Shame is No Longer a Virtue (modern_gent) wrote, @ 2007-01-24 20:13:00

Trains and Train Stations

It may come as a surprise to those too young to recall that passenger trains and their stations once occupied a detail of urban life so opulent that, to look at it all retrospectively, seems almost incomprehensible. Currently, public transportation represents to the modern commuter and traveler, the crowning stroke of one-sided, utilitarian functionality coupled with little – if any – aesthetic form. The railroad was once the majestic monopoly of travel, reflecting in its design and services, the impeccable mannerisms of the Victorian and Edwardian lifestyles. How have we gone from the height of ornamental civil engineering, to something indistinguishable from the joyless Greyhound bus and its squalid station?

The obvious answer lies in the reality that commercial air travel became more accessible and affordable, rendering recreational train travel all but obsolete. The gradual wane of revenue required to offset an exorbitant overhead lead to bankruptcy, and eventual federal subsidizing. With such conveniently damning factoids out of the way, we can now agonize over how this has contributed to the downfall of the mores of civilization. After all, this isn’t an encyclopedia.

Not coincidentally, the early 1960’s saw both the boom of air travel and the systematic razing of palatial, metropolitan train stations. Structures that were once among the definitive, architectural jewels of their respective cities were not only destroyed, but replaced with low-budget fabrications resembling post-war, modernist roach motels. The hallowed concourses – that simultaneously inspired visitors and welcomed returning commuters – elegantly swallowed the throngs of travelers, who likely wished for a spare moment to gaze at the Sistinesque ceilings. Gilded tunnels seemed to yawn into infinity, providing patrons with a seemingly endless array of outfitters and eateries.

Two of the most substantial losses were London’s original Euston Station in 1962, and New York City’s original Pennsylvania Station in 1964. Below are the telling “before and after” pictures that are so grotesquely unnerving that, one may rightfully subscribe to the notion that we have truly regressed into a Planet of the Apes-like putrescence of counter-evolution.



The Crown Jewel of Camden!




The Dudley brand toilet with no water in the bowl.




What boy doesn't dream of riding on this testament to human achievement?




The Lord God in brick and mortar.




Welcome to New York City, you goof.


Unbeknownst to some, train travel still exists today, to some extent. However, it is almost unrecognizable as such when contrasted with what existed as recently as seventy years ago. Little else in the modern history of humanity has been so unabashedly husked of all its pomp and glory like that regarding trains and train travel. To put into perspective exactly what has changed, we will now recount a recent jaunt via rail from Portland, Oregon to Seattle Washington in December of 2006. Tally-ho!

From the onset, the situation seemed surprisingly encouraging. Portland’s Union Station (c. 1896) retains about as much of its original grandeur as one can realistically expect. It is difficult for the amateur eye to decipher tasteful updates to the ornamental lighting fixtures with their original counterparts. And one is to believe that even the baggage trolleys are allegedly the originals. Relatively speaking, there seems to be some renewed semblance of appreciation for Beaux-Arts architecture in the U.S. That’s not to suggest that one should anticipate a rebirth of self-respectful aestheticism in our lifetimes, but the wanting attempt is laudable, if not trite.

Here ends, forthwith, The Experience Positive.

After discovering that what we were sitting adjacent to in the waiting area was actual personage – and not just a snowdrift of soiled, pup tent-sized casual wear haplessly draped over human-esque orbs of misery – we set forth to wait in the boarding line, amongst a queue of Wal*Martian, stylistic street urchins. Apparently, dressing like a dignified, adult male foreknowing that he would appear in public is now regarded as carnival and novelty. I received looks that one might expect upon entering a boxing ring donning a Rococo powdered wig, false beauty mark and ruffled knickerbockers. Inversely, the lack of attention drawn by the grown woman dressed literally in her pyjamas who dragged through the concourse (along with her character) a tattered and miserable pillow, assured me that shame truly is no longer a virtue.

And, lo! up pulled what evidently was the train, and not – as my wife suggested – a sordid caravan of upended portable potties, ceremoniously en route to their final resting grounds (an elephants’ graveyard of blue, plastic, human achievement, if you will). However, after entering the coach and swiftly observing the antiseptic odor spilling out from the lavatory, I was lead to believe that maybe she was right. But what luck that the door to the seating area operates mechanically by itself! For I was just complaining the day prior how philistine in nature be the act of turning an actual doorknob. At least they forfeited any and all organic detail and ornament to afford us such forward-thinking technology. Bellissimo, Amtrak. Bellissimo.

We found our seats, which flanked our own private table. Before I go any further, let me clarify that every thing made in the last sixty-five years is not worth the toilet water it needs to be flushed with, into infinity. It seems that the watermark of craft and style in industrial design has been established by the “Little Tykes" line of plastic, children’s make-believe playwear. Herein, I will most likely refer to the “Little Tykes” phenomenon frequently.



Wood is no longer wood. Wood is now veneer, or plastic with wood grain-like detail. Brick is no longer brick. It is brick face. Nothing is ever anything but a fraudulent representation of things that were once commonplace, but now seemingly precious.

We return now to our private table. Our “Little Tykes” table. Our round-cornered (let’s try to avoid law suits wherever possible) planar seductress, built from an unrecognizable, artificial material. Shall I draw the fire-proofed (those pesky law suits again) poly-blend curtains, Milady? Beg pardon, they don’t appear to actually be functional. In fact, are they simply painted on to the injection molded plastic wall? Less work for me, to be honest. Ah, the conveniences of modernity. This is my vacation, mind you. A man shouldn’t be expected to open doors nor adjust stiff, itchy, Motel 6 bed spread-like curtains. Well, I am off to the lounge car for a drink and a pipe. What’s that you say? There isn’t? I can’t?

If you’ve never seen a late 19th Century Pullman dining car, you probably shouldn’t. The Pullman company produced some of the most lavish examples of Beaux-Arts industrial design. The Budd company, contrarily, has produced some of the most ghastly and appalling examples of modern engineering, rivaling the likes of anything that has ever been set before human eyes for public consumption. If there was truly an iota of shame remaining in even the innermost depths of the Collective Psyche Human, the design of anything that be currently graced with the Amtrak moniker, would never have even made its way out of the mind’s eye of its despicable creator.

That said, let’s sally to the Bistro Car. Please, allow me to open... Woah! That’s right. Automatic. This way, please. Be careful not to trip over any unoccupied shoes. You have to understand that this is a four-hour trip, and passengers expect and deserve to indulge in optimal comfort, regardless of their appearance. Comfort trumps all else in these shameless days.

In France, the word “bistro” suggests such fair as braised lamb shanks over garlic whipped potatoes, roast chicken smothered in rendered goose fat, a croque monsieur sandwich, or maybe just some brioche. A glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape to wash it down with sounds good, too. Let’s see what the Bistro Car has to offer. I think I smell Chateaubriand, which makes sense, since it is called the “Bistro Car”.

Lesson 1: If you ever think, for one instance, that anything in the physical world just might posses a single positive facet of its own existence, you need to reassess your entire juvenile, Pollyannian perspective of humanity.

Needless to say, the Amtrak Bistro Car is little more than a vending machine with an attendant. More could and should be said about it, but you will be spared the details, as we move directly to the Lounge Car.

As I waited in line to buy pre-packaged swill and offal amidst a line of the ‘walking wounded’, I couldn’t help but peak into what I believe was called the Lounge Car. Its resemblance to a Pullman Lounge Car ended with the fact that both possess wheels. Again, the discerning “Little Tykes” connoisseur would surely have recognized in the artisan design of the car’s storied interior, the nuanced curvature and “li’l loggz” patented wood grain bas-relief found throughout the “c1099-sv Laffy-Laff Frontier Fort” c. 1987. To use the most complimentary of terms I can muster, the Lounge Car possessed about as much charm, character and hospitability as a drunk tank jail cell coupled with the inimitable report of the feces-caked furniture in the dumpster behind a Hudson County, New Jersey Greek diner. It looked more like a place that you would send someone to punish them. Kind of like the present state of human existence.

Upon returning to our private table, I found that the entertainment had commenced. Ironically, the movie being shown was The Polar Express, Robert Zemeckis’s incredibly affected and idealistic portrayal of early 20th century steam engine train travel. As I watched the yucky digital children stiffly cavort betwixt their painstakingly pixilated Pullman’s, it made me think that maybe my entire perception of an era I never experienced first-hand may be somewhat bathed in false consecration. I then looked again at the curtain, nullifying the idea quicker than it was hatched.

As we approached Seattle’s King Street Station (c. 1906) my wife – God bless her – warned me that some legitimate remodeling had been done to the interior over the past fifty years. She stated that the ornate ceiling had been concealed by an oppressive drop ceiling of acoustic tiling, providing the traveler a feeling of being buried alive in his own sarcophagus. Looking up through a gap in the tiles, one can see the beautiful vaulted arches and colorful panels, making one feel like a boy peeking under the apron of a circus tent... that never ever opens. Ever.

Lesson 2: There are two types of civic architecture in the world: ‘Bad New’ and ‘Ruined Old’.

	(Anonymous) 2007-01-25 21:29 (link)
	I like it......but I'm a romantic....which is why From Russia with Love is my favorite Bond - the rest are comic books....adn why I still dress to fly....and why I hear Rogers and Hart whenever I'm near an old station.... My theory has to do with the collective nervous breakdown America suffered just after WWII. I'll explain when I see you.... (Reply to this) (Thread)

	(Anonymous) 2007-02-02 18:43 (link)
	wow you have a lot to say. it was pretty interesting stuff about the trains and all that and old time stuff and the like. you know it is kinda hard to read with those color combinations, not that i'm complaining but just a thought. thanks keep it up. (Reply to this) (Thread)