I took a train to Florida the other day, myself and 400 other snowbirds. A few young couples with kids were mixed in, much to their dismay, but most of us were old guys and our long suffering wives.
The train left from Lorton, Virginia at 4 p.m., first loading the automobiles and then the cattle (us). It was an easier job to load the four door sedans and SUV’s than the horde of cranky, old humanoids. We waddled to our seats, lugging bags of reading materials, electronic devices, blankets and pillows and settled down for a “long winter’s nap,” expecting to wake from our comas at 9 a.m. in Sandford, Florida (just east of Orlando).
Picture this! Hundreds of old coots like me, who can’t walk a straight line on solid ground, maneuvering about on a rolling, jerking train, trying to navigate through narrow aisles and lurching doors, which made loud swishing sounds as they flew open and closed so fast that they startled and distracted us.
At first, we didn’t know we were supposed to push a button to open the door. We stood in front of it, assuming it would open automatically, like the ones in grocery stores. It created a traffic jam, until some know-it-all in the back shouted, “Push the button DUMMY!” (not me)
Then, the line moved through the exit door on one car, three feet, to the closed entrance door of the next car, confronting the “dummy” at the front of the line with another challenge. Apparently the memory of pushing a button to open a sliding door doesn’t remain in an old coot’s short term memory after taking three steps, so the know-it-all in the back (not me) had to provide instruction, yet again.
There I was, locked on a 50 car auto-train with hundreds of my people, unsteady on our feet, moving around in a daze, hurtling south on wiggly train tracks, laid down a century earlier.
The hard part was hearing old coots yelling to their wives, who shouted in reply, to avoid hearing, “WHAT?” after every sentence. Others, yelled into their cell phones, having learned at a young age that you need to shout, and constantly ask the caller if they can hear you, when you are on a long distance call. All this, with a conga line continuously marching back and forth from the dining car at one end of the train to the bar car at the other.
Adding to the turmoil, were trips down narrow, winding staircases to the bathrooms. What were they thinking, the train people, loading a horde of old coots onto a train for a 16 hour ride, supplying adult beverages on a bouncing, rocking vehicle and then locating bathrooms down a flight of stairs?
They were thinking though, but only about rules and where to put signs to enforce them. Every possible peril is acknowledged with a sticker, plaque or engraved sign.
The doors between cars are overloaded with messages: two exit signs, a “watch your step” warning, a message only a bureaucrat could conceive and feel the need to paste to a door just below the “press” sign; it made no sense to me. It said, “Fully equipped FRA Part 223 – Glazing,” lastly, another “press” sign at the bottom of the door, so you can kick it with your foot when your arms are loaded with drinks and “freebies” from the dining car: sugar packets, apples, bananas, coffee, napkins, discount brochures and the rest of the worthless junk that old coots feel compelled to abscond with. So much signage on so small a surface. It’s no wonder the dummy (not me) at the front of the line didn’t notice the “press” sign.
We all made it to Sandford intact, but a few of us sported bruises, nicks or scrapes on our faces, elbows and knees, the result of bumping and stumbling in the aisles as we impatiently rushed from one venue to another, determined to get our money’s worth and to be first in line at everything (which is what old coots do), saying to the world, “I’m old; I don’t have much time left; let me through!” I don’t know what my wife was thinking when she made the reservation.
No one knows more about old coots than me, having studied and written about my species for going on two decades, yet I went right ahead and put myself in harm’s way. Next year I’m taking a jet plane!
Complaints and comments can be left at mlessler7@gmail.com.
