AMERICAN DAYS

Evening Star, Issue 22228, 4 January 1936, Page 12

AMERICAN DAYS

TRAIN TRAVEL DE LUXE THE SILENT STATIONS The finest building in every American towji is the railroad station, writes Paul Aiming in the ‘ Cape Times. The local temple of the Elk or Moose may express the town’s idea of all that is architecturally great and good, but ■ the railroad station will stand out proudly as the latest advance in the concrete and marble style. Utica is the grimmest town on the gay road tc the West—the streets are a medley ol dirty, ugly offices, lousy bars, pretentious filling stations, and glaring movie palaces—but the railway terminus resembles the Union Buildings in Pretoria. To appreciate the full magnificence ol the approach to railway travel in America, it is a good thing to travel by night. Flood-lighting then exposes every nook of the exterior, and shaded lights make apparent in the interior the full glory that is gilt. The passenger will cither arrive an hour too early or too late for bis train, owing to the fact that the railways have their own idea of time and each town and State a different idea. In Now York there is daylight-saving time in the city, but not on the train; in the next State there is no daylight saving. As the road goes further west, time loses all control and flashes from eastern to central time, from mountain to Pacific time. The main ball of the station, all set about with gold placques and pillars and murals and a distant riotous roof, combines the decorum of the Albert Hall with the spaciousness of a Roman amphitheatre. There has been a feeling that a railroad terminus is no fit place for trains, so there is no sign of normal station life—no soot and noise, rush or excitement. TAPROOMS. Groups of disinterested men and women stand casually about or pass in and out of the shops, the taprooms (it is illegal to cal! them “bars”), .the restaurants, drug stores, and bookstalls that open from the hall. There is an expectant note in the air, it would not seem surprising to hear the trump of angels and a voice calling on the next of the waiting mortals to ascend the distant golden steps for the preliminary interview with St. Peter. A red-capped negro passes by and beckons towards the golden gates. They are hurriedly thrown open, and as hastily and noiselessly closed; the passenger has been removed from tbe outer world. A ticket collector puts up his hand and says “ S’hushl” He tears off a piece of the perforated roll of tickets that allow the hearer, once he has signed along the dotted line, to travel over 15 different railroads from New York to Saranac, Buffalo, Chicago, Colorado, §an Francisco, New Orleans, Alabama, Georgia, and back once more to New York. As the passenger, increasingly anxious, trips on the leading clown to the nether world, the negroporter turns round, pained, and whispers “S’hush!”. The conductor comes ■forward on tip-toes with a finger to his lips. In a dim, shaded light the Pullman cars He alongside the platform, quite dead, like an inanimate slug. Inside the car are notices: “ Quiet, please!” “Make no noise!” On either side of the central path hang the thick green curtains that hide the sleeping passengers in their berths. Lying flat on his hack in bed, the traveller struggles with his trousers, tries to put on his pyjamas, to unpack his toothbrush.' Cool air rushes down the inlet tube, the man in the bunk above is snoringj a pair of boots fall to the -ground with a heavy thud, the train begins to move, slowly, faster, and sleep falls over the Narragansett Express. “ AIR-CONDITIONED.” “ Air-conditioned ” is the slogan of success to-day. So succesful, indeed, that one of the petrol companies now advertises “ air-conditioned gas,” whatever that means. Restaurants, hotels, coaches, shops, and even private houses are now being equipped with this sweatsaving device. As the advertisement says, “ There are trains and trains,” but since air-conditioning of all the Pullman coaches on the main lines has been completed, railroad travel has become a pleasure again, and the various companies are experiencing a welcome boom. The temperature outside may be 100 degrees, the dry, parched heat of the cactus deser.t of Arizona may be almost tangible through the window glass, but within the coach the air is cool and clear—-drawn over ice and filtered free from dust before it enters. More recently a separate refrigerating plant has been added to each coach, at a cost of about 9,000 dollar's a time, bo that the air can be exactly regulated and the troublesome necessity of filling the tanks with. ice three times a day is overcome. The Southern Pacific Railroad has made great play with the advertisement that asthmatic and hay-fever sufferers find instant relief in the.' dust-free air of these cars. The only discomfort comes when the air-cooled body is cast out into the hot, dry air of the great world outside, to feel as though a blast of air from a roaring furnace had hit him. ROMANCE. The railway traveller is entitled to romance, so each train has its name—- “ The 20th Century Limited,” “ The Mohawk,” “ The Owl,” “ The Sunset Limited,” “ The Robert E! Lee ” ; and each coach its special name. The columbine is the State flower of Colorado, so the Union Pacific express between Denver and Chicago hears this name, and proudly covers with this flower the drawing rooms, lounges with easy chairs (with every chair a spittoon) , sun parlours, and soda fountains. The dining cars are decorated in warm blue with walls in gold and brown and columbine designs. The dining room charges are in keeping with this luxury, but the whole is available to anyone who pays the rail plus Pullman fare, which, on a 45-day round-trip ticket, works out at no more than ltd a mile, which is not excessive for the speed of 40 miles an hour as an average and the comfort that is offered; the bedding, magazines, barber shop, notepaper, radio programmes, and what have you? Smoking is looked upon ns a vice in America. In one or two States it is impossible even to buy cigarettes. In cinemas, street cars, and theatres smoking is strictly prohibited.; On the train the degenerate smoker is sent to tbe lounge car or the wash-room that decorates each coach. This room is labelled “ Men.” There are no “Gentlemen” in the United States. Baseball, drinking, and talking are the national sports, and the wash-room is given up to the last. At any hour of tbe 24 a passer-by can be reasonably sure of finding at least on© talker in tbe wash-room, even though he oe talking to himself. An audience is not required, by the American balkerj afl

conversations are monologues, with the other participants anxiously waiting for the first sign of lagging so that they may get started. Conversation or studied argument is unknown. On the horsehair couch of this room the corset drummer from Chicago insists that Roosevelt is a criminal, and the sheep farmer from Texas listens attentively to the abdominal catastrophes that have ruined the life of the _ insurance man from Los Angeles—waiting only for the first opening to start an account of the- curious symptoms of his own mother-in-law. JUBILANT NEGROES. The negro Pullman attendants are famous; they have been ' called the aristocrats of the coloured population. Having just achieved recognition of their own union, they are jubilant and pathetically hopeful thojt the millennium is dawning. At present the annual earnings of a regular worker are about 850dol (£170) and tips about 250d0l (£SO). Occupational expenses swallow up most of the tip money, for he must furnish isis_ own brushes and shoe-cleaning _ materials, pay for his uniforms until he has been in the service for 10 years, eat his meals in the dining car (p a Y n K half-price for what he gets), and he receives no pay for “ preparatory ” and? “ terminal ” time. Alongside the railroad track run the fine cross-country concrete roads, on which a horde of motor buses dash from New York to the Pacific—all the way to Los Angeles, 3,000 miles for 30dol (£6); in the sky an increasing air service takes its passengers to any part of the land in a few hours. But the railways, taking on new strength and offering new comfort, are holding their own even in a land where there is no governmental restriction of road transport. The American has, as they say, got ants in his pants. He must keep moving. He must always be doing something, going somewhere. The man who “ sits and stares,” who is not obviously doing something in public is considered half-witted. When I was standing one day in a hotel lounge waiting patiently for some friends to arrive, a man came up to me/ “ Whdb are you doing?” were his first words. “ Nothing ” was the reply. He looked at me sadly and with pity. “ Nothing at all? Dear, dear, I thought right from the start that you were nuts,” he said, and walked away shaking his head.