Okay, so Amtrak waiting areas don't really deserve to be called Little Calcutta, the epithet I was just hot, tired, and crowded enough to throw out at Chicago's Union Station yesterday. It wasn't even close to chaos, though when that woman cut to the front of the line I felt it move closer to the verge. The cost of any fare, however, is inversely proportional to the number of times one will hear, "You can't make me take my bipolar pills!" during the course of a journey. I do stand by that.
And I do stand by the train as a good-enough, cheap-enough way to get from here to a place such as the Chicago part of Chicago, as my friend puts it-- not Berwyn or Schaumburg or some other Chicagoland locale full of free parking and lots. I don't mind the driving, but my dread of the citified car-storage, both finding it and paying for it, is great enough that when I heard the story of the neighborhood loon who leases three cars to store excess junk-- real trash: fast food bags and empty detergent boxes! I saw it myself, I swear--the craziest part of the story seemed to be voluntarily trying to park a trio of cars on the metered, zoned, and otherwise unavailable city streets.
If that deranged soul ever felt like hitting the road, as it were, I'd suggest he look into Amtrak. I'm convinced porters allow anything on as long as the bag can be lifted without assistance; the entire security system seems to be photographs of badge-wearing dogs. No x-rays, no pat-down, no 3.4 ounce bottles in ziplock bags, no ID, shoeless shuffle to the gate-- it's a traveler's pre-9/11 timewarp. Unless and until, I hesitate to say, one of the crazies decides to really blow up.
