Three if by train

Public transportation allows for the traveller to get a good sense of who really lives in the country. This is particularly true if you take, say, the ex-con friendly Greyhound bus in America. When Erika came in, it was cheaper to land at Heathrow International Airport in London, rather than the considerably closer Birmingham International Airport in Birmingham. This requires two trains and a subway trip to get here totally approximately six hours among the English and Welsh.

The two trains are run by alternate companies: Arriva Trains, which run from Aberystwyth to Birmingham and the Virgin Trains from Birmingham to London. The difference could not be more stark. The Virgin trains are clean, modern, have well lit cabins and toilets. Each seat has an electronic message board that informs the potential rider if the seat is available or reserved. The tables are clean and the floor isn't suspiciously sticky with random food stuffs left behind by the previous riders. The Arriva Trains, on the other hand, are like a war torn version of the Virgin Trains. The seats are faded and worn, threadbare in places, the stuffing pushing through the seats. On the return trip from London, the floor was covered in a mess of food that was at times crunchy, at other times soggy. There are no electronic messages letting people know which seats are taken and which are not.

The scenery that the two trains go through is also in stark contrast. Most of the time, I leave or arrive in Aberystwyth too late or early to really see what the country side looks like, but the Arriva Train tends to weave its way through hills and sheep farms. The landscape is gorgeous: rolling hills, dotted by the occasional village full of ancient houses and pubs. The sheep fields push right up to the train lines, and they stand and watch the trains go by, idly chewing the grass. The sheep were a particular interest for Erika, who has spent most of her life in the suburbs of Chicago where sheep are not a regularly seen. She was a bit exhausted from the time change when we left London, so she slept through the English country side, but said, "Wake me when there are going to be some sheep." Once in the sheep-infested country side of Wales, she would squeal each time a collection of sheep were close enough to the train to see clearly, especially so if there were lambs with them.
"OH! Look at the babies! They are so cute, the baby sheepies!"
"I know. Don't they look delicious?"
"They don't eat those cute things do they?"
[Pause]
"Right? They don't?"
"Oh no, Erika. Those live long, fulfilling lives. With names and houses and things."
"Good. I wonder what the funerals look like..."
I am pretty sure the jaded Welsh on the train were getting a little annoyed with her youthful exuberance, but the lambs were pretty cute. They would stand by the fence watching the train approach, and then once the train went roaring past, they would take off running in all directions, looking over their shoulders to see if the train was following. I couldn't tell if they were scared or were playing some game the train was not aware of.

The Virgin Trains cut a straight swath through Central England, which is not unlike Central Illinois: flat farm land stretching away in either direction for miles, coupled with dingy industrial towns where the sky and the buildings are a sort of sooty gray color. Because London is such a congested city, there are not a whole lot of semi-truck traffic, and these trucks are then routed to the major cities around London (like Birmingham and Rugby). This makes for a less than attractive train ride, but luckily, the train is so luxurious that it doesn't matter what the scenery looks like.

The Virgin Trains, traveling between major cities in England, calls at several stations, and there is never a question why. The stations are huge, centrally located and occupied by dozens of tired looking business travelers. Birmingham New Street is particularly crowded. On my train ride in January, when I first arrived, I got off at Birmingham New Street which is after the stop for the Birmingham Airport. This time, as the train pulled in to the Airport station, I noticed that Erika's ticket said we needed to transfer there. I hustled her off the train and boarded the Aberystwyth Train across the platform. We were two of maybe six passengers that got on the train there, and immediately found seats in the wheelchair priority seats. This afforded us some killer leg room, though we did feel guilty for taking a seat intended for the friends of crippled passenger. We told ourselves, had someone in a wheel chair boarded the train, we would move, but I know I silently prayed for that not to happen.

It turned out that was a good decision, as half of Birmingham boarded the train at New Street. It was standing room only on the train, and there was a group of rather boisterous men that standing in the hallway by the bathroom cheering the users on.
"How was your trip?"
"Shut up."
"You were in there a long time for it not to be enjoyable."
"I said, shut up!"
These people glared at us in our splendor, spread out with our legs fully extended as they perched in the luggage compartments, and between seats. Once we got to Shrewsbury, though, everyone had their own seat.

The Arriva train, though, makes some rather strange stops, namely Dovey Junction. This is literally a platform in a bog. There is one house on the south side of the tracks, and it looks abandoned. Otherwise, marshy lands stretch as far as the eye can see, running into hills and that roll in to more hills. I have never once seen anyone get on the train at Dovey Junction. The platform looks immaculate, with new benches and a rain pagoda. On the train back from London, one guy got off at Dovey Junction. The train pulled away into the encroaching darkness and he stood by himself on the platform, surrounding by nothing with nothing coming to get him.

Public transportation is always sketchy when it comes to timing arrivals. I sort of find it absurd the times they give for trains: Leaving Aberystwyth at 5:24 and arriving in Birmingham at 7:12. That is an awfully specific time for something that travels several hundred miles and stops at several stations. The Arriva trains are never on time. They are much closer to the time than Amtrak trains, which are almost criminally late, but still, there is about a five to ten minute leeway for the Arriva trains.

The Virgin Trains, though, must be run by some local Germans because they are amazingly punctual and efficient. We left Birmingham and were supposed to arrive in the London Euston station at 2:14, and as I got off the train, the clock read 2:14. It stopped three times, took about an hour and a half and landed in the train at exactly 2:14. The train master was pleased with himself and instructed us all to tell everyone we know that the trains run on time. So there: I have fulfilled my civic duty. Virgin Trains run on time. Not a minute late or early.

Despite the cleanliness, the punctuality, the ease of travel, the scenery and all that, the most interesting part of the train are the people. On Amtrak trains, all the seats face in the same direction, and you will, at most, have to suffer through one other person's company. Americans can sometimes be horrible isolationist, and I know I suffer from the same problem. I hate when someone sits next to me on the Amtrak of Metra trains. I want to ride the train in silence, reading my book or listening to my iPod. Certainly not talking to a stranger, making an acquaintance.

The English and Welsh trains demand communication with other people. Most of the chairs are clustered around a table, seating four people at a table. If you sit there, you could be force to interact with three other people, kicking each other under the table, sharing experiences, making small talk about the price of coffee on the train, and other terrible situations. On the way out there, I shared space with a girl who listened to her iPod and annotated music she was listening to. On almost every trip someone reads the paper, brushing you with the pages as he or she turns the page. The two young men across from Erika and I shared their chocolate snacks with us, and in another trip someone asked us if we knew any Damien Rice songs to help him with his cross-word puzzle. On one trip I was saddled with someone who purposefully dressed like a Highlander (his crutches finishing the look, appearing like swords - which raised an interesting question: why would you wear knee high leather platform boots while on crutches?).

And the booze always gets me. America has an odd relationship with it's booze. There are certain stigmas attached with drinking in certain places, and people drinking on the train are not people one would normally want to associate with. Everyone on the train was drinking. I saw one woman nurse a beer while doing complicated marketing assignments. The two with the chocolate snacks drank an eight back of 18 oz. cider ales. The food trolley sells three different ales or ciders, and the sweets counter in the Virgin Trains sells a wide array of hard drinks. I took an Amtrak train to Galesburg once, and someone sat drinking Budweisers from cans the entire three hour trip and I remember everyone whispering about how he must have been an alcoholic to be drinking that early, and on the train. In England and Wales, no one bats an eye as two college age men crack a beer at 11:30 in the morning on the train.

I could drive over here. I could rent a car and drive out to Heathrow or Birmingham, but why? The trains are relatively punctual (amazingly punctual if on a Virgin Train), safe, and full of colorful people. What better way to experience life in England that to ride a train with a cross-section of society?