Have you ever ridden the rails?

I am not talking about urban/suburban commuter mass transit rail travel such as Chicago’s “L” or the Metra, the South Shore Line from South Bend to Chicago, or even the Acela Express running from Boston to Washington, D.C. These train routes are operated principally for herding large amounts of folks towards somewhere in the morning and back home again at night. I have done this, and there is no glamour, historical significance, or anything cool to say about riding the commuter rails.

I am, also, not talking about the Dust-Bowl and Depression-Era hobo travel, via unattended box-cars. Although there is some historical significance to riding the rails in this fashion, it is far from glamorous. However, I did hop a freight train once, back in the early 70s (just so I could, someday, write that I had done it) — so that was kinda cool.

I am not talking about a murder-mystery dinner train ride out of Charlotte, Michigan that travels an hour one way, reverses direction, and returns back from whence it came. I, also, have taken this ride because I thought it might be somewhat glamorous, could have some historical significance and definitely sounded like a cool thing to check out — and it was. However, that is not what I am talking about.

I am talking about a train ride that offers a glimpse back to a time when rail travel was the preeminent mode of long-distance travel. Folks could get to almost anywhere in the country, either by bouncing along in a coach car with 30 (or more) other travelers, or by combining speed and luxury in well-appointed wooden boxes, rolling along on thousands of miles of steel rails spaced 56 feet and one-half inches apart. I am talking about a time when travel included porters and conductors to help make your ride more comfortable. When Pullman sleeper cars offered respite from the rhythmic rocking of the train as it lulled you to sleep. When travel was enhanced by dining cars offering chef prepared meals and linen tablecloths, club cars offered drinks and cigars, and folks had the ability to get up and walk around while simultaneously traveling forward at unmatched speeds.

This week, as you are reading this essay, I will be experiencing (almost) that style and era of transportation. My very good friend, Esquire (long story about his nickname — but I will have plenty of time to tell you about it, later) and I will be riding the city of New Orleans, made famous in song by Arlo Guthrie (“Riding on the city of New Orleans, Illinois Central, Monday morning rail. Fifteen cars and 15 restless riders. Three conductors and 25 sacks of mail”). We will be traveling from Chicago to New Orleans, with a planned layover of several days in Memphis — all of it beginning and ending at the glamorous, historically significant, and really cool station, here at the center of the universe.

This is not a trip to Memphis or a voyage to New Orleans. This is a connection to history and an almost lost form and style of travel. For me, it is a sojourn more than 30 years in the making. I am eager to share the experience of riding the rails, the associated carousing along the many blues bars on Beale Street in Memphis, and the immersion into the depths of history contained within the French Quarter of New Orleans (probably going to get in a little carousing there, also). Sorry, you can’t come with me, but when I get back, I’ll tell you all about it.