No TSA Lines on the Train
A 20-hour adventure on the Southwest Chief from Los Angeles to New Mexico
I have always wanted to travel in the United States by train. Recently, I had the time, the excuse, and, more importantly, no better option. The week before I boarded the Southwest Chief from Los Angeles to New Mexico, I attended the Academy Awards. I mention this not to brag but because I think it’s important context for everything that follows.
From Redondo Beach to Union Station
“How long is the train ride from LA to New Mexico?” my Lyft driver Sal asked, already sounding skeptical.
We were stuck in traffic leaving Redondo Beach, inching toward Union Station. Before we even hit the freeway, I knew that Sal was from Georgia (the country), had been laid off from Tesla two months ago, had two kids (one in high school, one in college), and was hungry because he’s been skipping lunch to save money.
He’d almost not taken me. When he pulled up and saw my suitcase, he stayed in the car, rolled down the window, and asked where I was going.
“Downtown? You crazy?! That’s gonna take two hours!”
Google Maps said one. I hoped it wasn’t two, otherwise I’d miss my train.
He sat there for a moment.
“Are you going to cancel or take me?” I finally asked.
“Okay okay, I’ll take ya,” he said, as if he was doing me a favor.
He got out slowly, bad back, he said, so I helped him lift my suitcase into the trunk.
“What ya got in here, bars of gold?! You strong lady.”
No gold, Sal. Just a dress I wore to the Academy Awards the week before, crumpled beneath a pair of Frye boots for a wedding in New Mexico with a "Southwestern chic" dress code.
“How long is the train ride from LA to New Mexico?” Sal asked, already sounding skeptical.
“Twenty hours,” I told him.
“Twenty hours? You crazy?! Why don’t you just fly?”
Fair question. Flying wasn’t exactly appealing.
First off, it’s not a good moment for air travel. Security lines are hours long, TSA agents are quitting, ICE agents stepping in, and air traffic controllers walking out. My expedited passport hadn’t arrived, and my Real ID had gotten lost in the mail. The DMV accidentally punched a hole in my driver’s license, so all I had was a temporary paper license, which is not a TSA approved form of identification. A one-way flight from LA to New Mexico was $400, more than double what it usually costs, basically what I paid to fly from Buenos Aires to Miami. There was a perfect storm of unfortunate circumstances, all pointing in the same direction. I’d always wanted to take a long train out west. I had time. I didn’t need to be anywhere quickly.
“How much the train cost you?” Sal asked.
“About a hundred dollars. Which is only thirty more than this Lyft ride.”
Sal went quiet for a second.
“What?!” he said. “I only make twenty dollars from this ride! Lyft takes everything. You should have told me and we’d make a deal. You coulda paid me fifty.”
We had an hour together. I could have put my headphones in, but there was something endearing about Sal. So I chose to engage in the conversation. He talked about being laid off, the cost of living, and asked me a lot about life in Argentina, as if he was considering moving there.
By the time we pulled up to Union Station, Sal said he was very glad he picked me up.
“You are very smart lady, I learned a lot from you” he said, lifting my suitcase out of the trunk. “Most ladies stay inside, afraid to go out. You are very brave.” He paused. “Don’t forget to tip me.”
A Window Seat
I walked into Union Station, awed by the Art Deco architecture, terracotta tile, beamed ceilings, the sense that travel used to mean something, and made my way to the Southwest Chief track.
I’d gotten there early because seating was first come, first served. Or so I thought.
“Can I please have a window seat?” I asked Nick, a young Amtrak conductor holding a hand-drawn seating chart.
He studied it, furrowed his brow.
“We’ve got a busy train today, I don’t have any window seats left.”
What?!
I started to spiral. The whole reason I’d come on this train was to stare out the window for twenty hours. That was the entire plan!
“Are you sure?!”
Nick shrugged.
I boarded anyway with my suitcase and Trader Joe’s bag full of snacks. I climbed up to the second level and immediately saw rows of empty window seats. I took mental notes like I was casing the place, seat numbers, angles, potential views, then doubled back to Nick.
I told him it was my first time on the train, that the window meant everything to me, that I was technically a journalist doing this for “work,” and that my life would be ruined if he didn’t give me a window seat. Please, Nick. Your fate is in my hands.
Nick sighed, patient but firm. He explained his system: couples and families grouped together, they get priority. He tries to pair women together, so a window seat couldn’t guarantee a female next to me. “Y’all are a rare breed around here,” he said, meaning single women traveling alone, as though I needed a reminder.
I pointed to a few seats on his chart that were empty. “That’s a four,” he said. “Saving it in case a family gets on.” “That one?” “Reserved for a couple.” “What about here?” I asked, my last hope. He hesitated, then erased and penciled me in.
“But I’m not responsible if you end up next to a creep,” he called after me as I left.
I travel alone all the time. I take precautions. I stay aware. But being trapped next to someone unsavory on a twenty-hour train ride somehow hadn’t even occurred to me. I filed it away and hoped for the best.
I climbed back up and found my new seat: a window, technically, though half the view was obstructed by the wall panel. I was not going back down there a third time. The seat reclined generously with plenty of legroom, a tray table, and power outlets but no USB ports, like being dropped back into the ‘90s, and I liked it.
The train started moving. For the first two stops nobody sat next to me. I took this as a sign from the universe and immediately ate my messy snacks: onigiri, hand rolls dipped in soy sauce and Sriracha mayo, sweet and sour shrimp, inari sushi from Tokyo Central, the Japanese grocery store I’d gone to that morning, plus a Topo Chico hard seltzer. Half the fun of any long journey is the snack situation. Amtrak wouldn’t be a Japanese bullet train experience, but at least I’d be on brand with the snacks.
I'd planned to listen to an American West Spotify playlist, atmospheric and appropriate. Instead I put on the new Ca7riel and Paco Amoroso album, currently my obsession, replacing my intense Bad Bunny era, and listened to Paco's smooooth ha ha haaaaas aaahs as I watched the last of Los Angeles palm trees disappear out my half-obstructed window.
The Observation Car
A few stops in, more people started boarding, mostly groups who looked like either Amish or Mennonites, I wasn’t sure which. It was nearly sunset. I figured someone would end up next to me soon. I grabbed my Topo Chico. Time to see what this train was about.
Train rides do something plane rides don’t. People talk. Not small talk, real conversations, the kind that skip a few steps and land somewhere personal before you’ve even learned each other’s names. On a plane, I stick my headphones in, avoid eye contact, and pray nobody wants to chat. On a train, no one is in a hurry. There’s time. A kind of patience you don’t find anywhere else. And a cast of characters I couldn’t invent if I tried. Everyone has a story, and the conversation always starts the same way: where are you from, where are you headed, why the hell are you taking the train.
The observation car is the living room of the Southwest Chief. Officially called the Sightseer Lounge, it’s found on most long-distance double-decker trains west of Chicago — panoramic windows on both sides, tables, seats facing outward, everyone looking at the same landscape from slightly different angles. The ceiling curves up into skylights, so the light doesn’t just come through the windows, it comes from above too. This was what I had envisioned. I suddenly felt bad about making such a fuss with Nick.
One end of the observation car was already loud and social. I planted myself in the middle. Close enough to join in the action if I wanted to, far enough to stay out of it. Headphones in, nothing playing, eavesdropping on everything.
From the far end I could already hear him — mid-fifties, red hat, ponytail, watermelon shirt, holding court like he owned the car. “I’ve been zapped too many times. I'd lick my fingers and stick them in light sockets as a kid, and BAM! No hair, no eyebrows. The seventies, man. Crazy times.” Then, to someone nearby: “You want a beer? You’re sitting next to the right guy. The name’s Paul Grey. I like to go formal these days.”
He glanced around the car with genuine satisfaction. “This is where you find the honest, down to earth people. Right here, man. On this fucking train.”
Paul Grey was the kind of man who would offer you a drink, life advice, the shirt off his back, and maybe get you arrested within the hour.
The car filled up around him. He broke the ice. Conversations overlapped.
There was Harley, twenties, flowered tube dress, blonde with pink and blue hair, a self-proclaimed cat lady from Arizona. “Nothing ever happens where I live,” she said. She mentioned she was sober, then accepted a beer without missing a beat.
Two young musicians from California said they’d taken the train partly for the adventure, and partly, I suspected, because airlines charge a fortune to check instruments.
A man from Las Vegas, New Mexico, who cruised around in a lowrider, recommended local dishes with conviction. “You’ve gotta try sopapillas and green chile. Trust me.”
A man in his sixties, light blue polo shirt, recently laid off, was riding all the way to New York to see his son. He’d never taken the train before. Figured, why not go all out and travel cross country.
A pregnant woman, 33, on her eighth child, traveled with one little kid who had never been on a train and could not have been more excited about it.
The Amish sat at tables with spiral notebooks, writing or speaking quietly among themselves, drinking Minute Maid apple juice.
There was a guy in a Pikachu hat, two older couples deep into a card game, a man FaceTiming on full volume with no headphones for what felt like the entire state of California.
No one seemed particularly surprised by anyone else. It’s harder to pretend to be someone else when you’re stuck somewhere for 20 hours. Then someone slid into the empty seat next to me.
“Beer?” A hand extended. “Paul Grey. I like to go formal these days.”
I acted as if I hadn’t already heard the whole introduction from across the car. I passed on the beer.
“I’m ripe like a melon all the time,” he said. “I love to eat and drink the sauce.” He launched into his inventory: beer, whiskey, wine for later, French press coffee.
“I know how to take the train. Six times in three months. I’m a vet.” He leaned in. “You gotta make a reservation for the dining car, three courses, 40 bucks. Breakfast is $20. Or you go downstairs to the café counter if you need ice.” He paused.
“I like to save money, so I brought my own skillet. Sunrise, I plug it in, eggs and bacon for anyone who wants some. I like to share.” He gestured around the car. “Y’all picked the right train to be on, with the right guy. Just holler if you want something.”
A week earlier I’d been at the Academy Awards with Hollywood A-listers. Now I was on a long-distance train with a man who had electrocuted himself repeatedly as a child explaining how to fry bacon in a moving vehicle. I genuinely could not tell you which experience felt more surreal, yet I was starting to think both environments ran on similar logic.
“Sometimes the conductors get mad about frying bacon,” he said. “Sometimes they stay cool. Cuz who doesn’t like the smell of bacon sizzzlin’, AM I RIGHT brothaaah?” He lifted his hand to the lowrider guy from Las Vegas, New Mexico for a fiver. The man enthusiastically reciprocated. “Right on man! I love bacon, too.”
The palm trees thinned and gave way to Joshua trees. The sky went amber, then rust, then a deep copper that seemed almost artificial, too vivid, like it was AI generated. The light came through the windows and filled the car. Paul Grey was still talking, I overheard him say things like “I’ve seen some shit. It’s freaking wild out there man,” and “I spent my life busting my bump, now I own three properties with the missus.”
I turned my music on and looked out the window thinking: this is why I took the train. Just to sit still and move at the same time. No screens, no agenda, nowhere to be. Very few things in life let you do that.
The horizon held onto a thin line of bright orange, then let go. Then it was just dark. Then the train suddenly stopped.
“Anything can go wrong and it’s part of the adventure my friends,” Paul Grey announced as he went to investigate.
The Amtrak After Dark
Paul Grey came back with news: fire on the tracks somewhere ahead, could be a while. It happened to him a few months ago and the train was delayed five hours. He sat down heavy, his knee already bouncing. “I can’t sit still,” he said. “Never could. After a few hours I start going crazy.” He paused. “I need the company though. I can’t be alone. And I can never sleep on this thing.”
We waited about 45 minutes before the train lurched back to life.
Around 10 pm the conductor announced a fresh air break in Barstow, California. By fresh air, everyone understood, he meant cigarettes. Harley and Paul Grey were first off the train. I followed, stepping out into desert air that hit cold and refreshing after hours inside. Harley appeared next to me with a small round glass pipe.
“Want some?”
It did not look like it contained marijuana.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just ate an edible.”
Her eyes went wide. “OH. Lucky. You got any more?”
Earlier she announced she was sober. I decided not to enable. “Sorry, it was my last one.”
“Darnnn.” She took another hit and stared out at the desert and went back to Paul Grey, telling him how she’s really shy at first and rarely talks to new people, but once she starts, “I don’t shut the fuck up.” Mentally noted.
A few minutes later the conductor’s voice cut through everything: “ALL ABOARD. CIGARETTES OUT. GET ON THE TRAIN OR STAY HERE!!!!!!” The smokers stubbed out their cigarettes. We filed back on.
At my assigned seat, the woman next to me had fully committed to the night — blanket out, iPad resting on her chest, deeply asleep. I didn’t have the heart to wake her. I reached over carefully, grabbed my water bottle and phone charger, and took my things back to the observation car, where Paul Grey had produced a cribbage board and was teaching anyone who would listen how to play. He kept drinking.
At some point he migrated down to the café car and got into it with the young guy blasting Marvin Gaye working the counter — apparently he was on his break, trying to chat up some girl, and did not appreciate Paul Grey cock blocking with a cribbage tournament. It got heated, words were exchanged, and Paul Grey returned to the observation car and addressed us like a general addressing his battalion. “Y’all are my troops. If I get kicked off this train, y’all have my back? You gunna stand up for me, right?”
It was getting late. People started trickling back to their seats. Paul Grey’s audience got smaller. I’ve learned from years of nightlife that you never want to be the last one at the after party, there’s a beautiful art to knowing when it’s time to go home. I found an empty row near the observation deck and made the mistake of removing my Birkenstock clogs. The floor was wet. My socks absorbed this information immediately. I conducted a brief olfactory investigation of my left foot, and arrived at a verdict that it was probably coffee. I popped a clonazepam and tried to rest.
I hoped I’d wake up without a creep breathing in my face. Or worse, snoring. Or Nick standing over me pointing out that I was not in my assigned seat.
The Next Morning
I woke up at 5:25 am outside of Meteor City, Arizona, stiff and disoriented, and made my way to the observation car to watch the sunrise.
The Amish were already up. Of course they were. They sat at the tables with their tea, talking quietly. One woman had just come back from Mexico, she’d needed thyroid surgery and had gone across the border to get it done. Another talked about her dairy farm, forty cows, the rhythms of a life I couldn’t quite picture. A third explained why she liked bringing her children on these trips, to let them see the outside world, just enough, before bringing them back. I sat nearby and listened, thinking about what life would be like with no technology. Then I thought about the Harrison Ford movie Witness, and the Tim Allen Kirstie Alley movie For Richer or Poorer, and made a mental note to rewatch both.
Paul Grey was on the floor. Not in a seat. On the actual floor of the observation car, sleeping horizontal, surrounded by the remnants of the night. I was starting to suspect there would be no eggs and bacon breakfast.
Outside, the desert was doing something extraordinary. The sky went from black to deep blue to a thin line of gold along the horizon, and then all at once the sun came up over New Mexico and poured through the train, first in a single ray, then everywhere at once. Everything turned pink and copper and gold.
Paul Grey eventually got up off the floor. He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked how you look when the night has had its way with you, the specific combination of regret and dehydration that no amount of French press coffee can fix, not that there was any coffee. He started digging through the trash. When he noticed me watching he stopped and explained: he’d gotten into it with the café guy the night before, lost his temper, and thrown out his Tupperware of eggs and bacon in a fit of rage. Now he wanted it back.
“I gotta do better,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s what the guy in the café told me last night. I gotta do better about not complaining about their crappy service!” He kept muttering under his breath, the words blurring together.
The pregnant woman with seven children had been watching the whole thing. Without being asked, she walked over and stuck her hand into the trash. “I have small arms,” she said cheerfully. “Maybe I can find it.” She looked over at me and winked. “This isn’t the first time I’ve gone through the trash.” Her little daughter sat beside her, smiling, staring out the window, completely thrilled to be on a train and entirely unbothered by any of this. The Tupperware wasn’t there. They’d most likely taken out the trash overnight.
Paul Grey looked at his empty hands. “This is my last time on Amtrak,” he said. “I hate it here. This train sucks.”
And then he was gone. Stormed off somewhere into the train. The man who had broken the ice, gotten a car full of strangers talking, appointed himself social director of the Southwest Chief — the jolly was gone. What goes up must come down. The observation car felt noticeably quieter. A major shift in energy.
At Gallup I stepped off to get some air. When I got back on, Paul Grey was sound asleep in his seat, spread out, wearing a beanie with a baseball cap over it, passed the fuck out. I thought you couldn’t sleep on here, Paul?
Past Gallup the landscape started to feel familiar. I've been coming to New Mexico my whole life to visit family. I've driven this route, Route 66, I've flown over it, but I'd never seen it like this, slowly, from a train window. New Mexico calls itself the Land of Enchantment. From a train window, you understand why.
The Final Stretch
Albuquerque was the longest stop since Los Angeles. Thirty minutes, enough time to get off, stretch, walk around. Most people did. The ones continuing on to Kansas City streamed off the train looking for food, and a lot of them came back with roasted chicken. On the platform, people were selling Native American jewelry and crafts. More Amish families boarded. The passengers who’d been on since Los Angeles looked how I felt. The initial excitement was gone, the sense of adventure replaced by the simple desire to arrive.
The FaceTime man found me on the platform. He had his phone in his hand and was still FaceTiming someone. “I noticed your magnetic energy from across the train,” he said, and handed me a business card. Mystical Astrologist — Reader & Advisor. Specializing in reuniting loved ones, past present & future. Over 30 years of experience. “Me and my wife do readings. Give us a call.”
I got back on the train and looked out the window. Paul Grey was on the platform, wandering. He’d mentioned hitchhiking home from Albuquerque, but he didn’t look like a man with a plan. He looked like a man who’d drunk Long Island iced teas, then rum, then whiskey, then wine, gotten into a fight over cribbage, lost his eggs and bacon, and was now figuring out what came next. His bag hung heavy on his shoulder. The French press was in there. Probably the skillet too. I watched him until he disappeared. I hope he made it home okay.
I stared out the window and thought about my mother, who used to take the train back when it meant something different. She talked about the dining car, the white tablecloths, the way travel felt like an occasion worth dressing for. Her aunt once shared a car with Judy Garland and said she was lovely, and the family became Judy Garland fans because of it.
I thought about everyone I’d met over the last twenty four hours. All of us headed somewhere, all of us leaving somewhere, all of us in some kind of in-between. The Amtrak chugged along like it had all the time in the world, because it did. Maybe Paul was right. Maybe this is where you find the honest, down to earth people.
The train pulled into Lamy just after 1pm. Thirty minutes late, which for Amtrak felt like arriving early. My dad was in the parking lot waiting. I was relieved to see him. “So how was it, an adventure?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m glad I took it.” I paused. “I don’t think I’ll be doing it again anytime soon.”
I’d rather deal with TSA. And yet, I knew I’d remember that train far longer than any flight I’ve ever taken.
Beautiful Allie!
Taking my first long distance train ride on Amtrak, but just the auto-train. My guess is Paul or facsimile will not be aboard. Great writing, thanks Allie!