All That Corn
So, last month we traveled from Baltimore to Springfield, IL by train to see Lincoln’s house, something Tim has been wanting to do for the last five years. Our hotel was nice, they sold wine by the bottle in the bar downstairs (which we had in our room with dinner), and there were plenty of eating choices.
The overnight sleeping accommodations on the train were interesting to say the least (more on that later). On the 3-hour "Texas Eagle" train between Chicago and Springfield, the coach seats are on the upper level. Cursing under our breaths, we hauled our luggage up the steep narrow steps, not realizing we could have left it in a rack on the lower level. (Thanks Amtrak for not pointing that out right away.)
On the ride down from Chicago to Springfield, there was the Screaming Toddler from Hell in the seat ahead of us. On the ride back from Springfield to Chicago, there was no toddler but a guy sitting behind us chatting up various women on his mobile phone. TMI.
At one point we overheard him bemoaning one of the staples of the Midwest. “Corn. There’s nothing here but fields and fields of corn. I’m on the train going through East Bumfuck.” Then, a few minutes later: “I’m black. We don’t do that country shit.”
Couldn’t stop laughing at that one.