I'm currently riding from Providence, Rhode Island to Hartford, Connecticut on Amtrak's "expensive" train. I know that it's expensive because:

1) The guy at the ticket window told me it was "expensive," winked, and then chuckled a little

2) I paid the bill

I though it would be an improvement on the time that I spent curled up in the fetal position on a little tiny seat in the coach section of an Airbus 319 for most of today, but then anything would be. The coach section of an Airbus 319, particularly under the command of the evidentially frugal NW Airlines, is itself only a slight improvement on the "general seating" area of the ships used by white slave traders several centuries ago, and the only improvement, really, is that the ride is shorter.

I thought I'd treat myself to a first class ticket on the train. I've never done anything "first class" before, so I had some high expectations. On TV, first class of any given transport generally looks a little bit like a piece of heaven designed to move people on earth from one place to another.

First class on Amtrak's "expensive" train to Hartford, however, is more like a piece of a Hallmark store designed to move people from one place to another, and it looks like somebody forgot to sweep before opening up. Everything's plastic, and nothing is clean. It's odd since it seems that most surfaces in here could be taken to with a fire hose without inflicting any damage.

It makes me wonder what "coach" is like on this train. I imagine an open-air cabin that is mysteriously perpetually heated to 130 degrees Fahrenheit, and passengered by people's farm animals and a few lepers. They're singing old songs of agony, and are surrounded by the sick and the hungry. In one of the cars, a goat is nibbling at someone’s lunch, and that someone doesn't realize it because he's unconscious in the dying throes of the last stages of malaria. Chicken feathers are flying through the air. A weeping woman dabs her husband's sweaty, glistening forehead with an oily rag. He's drenched with fever, and she doesn't know how she's going to get by if he doesn't survive the journey to...

...Hartford.

By the way - if you're ever fortunate enough to find yourself on the "expensive" train to Hartford, I recommend the chicken. It's extremely juicy. The chef wouldn't divulge his secret, but I suspect the magic is that he only microwaves the chicken for half as long as most other places do, thus preventing it from getting dried out.

As a bonus, the rolls are thawed to perfection.