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At 1:15PM, I took my seat, or my ‘Roomette’ as they say here, on the Silver Star 92 out of West Palm Beach. My destination is home: Washington, D.C. However, as I write this, I reside in room seven in car 9211 on a train that fails to stay on schedule more than 50 percent of the time. This, I learned, is because freight trains often ignore legally mandated passenger transit priority, and no one really does anything about it. 
I’ve always wanted to take a seriously long train ride, and this is a seriously long train journey, clocking in around 26 hours by the time we arrive in America’s capital. 
This is obviously ludicrous. At a distance of around 1,000 miles, a similar journey made by France’s Train à Grande Vitesse (TGV) could take just under three hours. Shanghai’s Maglev would do it in three hours and 30 minutes. 
But this is America, where Big Plane has lobbied against expanding and maintaining the nation’s creaking rail network. The national Amtrak map is limited in its reach and basic in its amenities, though private firms like Brightline are managing to add layers like Miami to Orlando or, by 2028, Las Vegas to Los Angeles. 
So, here I am, pinballing around Florida before heading north through Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, and Virginia. Three in four of those states recently played a role in electing President Donald Trump for a second term. It is a fitting tribute to my trajectory, having spent the last three days at Mar A Lago and other associated Trump events. But now, it is time to decompress. 
BOARDING.
The process was simple. I arrived at West Palm Beach station, found the Amtrak office, and alerted them to my presence. As a roomette occupier, I would board further down the platform than everyone else. As the train pulled in, my brand new iPhone 16 Pro Max decided to crash (it does that a lot, by the way), leaving me having to assure the ticket inspector that this was, in fact, my train and that I would show him my ticket once Apple got its shit together – an intentionally vague pledge.
Thankfully, he believed me and showed me to the roomette, briefly explaining the processes for my (included) meals. He also pointed out the restrooms, the shower, and the five different lighting options in my room. Oh, and the in-built trash can. All very self-explanatory.
So, I plonked myself down. The seat was wider and more comfortable than expected. The roomette is actually a bunk room for two, with seats facing one another and a top bunk that pulls down from the ceiling. There is modest in-room storage, but then again, I only ever travel with a duffle bag anyway. Ladies will likely need to store their multiple suitcases elsewhere on the train. 
The room has a novel, foldaway sink, and at least four power sockets. The doors close and lock, and curtains on the internal and external windows ensure privacy and pitch blackness when you want to sleep. Towels, handwash, soap, and cups are provided, though I used the carriage’s bathroom rather than the sink in my room.
LUNCH.
No sooner had we boarded than our lunch orders were taken. I got the Angus Burger and a black coffee. 
“Coffee?! That’s the first time I’ve heard that for lunch. I had already written Coke!” said the attendant. I don’t drink Coke. And either way, I’m not sure I believed him. He seemed more like a chatterbox. If no one had ordered coffee at lunch from him, he couldn’t have worked here long, I thought. In fairness to him, the dining car has only returned in the past few years after multiple attempts to force first-class passengers into the line at the Cafe Car with economy ticket holders. I popped my head into that situation and can only describe it as a Simpsons-style parody of America. I never went back after stretching my legs the first time.
My attendant went out of his way to mention that, “No one tips anymore.” A fairly unsubtle and boorish hint. I would prefer he simply left a “gratuity” envelope in each room. Still, it’s not like he’s doing anything but refreshing the restrooms and taking my meal orders. He’s not the one cooking or bringing me the food. In any event, I take my lunch in the dining car rather than risk stinking up my little bedroom. 
The dining car is a much-appreciated throwback to something that never really existed. It is too modern to be traditional, but the idea of it is so old school that you don’t want it to be dressed like a riverside brewpub with Edison bulbs and metal chairs that flatten (further, in my case) your posterior.
Instead, the carriage finds a balance between its walnut effect surfaces and real red roses on each table. It’s almost a 1970s diner. The food, stunningly, is even plated carefully while tablecloths adorn every booth. The service is a little mumbly and ghetto, but the overall effect is pleasant. If they could get some staff who want to be there and perhaps some beef from this decade, we’d be onto a winner. 
Sure, what do you expect from Amtrak train food? The burger was predictably dry and tough. But it was by no means the worst burger I’ve ever had. That honor belongs to a number of the aforementioned brewpubs, with their ciabatta rolls, mildly spiced aiolis, and sweet potato fries. Just… fuck off.
Every meal includes a dessert. After lunch, I had a butter cake, which I’m certain was loaded with preservatives and seed oils. Nevertheless, it was delicious.
SETTLING IN.
If, like me, you need to work on your journey, be advised the wifi is so terrible that it may as well not exist. Bring a hotspot. I used my phone the whole time, which was fine if you like a really hot phone. 
Settling in was otherwise easy. The pillows and cushions in the newer carriages are superb. I walked through one of the older sleeper cars on my way to the dining car. It looks quite grim, and there’s no real way to know if you’re getting a new sleeper or an old one when you book. Be advised. I lucked out.
Then came the most bizarre part of the trip, when we left West Palm Beach and turned west to reach Tampa before doubling back on ourselves because, over the years, Tampa has lost and rebuilt its station and rail lines and, like the rest of America’s rail network, it has played second fiddle to the frenetic fanaticism of flying. Now, instead of having its own dedicated service up into America, Tampa passengers – all 300,000 of them a year – rely on the Miami train to deviate hours out of its way to pick them up.
Indeed, my own journey would likely have been different had I undertaken it just two days later, when the Silver Star and the Capitol Limited were due to “temporarily” merge to take passengers from Miami all the way to Chicago instead of up to New York. This sort of thing is common in the rail network’s history, as different infrastructure around the country is maintained, and trains have to reroute to accommodate the work. 
It should never take five hours to get between Palm Beach and Orlando, which was my experience by 7 p.m. on a Thursday evening. But I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn’t a journey about speed. This was a journey about the journey.
With that in mind, I hopped off the locomotive, searching for a smoker from whom I could bum one. I found Seamus, a 5’9, red-flannel-clad, scruffy chap from Virginia, who shared a cigarette with me and told me I had the name of a terrorist. I couldn’t bring myself to make an IRA-Seamus joke, and I doubted he would get it anyway. Instead, I told him it reminded me of Back to the Future (part three, sadly). As we got back on the train, he offered to share another with me at Cary, North Carolina, the next morning. It turns out Cary isn’t a smoking stop, though who knows if that stopped him. I didn’t step out to find out.
By 8:35PM, I had my second meal—a surprisingly tasty roast chicken breast with green beans, carrots, and a bed of buttery mashed potatoes. The food was palatable, but the wine—some offensive Cab Sauv—was not. Word to the wise: bring your own. Shortly after, I felt the lack of sleep from the past three days take hold, and I summoned the attendant to show me how to make the bed.
THE SLEEP OF 1000 MARTYRS?
“You should watch the YouTube videos about this so you can do it yourself next time,” said the man who had previously complained that no one tipped him anymore while claiming he didn’t want to make my bed. I played it off, pretending to hardly hear him, so he had to do it anyway. And yes, I tip.
It wasn’t the rocket science of some of the new lay-flat plane beds, either. A few kicks on some metallic pedals under the seat, and you’ve got a decently wide, highly comfortable mattress with a top sheet, a blanket, and even two pillows. Well, you’d have one if you were traveling in pairs and bunking.
I quickly adjusted the airflow in the room—another surprisingly customizable feature—and drew all the curtains before changing into my pajamas and hitting the night light. I didn’t like the night light. It’s blue, for a start, and seems more likely to be built for children afraid of the dark rather than adults trying to sleep but still seeing in an emergency. So, I turned it all off instead. Pitch black. Perfect.
The rocky nature of the rails jolted me awake a few times in the night, but luckily (ha), we were delayed, stationary for several hours while I slept, so I managed to get in a few good hours. The noise inside the train at night was virtually non-existent. Even when people were walking back and forth past my cabin door, I could barely hear them. If I could improve anything, it would be to try to limit the jolts at night. Though not being an engineer, I can’t tell you if they’ve already done all they can.
BREAKFAST…
…was too early, between 6 and 9AM, so I missed it. I lay in a little, and at 9:30AM, grabbed my toiletry bag and made for the shared shower room toward the back of the sleeper car. Towels were provided, and the limp water was almost ice cold. Maybe everyone had used all the hot. I didn’t enjoy myself. Maybe that’s the point. Can’t have people like me spending 25 minutes under a nice hot shower in the morning. But it served its function. I got dressed in my roomette and spent most of the rest of the trip working.
LUNCH 2.0.
The dining car was virtually empty every time I visited, which is was it was strange that the attendant (a different one) sat me at the same booth as a lonely-looking older man. As a result, we both knew we were being forced to interact. 
“Hi, I’m Brad,” he said first, offering his hand, which looked like it might have been dirty but amazingly wasn’t. Brad was probably in his late 60s to mid-70s. He had a neatly buzzed hairstyle, with most of the front receding. His teeth looked like they sat in two rows each, such had they grown all over the place inside his mouth. As a result, Brad spat food when he spoke. 
Brad doesn’t drive. He’s never driven. He was stunned when I told him that I am the same. “You don’t meet many people like us,” he exclaimed. I was crestfallen. Is Brad my future? He kept talking. A lot. I didn’t mind. He was at least interesting.
Brad’s dead father made him promise not to ever drive, use a computer, or use the internet. So he never has. He travels via bus and train and was a self-described favorite of the drivers back home in Oxnard, California. Brad recently moved in with a friend of his (Brad bought a house for them both) in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He said his friend traveled with him, but there was no sign of anyone else. His room was on the way to mine, and I spied an old Sony Walkman on the seat. That was all he could use to entertain himself. Brad says his eyesight isn’t very good anymore, so I helped him determine the mustard from the hot sauce for his burger, which he curiously devoured by nibbling in concentric circles. I had a grilled cheese, the worst of all the food I had tried so far. Soggy, ham-less, and uninspired, it had all the personality of the waitress who slapped it down in front of me. The dessert brownie, on the other hand, was another delightful but likely wildly unhealthy treat.
Brad had worked in two hobby shops all his life and bemoaned the one he left before retirement. 
“The owner’s son took out all the planes and rockets and trains and just replaced it all with radio-controlled cars,” he said twice. Brad really doesn’t like cars, and he really doesn’t enjoy being hurried with anything. Not his food, not his speech, and certainly not his travel.
I started to get the impression that Brad had maybe killed his father and maybe even his friend. I picked up my cell phone, which he had kept sneering at, and went back to my room to pack for my arrival in D.C. 
IN BRAD’S DEFENCE.
Maybe it isn’t Brad who’s the weirdo despite his very weirdo traits. Maybe it’s us who are the sheltered ones. Stuck in priority boarding lanes with our heads buried in our phones, we rarely encounter men like Brad or Seamus anymore. We keep our circles tight and travel on the basis of convenience rather than experience. Then we complain when the old world we want humming along as the background music to our lives no longer exists. It’s because we let it die. And I worry that unless America’s rail network gets a new infusion of patronage, it too will be gone forever. 
As I finish writing this, I’m pulling into Old Town, Alexandria. One stop from Washington, D.C.’s Union Station, and the next “smoke stop” along the way. Perhaps I’ll see Seamus and doff him my cap. Brad changes trains in D.C. and heads to Chicago before changing again and traveling down to New Mexico. He has as long a journey ahead of him as he does behind him. And it’s clear as day that he likes it that way.
So here’s the measure of it, which has run almost 26 hours now: would I do this trip again? Absolutely.

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