from eat-in to to-go. The guy behind the counter (the owner) nearly gave me another bag of chips and bottle of water, but I assured him he’d already done that. I left, but before going, couldn’t resist taking a bite. Damn, it was good!
I retraced my steps, got to the station, looked to see if my train was on time, and didn’t see it on the monitor. I checked my app and saw that New Haven has not just one, but two Union Stations, and the other one was a good 12-minute walk away. I cursed the fates and took off.
New Haven, for all its many charms, does not seem to want to include sidewalks or illumination among them. I kept having to cross back and forth over streets as poorly-lit pavement suddenly ended or began. After a few minutes, I saw the fringes of the station’s parking lot, but no way to get in (and no taxis—again!). I finally arrived at the parking garage, but there was no clear indication as to how to get over the tracks and onto the platform. Finally, I saw a sign pointing the way, either up a flight of stairs or an elevator to a higher level. I climbed four flights and still hadn’t seen a crossover, so I took the elevator the final two floors to the roof, saw nothing, looked down—and still saw nothing. I went back to the ground floor to ask someone how to get inside and saw that the sign had been poorly placed and was actually indicating that I needed to go down a hallway to a set of stairs going down. I went under the tracks, saw that my train was “boarding” on Track 1, went down yet another flight of stairs, hurried through a poorly-marked tunnel, and came up to a platform that was full of people but void of trains.
As in Hartford, the signboards were fraudulent because the train they indicated that was incoming, boarding, and departing had never appeared. Eventually, the board updated with the information that the train would be 15 minutes late, but those 15 minutes came and went like a politician’s promises.
The one good thing about the delay was that it gave me a chance to eat my food. All through my walk, the bottle of water I’d put in the paper bag was soaking the paper, but I didn’t think much of it, but almost literally at the moment I hit the platform, the bag broke and the contents did the same. In a miracle, nothing spilled out, so the food was undamaged. I found a flat surface to rest the paper plate on and tucked into my burger. They may not have invented it, but they’ve certainly perfected it. It’s just a beautiful blend of the right amounts of fat and meat, cooked to a perfect char that is complemented by the bread, cheese, and tomato (no onions for me). I’ve had better burgers, but not many, and not for many, many years. It was totally worth the angst the trip had caused me.
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