|Each Danish Individually Wrapped. For My Pleasure.|
There’s some danish in the luggage cart. Terse. Uncaring. Said in a New Yorkian Go-F-Yourself accent. Reminiscent of that Simpsons episode when Homer goes to file for divorce and the lady behind the counter says, These things happen. $8.00.
Good thing the Amtrak attendant didn’t mean Danish…that could have been seen as rather un-PC (and cramped, for the Danish). Would probably serve the Danes right, though. They have a lot to answer for (so start answering, Darron).
But that’s one of the reasons why I’m here (the lady, not the danish/Danish). I’m on a train to Memphis, indirectly. I need to go to LA first, then Atlanta, THEN Memphis. And if I didn’t get on this train, I would have never met that customer service lady on the Amtrak who made me laugh at 7:00 in the morning with her desire for me to choke on my danish (sounds dirtier than it really is).
There is clearly a train subculture that (a) I didn’t know about and (b) I have not been welcomed into...yet. The regulars are greeted quite warmly. Questions from the staff fly (train?) forth…about the family. The weather. The kids.
I was asked for my ticket and pointed to some pastry.
I could infiltrate this world, I’m sure. But how often am I going to be on a train? When I lived in the Czech Republic, I was on a train almost every day. Maybe I was invited into some Czech-train-subcultures…but I probably didn’t understand, even if I were. I probably just nodded my head, smiled, and asked them in broken Czech where the hairy bathroom apricots were located. Dude. It was a tough language. And obviously like a Mad Lib game?
Anyway, I’m on a train. Off to Memphis. To eat BBQ and to see what happens. And Elvis. I’m going to see Elvis, too.