More Stuff About Trains and Those Who Ride Them
Now THIS is the kind of citizen journalism I can get behind and what is, for me, one of the few but great joys of the monstrosity that is the World Wide Web. Someone out there decided to create a central resource where you can find the public transit announcements from systems all over the world. Many of them have links to mp3's so you can feel like you are right there on the train in just a few clicks. Absolutely riveting. I fear I will waste hours on that site but hell, that's what the Web is for, ain't it?
Of course the NY tri-state area has at least one site of its own. I'm sure there are more.
All this bing-bonging reminded me of what happened a couple weeks back when I took NJ Transit from NYC out to meet some curling friends at a Somerset Patriots game.
The ride from NY Penn to the Pats ballpark is close to an hour and 20 minutes long and requires a transfer. On a warm Friday night this is not something someone should do with a dry mouth and one of the great joys of suburban rail-riding in this part of the world is that beer consumption on board is not only allowed but encouraged by the presence of many suds vendors in the major rail stations.
Well, as I found out, it's not "encouraged" everywhere.
In order to make it to the game I needed to transfer to the Raritan Valley Lline at Newark Penn Station. As timing would have it, the train I boarded was a nice double decker that happened to be an express to Westfield. I grabbed the last window seat in the lower level of the car little knowing that the balance of my trip was going to be a lesson in class-relations in the great Garden State.
I settled in the seat and rummaged through my knapsack and pulled out the book I was reading and a bottle of Goose Island IPA. As soon as I cracked the cap with my ever-so-classy NYC souvenir bottle opener featuring a spinning oval with the Statue of Liberty on one side and the Twin Towers on the other the train car turned into one of those bars where the needle skitters off the jukebox record as soon as the stranger walks in. Yep, they were all looking at me. Horrified.
I panicked momentarily thinking that perhaps beer consumption was not allowed on this line or that I had somehow discovered a "dry car". I looked for a sign that prohibited consumption but found none. Then the conductor came through the car and strolled right by my not-hidden beer and I realized that there was no legal problem, merely a caste problem. I took a look around the car at my co-commuters and noticed that they all bore a resemblance to the folks that sided with Judge Smails in Caddyshack. Over 50, overwhelmingly white, nattily dressed even on a Friday either in suits or expensive golf clothing or perhaps ready for a jaunt on the yacht. The reading choices appeared to consist of the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, Kindles (doubtless loaded up with the complete works of Ayn Rand) or smart phones. It occurred to me that if we could somehow harness the collective pressure of all the clenched assholes on that train Deepwater Horizon could be sealed off in mere minutes. I glared around me and everyone went back to what they were doing before I dared pop open my beer.
The train continued to Westfield without incident and virtually the entire car emptied at that station. I sighed and opened my other Goose Island IPA as the train had a few more stops to make before arriving at the park.
After a few minutes, I noticed it was getting warm in the train. For a moment I thought I was flushed from the alcohol consumption but 2 beers shouldn't have done that. Then it slowly dawned on me...I held my hand next to the vent and confirmed it.
They shut the air conditioning off after Westfield.
I couldn't believe it. I then thought that perhaps the unit in the lower car had broken so I moved to the upper level. The AC wasn't on up there either.
I sighed and settled into another seat and took a pull on the bottle. Well, at least there was nobody left on the train that was glaring at me like I was a servant who had dared to use the front door. The PA crackled and told me that to get off at Bridgewater I had to move to the front of the train. I made my way off the train and into the muggy ballpark with a greater understanding of the class system of New Jersey.
Of course the NY tri-state area has at least one site of its own. I'm sure there are more.
All this bing-bonging reminded me of what happened a couple weeks back when I took NJ Transit from NYC out to meet some curling friends at a Somerset Patriots game.
The ride from NY Penn to the Pats ballpark is close to an hour and 20 minutes long and requires a transfer. On a warm Friday night this is not something someone should do with a dry mouth and one of the great joys of suburban rail-riding in this part of the world is that beer consumption on board is not only allowed but encouraged by the presence of many suds vendors in the major rail stations.
Well, as I found out, it's not "encouraged" everywhere.
In order to make it to the game I needed to transfer to the Raritan Valley Lline at Newark Penn Station. As timing would have it, the train I boarded was a nice double decker that happened to be an express to Westfield. I grabbed the last window seat in the lower level of the car little knowing that the balance of my trip was going to be a lesson in class-relations in the great Garden State.
I settled in the seat and rummaged through my knapsack and pulled out the book I was reading and a bottle of Goose Island IPA. As soon as I cracked the cap with my ever-so-classy NYC souvenir bottle opener featuring a spinning oval with the Statue of Liberty on one side and the Twin Towers on the other the train car turned into one of those bars where the needle skitters off the jukebox record as soon as the stranger walks in. Yep, they were all looking at me. Horrified.
I panicked momentarily thinking that perhaps beer consumption was not allowed on this line or that I had somehow discovered a "dry car". I looked for a sign that prohibited consumption but found none. Then the conductor came through the car and strolled right by my not-hidden beer and I realized that there was no legal problem, merely a caste problem. I took a look around the car at my co-commuters and noticed that they all bore a resemblance to the folks that sided with Judge Smails in Caddyshack. Over 50, overwhelmingly white, nattily dressed even on a Friday either in suits or expensive golf clothing or perhaps ready for a jaunt on the yacht. The reading choices appeared to consist of the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, Kindles (doubtless loaded up with the complete works of Ayn Rand) or smart phones. It occurred to me that if we could somehow harness the collective pressure of all the clenched assholes on that train Deepwater Horizon could be sealed off in mere minutes. I glared around me and everyone went back to what they were doing before I dared pop open my beer.
The train continued to Westfield without incident and virtually the entire car emptied at that station. I sighed and opened my other Goose Island IPA as the train had a few more stops to make before arriving at the park.
After a few minutes, I noticed it was getting warm in the train. For a moment I thought I was flushed from the alcohol consumption but 2 beers shouldn't have done that. Then it slowly dawned on me...I held my hand next to the vent and confirmed it.
They shut the air conditioning off after Westfield.
I couldn't believe it. I then thought that perhaps the unit in the lower car had broken so I moved to the upper level. The AC wasn't on up there either.
I sighed and settled into another seat and took a pull on the bottle. Well, at least there was nobody left on the train that was glaring at me like I was a servant who had dared to use the front door. The PA crackled and told me that to get off at Bridgewater I had to move to the front of the train. I made my way off the train and into the muggy ballpark with a greater understanding of the class system of New Jersey.
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