February 2, around 6 a.m., temperatures are in the low 20s at the Boston subway station. That bag I’m carrying? It’s way heavier than it looks. And that backpack? It’s only slightly less secure than Fort Knox.(Kathy Grant Westbrook|mountolivetribune.com)
Ever since Steve and I took a train trip earlier this year, we’ve found that it’s a mode of travel lots of people are curious about. With that in mind, in last week’s inaugural column, I promised to devote my first few columns to recounting some of our experiences from that trip, during which I’ll try to provide some useful information squished between some entertaining stories. Here we go…
This was to be our first-ever passenger train trip, and we started out big time: cross country (our basic itinerary was included in last week’s column, in case you missed it). We planned to be gone about three weeks (it ended up being closer to four, thanks Covid!) and our goal was to pack as efficiently as possible, taking no more than we needed since we would be moving around a lot during the trip.
It had been years since either of us had owned a backpack, so we both did some online shopping. I purchased mine way before we knew how long the trip would be, so I didn’t buy with storage space in mind, but rather security. For some reason, I’ve always had a fear that someone will steal something out of my backpack while it’s on my back. So I bought one designed to prevent this, and I’d say it’s pretty effective since I have a really hard time getting into it when it’s laying on a table in front of me.
By the time Steve shopped for his, we knew the trip would be lengthy, so he ended up getting, basically, a piece of luggage that attaches to his back.
One of the nice things about train travel, compared to air, is that Amtrak has a much more generous baggage policy than airlines: they allow each passenger two personal items and two carry-ons (distinguished from one another by size); additionally, some trains and certain stations also allow four checked bags (two free and two at a cost of $20 per bag). This means that between the two of us, Steve and I had the potential to pack several bags — but keeping in mind our intention to travel with as little as possible, we decided that, in addition to our backpacks, we would each take just one additional bag.
Steve said, “Let’s don’t take any luggage with wheels because we don’t want to look like tourists.”
I said, “OK,” because I understood his concern — tourists are easy marks. Also, as someone who owns an impenetrable backpack, I’d already established how savvy I am when it comes to selecting the perfect bag.
So we agreed: rolling bags were out, shoulder bags were in. We stuffed a shoulder bag apiece, and, by the time I was done, the weight of mine approximated that of a newborn elephant. When we strapped on our backpacks, and hoisted our shoulder bags in place, we could barely move. My bag was so heavy that I had to swing it around from my hip to my stomach so I could support it (my shoulder bag, not my stomach) with both hands. Not only were the bags unwieldy, but lugging around all that weight resulted in aching shoulders — and knees — for both of us.
Our physical discomfort was nothing compared to the indignity we suffered when we arrived at the train station and saw that everyone else had — need I say it? — rolling luggage. Everyone. Except us. So instead of not looking like tourists, we looked like the only tourists too dumb to not use rolling bags. (And just to be clear: we do own luggage with wheels. Several pieces.)
Halfway through the trip, we acquiesced to the pleas of our shoulders and knees, and decided to lighten the load by shipping some of our clothes back home. Brilliant! Although perhaps a tad ill-timed, given that within a couple of hours of dropping off the box full of clothes with FedEx, Steve unexpectedly tested positive for COVID, thus extending our stay (and our need for extra clothes) by several days.
So…to recap, I spent the better part of a month traveling across the U.S., lugging the equivalent of a baby elephant, and shouldering a backpack that it takes me approximately two hours and 33 minutes to break into. And, to top it off, I shipped home half my clothes immediately prior to extending the trip.
The most ironic part of all this is that I have always prided myself on being really good at packing for travel. Seriously. I have very few talents, but doing an excellent job of packing for a trip was tops on a very short list. Not anymore. Not after this trip. I’m determined not to let this get me down though. I’ve already started rethinking my strategy for future trips. With a little practice, I’m confident I can shave seven — maybe even eight — minutes off my backpack-opening time, and I’ve already pulled the rolling luggage out of the closet. Yeah, you read that right. I’m practically packed and ready to go.
Next week: We’ll talk about a few things you may not have previously associated with train travel — a puppy dog, a lion, profanity, and public urination.
