So, I said Friday. I meant Monday. I didn’t count on the fluish bug-like thing I got over the weekend. Figures.

We picked up the train Wednesday evening. And while the trip down was delightful, the trip north felt like a harbinger of doom. Somehow we ended up in a car with 4 drunk frat boys who were perpetually confused about what seat belonged to them, a baby who was better behaved than the drunkies, a couple of students who apparently thought bathing was optional but boozing was not, and a self proclaimed “hobo” who regaled his seat-mate with every recipe he knew and when he wasn’t doing that he was whistling. Or reciting lyrics of folk songs. His seat-mate was a 60ish woman who giggled at every comment he made, batted her eyelashes like a school-girl, and punctuated every sentence with an exclamation!  They spent all day and all night talking, loud enough for the whole car to hear them. Apparently, we all needed to hear about Tarragon at 6 am. (TARRAGON! It’s a miracle spice, who knew!!) But when the guy in front of us left open a movie player while he went out to  chain-smoke, she lost it. She stopped flirting with her “Bard” long enough to give the guy’s seatmate an earful until he politely told her, “uh, not my player, lady.” Well! Humph! She stomped back to her seat. “Tarragon did you say? How marvelous! You truly are amazing!”

Twenty-one hours of this and you kinda go insane. Coping mechanisms are required. Here’s how I got through.

Surviving the train, part two:

1. Earplugs, baby. EARPLUGS.
2. When those fail, and trust me they will, pumping sound in becomes necessary. Hello ipod. My only regret was not having more new music loaded on to mine. On the down side, I’ve listened to the new Coldplay long enough to consider Chris Martin a close personal friend. And uh, Chris, your tunes are terribly catchy, if pedantic. But the title? Uh? SRSLY? Viva la vida or Death and all his friends? I’m going to stop now, because I feel snarky. And I don’t think our relationship is stable enough for you hear what I really think. And lately, I’ve been feeling like our relationship is very one sided.
3. What was it I was saying about insanity?
4. Oh right, coping mechanisms. My nose is my guide. And its built-in geo-locator suggested that our seats were located in a truck-stop bano. I’d suggest you bring along a gas mask, but I suspect the train people would frown on such anti-social behaviour on your part. In fact, I see the whole thing playing out like this:

Train Conductor: “Miss you can’t wear a gas mask on the train.”

You: “That’s MS, tyvm, and it smells like a urinal in here.”

Train Conductor: “But it scares the other passengers!”

You: “Perhaps. But they scare me. (pointing violently to the seat behind you) THAT MAN smells like pee and tequila.”

Train Conductor: “I’m sorry, Miss, but you can’t wear that! There are children on board.”

You: “See, I’m glad you brought that up. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this. Have you noticed that you’ve put ONE child in every car. It’s like a chain reaction. Baby in front car starts crying and the others follow suit. Right on down the line.  Seriously, haven’t you ever considered a kid-friendly car?  And while we’re on the subject, the smokers and frat boys need their own car too. They can . . .”

Train Conductor: “Miss, it’s you who needs a private car. Since you don’t have one, take off that mask or get off the train.”

See, I told you it wouldn’t go well.  Personally, I think the train service is missing a golden marketing opportunity by not selling gas masks with their logo on it. But since you can’t have a gas mask, might I suggest you have something that smells good in  your carry-on luggage. In my case it was my traveling pillow. I’m allergic to lavender, so I scented the buckwheat in my pillow with vanilla sandalwood oil. YUM. And while it didn’t completely mask the college dorm urinal smell, it did a great deal to cut down on the stench.

5.  Bring a sense of humor.  When it all else fails just remember, you can’t make this stuff up. But nothing says you can’t write about it, either. It’s all blog fodder, right?