On Thursday, I went up to Burlington, MA, near Boston, on business. Here’s what I wrote during the train rides there and back.
Taking the train up from NYC to Boston today to cover a pharmaceutical facility’s ribbon-cutting. I was supposed to drive up, stay over, and visit another site tomorrow, but there were all sorts of dire predictions of monstrous snow up here. Thursday’s company offered to put me on the Acela to get me up here, then send me home tonight.
No snow at all, naturally. Still, there’s been lots of rain, which would’ve made the drive pretty miserable.
My most recent train story involved that trip from Brussels to Amsterdam, where I encountered Thai prostitutes and some joint-rolling soccer fans. This ride’s been less eventful (just passed Providence, so there’s still time, I guess).
Watched Crimes and Misdemeanors on the laptop, and I’m listening to one of my favorite Mad Mixes (Big Bad BIO, which I listened to about 50 times during last June’s drive from San Francisco to San Diego) on the iPod.
I boarded the Acela at Penn Station, and we stayed underground for a bit. There was the customary ear-popping as pressure changed, and we came up out of the tunnel. A funny thing happened then; I had no idea where we were.
For a moment, I thought we might be by the West Side rail-yards, but surely we’d been underground too long for us to be that close to Penn Station. The heavy clouds and high walls made it tough to get a perspective. I looked west to see any NJ landmarks. In a few moments, I saw the Citi tower and realized that Manhattan was to our west. The train had gone under the Harlem River and come emerged outside Manhattan.
We went north, across the river from the FDR Drive, the route by which I usually bring Amy back to her apartment on Sundays. A few weeks ago, stuck in southbound traffic (the Triboro Bridge exit usually brings things to a halt), we noticed a facade for Icahn Stadium over on Randall’s Island. We’d been driving this road for a year, and neither of us had ever seen it before.
Today, the train was on the other side of it. The letters were backwards, and it felt for a moment like being backstage, as if this world was oriented for the view from the east side of Manhattan.
I’m not making profound observations about NYC, memory, or anything else. For that, you need to look to some of the work of Ben Katchor, a cartoonist best known for the “Julius Knipl, Real Estate Photographer” strip. About 7 years ago, I attended “Carfare City,” one of Mr. Katchor’s slideshow/performance pieces. In it, he invented a travel agency that booked tours for people in their own neighborhoods. He was trying to convey how we need to make ourselves unaccustomed to our surroundings, how we need to become tourists in our lives, so as to find new depths, new mysteries, by approaching a familiar intersection from an unfamiliar direction.
Through this trip, there have been stretches where the rail line runs closer to Rt. 95. Amy & I drove up that highway on Saturday. Now the landmarks come at different angles, different speeds. I don’t have to pay attention to the cars, or my speed. This train reaches 150 mph at some points, but I don’t know if that happens during the NYC-Boston stretch.
A few years ago, I told my friend John that it’s a real achievement to see what someone else sees when they see you. Try to understand someone else’s impressions of who you are.
I first saw Crimes and Misdemeanors in an art theater in New Orleans, when I was a student at Tulane. Years later, I saw American Beauty in that theater, then got stuck walking the streets of NO,LA till 6am (don’t ask). This Mad Mix I’m listening to includes a song by an old girlfriend. Last night, I think I put the nail in the coffin of a friendship I’ve had since 1988. A week ago, I was in the Strand Bookstore, on the newly opened second floor. On a table, I saw a stack of copies of an art-book that another ex-girlfriend edited.
Once upon a time, the sight of it would’ve filled me with nostalgia, or longing, or something. But I just smiled and thought, “That’s funny,” and headed over to the Cedar Tavern for drinks with my buddy Elayne, before visiting Amy. My brother likes when I write ex-girlfriend stories, but I don’t really have any anymore. That’s a nice part about being happy and in love.
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Coming into South Station in Boston today, I remembered that I took the train up here one other time, for the Drug Discovery Technology show back in 2000. The Big Dig project was still in effect, and there were construction tunnels near the rails as we closed into the station. The entry points were ladders, with official signs reading, “Glory Hole #[xx]” for each. I marveled. No signs this time.
On my way home now. Just passed Bridgeport, CT and just finished Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. The plant visit went well. I interviewed the company’s president and got some good material for my parenteral manufacturing article.
A bunch of the attendees at the ribbon-cutting were readers of my magazine. Several knew my name and told me how much they like my editorials. That feels good. I imagine it’s not the same as having a guy come up to me and tell me that my novel changed his life, but I haven’t written a novel, so I don’t know.
I also made the acquaintance of a couple of people who may be able to write for my magazine. Plus, I met a guy who used to run a website about the World’s Strongest Man competitions (I think it was strongestman.com, which seems to be inactive). He told me some funny stories about how he and his buddy decided to “rank” (subjectively) the top U.S., Canadian, and international competitors on the site, and how the list instantly became the authority in that sport.
My cabdriver for the ride from Burlington back to South Station insisted that the U.S. needs to blow up Mecca. He wore a Red Sox cap and asked me my favorite baseball team. I said, “TheYankeesIcan’ttalkaboutit.” He understood.
I need a ton of sleep, since I didn’t get much last night and I’m in the midst of my 6th hour on trains today.
