Going South, Part I: A Midnight Train to Georgia

 

 

There are many things about the USA that I love but its rail network is not one of them. If we were to measure greatness by public transport then America is most definitely not ‘the greatest country ever in the history of the world’ (as is often suggested by some in National Conservative/MAGA circles). But the responsibilities of being a grown up in recent years had led me to thinking how much I missed the freedom of my backpacking days, and so with all the optimism of my 25 year old self, I bought an Amtrak USA Rail Pass (ten journeys in one month) and planned to go South.

In fairness, Amtrak in the summer of 2022 was still not up to full speed post-Covid19. Fewer trains were operating and the ‘daily’ Crescent from New York to New Orleans was more like ‘every few days’. When it did appear on the schedule it became fully booked very quickly. On the upside, this would indicate a desire for train travel in the USA despite the best efforts of the airline and car industries to run it into the ground. On the downside, what became increasingly clear as I journeyed south, north and east over the next two weeks, was that no one in government cares enough to invest in it.

I eventually managed to work out how to get to New Orleans via Atlanta, Georgia, and Birmingham, Alabama, returning to New York the very long way around via Memphis and Chicago. And so it was, clutching my pass and my roller bag, that I departed a hot New York City on time … and shunted straight into trouble. Progress involved movement at the speed of crawl interspersed with stuttering to a grinding halt as our train became entangled with other east coast lines in a state of chaos after a signalling failure. Stray passengers were pushed onto any available train going their way, including the Crescent which was then also delayed by the same signal failure creating a bottle neck and a 90 minute wait for another train to pass because it’s a single track system throughout much of the network. Delays are exacerbated by freight companies owning the tracks and passenger trains always having to give way.

At least we could rest in what are the widest, most comfortable train seats I’ve ever had my butt on: at last something the MAGA folk can truly claim is great. The footrests are still too far away to be any use to me, but the full leg recliners and deep backwards inclination make up for it. Sadly for the romantic train traveller, there’s no longer any dining car unless you’re in ‘bougie’ class (those who can afford the extortionate rates of the sleeper cabins, at about $600 a leg), but there’s diner seating where food from the café can be eaten, and some trains still have the glass enclosed observation cars.

Unfortunately, the spacious seating was increasingly encroached on by, firstly, the middle aged man next to me lovingly yelling at his daughter on the phone, then someone’s sports match, the latest tiktok dance, and the young couple in the morning playing the same song over and over and over again.

The spacious seating was also not enough to make up for the raging air conditioning. I added two more layers in the night to the T-shirt but wondered if any of the seasoned travellers with thick blankets and sweats on would mind if I snuggled up next to them. Instead, I managed to twist into various pretzel shapes and got some sleep, interspersed with regular horn blasts to keep wildlife and people off the tracks, while dreaming of punitive measures for those that refuse to wear earpods. Missing much of Virginia and North Carolina, time passed with people and scenery coming and going as we picked up speed in the night and made Atlanta in the morning only an hour late.

24 hours in Atlanta (20th June)

Given that I was supposed to be emulating my backpacking youth, I had chosen Motel 6 for my first flop house; a chain that ranks 358th on aggregated hotel booking sites and is priced accordingly. It was too early to get my room but the receptionist let me stow my bag, and wash and change in the staff toilet while slowly letting my nostalgia for backpacking resolve itself into reality. I had to remind myself of past travelling rules that accommodation should be cheap and the food good, so a quick check of the interweb and it was off to the famous Atlanta Breakfast Club.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t checked the interweb to find out if Georgia has a Juneteenth public holiday (which it does), and the crowds from the morning celebrations commemorating the end of slavery in the USA were now queueing at Atlanta’s best breakfast venue. I clutched my ‘75th in line’ ticket and waited outside in the 35 degree heat with dozens of others under marquees and other scraps of shade. A DJ kept us entertained with old school and contemporary R&B, Soul and Blues, interacting with the crowd, giving a shout out ‘to the woman in the cowboy hat’ (that would be me and it’s not a cowboy hat). A mimosa bar is handy for the parched.

My place in line ticks down over the course of two hours but then seems to stall at 30. At this point I start to suspect that being a solo traveller has some disadvantages in the South as families and groups of friends are seated ahead of me. As the sun creeps ever closer to burning my legs, I am joined on my bench by a Texan family on their way to Florida for holidays. We start to chat and when they get the call for a table ahead of me (I’m still at number 30) they insist I join them: mum, dad, sister, two daughters, two cousins, and a musty backpacker.

The Dad, in real estate, leads the questions as we wait for our order: how is the UK different; are there black folk there; what about the royals; what about music? I ask questions in turn: are they worried about school shootings? They’re not. They’re from Houston and urban schools have enough security. He’s a hunter from his childhood and his wife also shoots, mostly tin cans these days. He also loves his BBQ and proudly shows me pictures of a two metre long pit where he smokes and cooks his own meat.

When the food comes it is various combinations of southern comfort: fried chicken, eggs, bacon, waffles and pancakes, fried green tomatoes on biscuits for me. At this stage I have to ponder the question: exactly how many chickens get fried in the USA each day? I order a side of fruit to feel a bit better about the carnage. Before we eat, Dad gestures that there will be grace, and we link hands around the table. He thanks God for the food, his family and being able to meet Miss Melissa today (and it will be only south of the Carolinas that anyone is EVER allowed to call me ‘Miss’ or ‘baby girl’). I thank the universe for their generosity, kindness and curiosity. Amen. With mouths full the questions continue. ‘Do Americans eat a lot?’ I hesitate out of politeness; they laugh. I can only say ‘yes’. Then comes 'What do British people think of Trump?' That’s a long answer, and then I want to know ‘why is there so much religion in US politics’, which is another long answer. It’s cash only at the end and as I only had a card the Dad takes the bill. We tussle but he insists. It is Southern hospitality. Amen to that.

Walking off brunch that became a late lunch, I wandered past the CocaCola museum and CNN headquarters, towards the Sweet Auburn Street historic district, through a neighbourhood populated by despair. In the 1950s and 60s, Sweet Auburn Street was a centre for black businesses, churches, and civil rights organising with Martin Luther King Jr’s Ebenezer Baptist church and the offices of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference still present. A National Historical Park charting the history of the movement sits opposite the King Centre where Dr King and Coretta are buried. Murals on building and park walls commemorate other civil rights leaders including John Lewis, Ella Baker and Evelyn Lowery. But step back behind the façade and it is derelict and deprived.

In the Historical Park Visitor’s Centre the story of the civil rights movement includes the familiar footage of opposition to school desegregation, with KKK leaders and white folk using the ‘n’ word. A Black mum with two young kids, maybe 5-7 years old, looks uncomfortable, as was I, hearing these words in a room of mostly Black visitors and reflecting on the capacity of humans to be so afraid and so cruel as a result. She steers her children out of the room saying ‘I don’t think this is suitable for my babies’, but I do wonder how we teach this to kids. As we walk away, me a little in front, I overhear her explaining ‘there was a time in the past when these things happened and there are still some things like that today, but education is what’s important’.

And yet, the USA, and the UK, is in the throes of a culture war that wants to remove an education that might make white folk uncomfortable in coming face to face with our ancestors’ complicity in violence and cruelty towards people of colour, and even worse, in coming face to face with our own complicity today in the legacies of that violence and cruelty.

I potter back to the Motel 6 to shower and sleep, picking up an abandoned cardigan lying on the pavement near the hotel that will save me having to find a new one tomorrow to stave off the Amtrak AC.