‘Good Morning America..How Are Yer?’
It’s 06.50am, I’m standing on the platform of Memphis Central Station, tired, cold. It’s still dark, a queue is lining up in readiness for the train called the City of New Orleans to roll into town. I’ve been here for over half hour after being dropped off by taxi. Despite feeling knackered I was really quite excited about this trip and finally out of the darkness two lights emerged in the distance, slowly getting brighter as they neared the single platform. The train which left Chicago some 10 hours before on the 900 miles journey somehow looked tired as well. Creeping into Memphis Station as if it was on its last legs. A mass of people waited in line for the guards to sort out the tickets and seat allocation. The train waiting patiently but enjoying the break. The City of New Orleans I learned wasn't the actual name of the train but the service. Like we used to have the Thames Clyde Express in Britain all those years ago. Allocated my seat, I was upstairs, the spacious coaches a far cry from the cramped replicas we have here in Britain. I stretched out, plenty of room, a few people chattering away slightly annoying at this time of the day but I closed my ears to them. One thing I was disappointed about was that I had half heartedly expected to hear Willie Nelson and the Highwaymen singing the anthem..
‘Good Morning America, How are yer?
Say, dont you know me? I’m your native son..
I’m the train they call the City of New Orleans..
And I’ll be gone 500 miles when the day is done..’
Well, not really, but it would have been nice..I sang the song in my head instead.
Eventually, twenty minutes late, the huge double decker train pulled out of Memphis, slowly making its way through the suburbs, crawling along as if it wasn’t in the mood to face the remaining nine hour trek across Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana.
Stuttering along it gave way to freight trains, which seemed a mile long, at every juncture. I settled into my seat, thinking that at this rate we wouldn’t get to New Orleans until the next day! Took an hour for the train to start really moving. All part of the adventure though and I was determined to enjoy it as much as I could.
We settled into a pattern, the train chugging along, passing endless barren landscapes, the occasional small town, wooden houses and shacks scattered around, a church. All looked archetypical of the Deep South.
To pass the time I had my iPad ready for the opportunity to take photographs through the window. The train was going slow enough most of the time. Then out of the blue came an announcement from the train driver. Straining my ears I was somewhat amazed to hear; “First stop on the journey will be Greenwood in about two and half hours for a smoke stop”. I kid you not. He continued; “We will stop here for about ten minutes if anyone wants to get off for a smoke but don’t stray away from the platform’.
Well I could imagine that happening on British Rail! Not. There’d be uproar!
And the train did stop. Passengers scrambled for the doors, stood outside in the cold, puffing away. I couldn’t believe it. My mind wandered to the Rockingham Arms Pub Quiz Nights on Mondays back home. Quizmaster John Day giving the quizzers a five minute warning to go outside for a last drag before the start. Followed up by; “the quiz will begin in one minute”. And the punters, gasping, stubbing out their cigarettes and rushing back to their seats. Cracks me up every week.
Nobody as far as I could see, got on at Greenwood.
Next stop was to be Jackson, another couple of hours down the line.
Getting hungry I went to the Buffet and Dining Car, a coach with virtually large floor to ceiling windows, lounge seats, very comfortable. I bought a cheeseburger and a coffee, headed back to my seat and settled down to ‘people watch’.
A party of three were in front of me, all in there 60s, a guy and two ladies, one I ascertained was his wife. They had been ahead of me in the queue on the platform at Memphis. I had noticed them, they were very quiet, probably tired like I was. Now, a few hours later, they had come to life. The guy was particularly irritating, not only to me watching but to the two women as well! Up and down like a jack in the box, faffing around, fawning over his two ladies I could see he was getting on their nerves. “Why don’t you sit down and relax instead of changing seats, and give us some peace to read!” one finally said.
He did, for about five minutes. Then he was up again; “Anyone want anything to eat? drink?’ They were obviously peckish and a debate about what they should get ensued for about ten minutes. I’m sitting, watching, taking this all in. God almighty! I was chuckling to myself. What a pain!
Off he went. He returned around twenty minutes later with some bags of food and drinks. “Right, what do you want?” he said to the older lady and proceeded to describe every piece of scran he had bought, cheeseburger, beef burgher, crisps, Tuna sandwiches, biscuits, bar of chocolate..the three of them eventually sorted it out and got stuck in..
“Nice little picnic this..” He couldn’t even shut up when he was eating!
It passed the time of day watching this cretin.
The train kept a rollin’, as the Johnny Burnette song goes, miles of scrubland, Plains, the occasional river, a road leading to nowhere..through a town called Yazoo City. We stopped once again to let a freight train through, it went on forever! Never seen such monster trains like these. It must have took a good fifteen minutes to get past us, boxcars and wagons transporting everything from cars, fuel wagons, containers of all shapes and sizes..incredible. There seems to be a right of away for freight trains over passenger trains in America which again is remarkable when you consider the rail network and system in Britain.
The outskirts of Jackson appeared, June Carter and Johnny Cash’s song came into my head.
‘We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout,
We've been talkin' 'bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out.
I'm goin' to Jackson, I'm gonna mess around,
Yeah, I'm goin' to Jackson,
Look out Jackson town.’
I was shaken out of my day dreaming by another announcement.
“We will be arriving at Jackson in around fifteen minutes. if anyone wants to get off for a smoke, we will be here for about twenty minutes. Don’t leave the platform, the driver won’t wait for any stragglers.”
And hordes deserted the train and filled up the platform. The guards included. It was like looking at a Smokers Corner at school as cigarette smoke drifted over the train and station.
Just like John Day at the Rock, the driver gave everybody a warning that the train would be on its way again in five minutes. I watched as people stopped chattering, took a last drag, stubbed out the cigarettes and clambered back on board. Satisfied that nobody was left behind, the driver set off for the final leg of the journey to New Orleans. By now, he and his co-driver, I assumed, would be into the 16th hour of their shift driving this train. Chicago to New Orleans apparently takes 19 hours.
As we slowly pulled out of Jackson it gave us the opportunity to take some more pictures, very satisfying. There was a feeling that this indeed was the heartland of America, of Mississippi, suddenly it seemed so far away from home..
We were shortly traversing the bayous of Louisiana. The railway track right next to the lakes, over rickety wooden bridges, through swamps. How did they build this line? Amazing. Miles and miles of nothing but swampland, the haunting Ry Cooder soundtrack to the film Southern Comfort came into my head. Looking out of the window, it was murky with drizzle, you wonder what wildlife exists out there. Alligators? Wouldn’t like to fall in to find out that was for sure.
All of a sudden the train comes into a clearing, there’s signs of life with a road bridge adjacent to the rail track appearing. We are on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain; ‘a brackish estuary located in south-eastern Louisiana, covering an area of 630 square miles with an average depth of 12 to 14 feet.’
That big, I thought it was the sea.
Still no clear sign of New Orleans, turns out we are riding on what is called the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway; ‘composed of two parallel bridges in Southern Louisiana. The longer of the two bridges is 23.83 miles long. The southern terminus of the Causeway is in Metairie, Louisiana, a suburb of New Orleans. The northern terminus is at Mandeville, Louisiana. The bridges are supported by 9,500 concrete pilings.’
The driver breaks the train of thought, pardon the pun; “We have to apologise that the train is running late but we should pull into New Orleans at around 16.40”.
Well, what is another hour when you’ve been on the train for eight hours already?
Finally we arrive in The Big Easy but there’s another twist to come yet. The guards warn everyone that first of all, “the train has to go forth, then reverse into the station. So, when the train stops, don’t open the doors and get off! Thank you for your patience.”
After nine hours we emerge out of the New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal, weary. I grabbed a taxi and asked for the St. James Hotel, located in the heart of the city. The yellow taxi was shabby, looked like it was falling apart, as did the driver, an ageing black man, but he was polite, chatty, very nice. “Want a taxi Sir? for when you go home?”
“I’ll give you a shout, thanks”. He gave me his card.
“Have a great time in New Orleans sir”.
I intended to.
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