By evening, you’re chugging through upstate New York, and the scenery is genuinely stunning. Genuinely. You’ll see rivers, forests, and small towns that haven’t changed since your grandparents were young. But then the sun goes down, and you’re just staring at your own reflection in a dark window for the next eight hours.
Pro tip: Do not stare at the reflection too long. You might start hallucinating a beaver wearing a conductor’s hat. It’s happened to me—twice.
The Sleeping Car: A Luxury Broth of Awkwardness
If you’re smart (or rich), you splurge on a roomette. This is a tiny closet with a seat that folds into a bed the size of a yoga mat. The Amtrak employee, usually named Carol or Dave, will fold it down for you at 9 PM sharp, treating the operation like brain surgery. “Watch your fingers, hon.”
The beds are surprisingly comfy, as long as you don’t mind the train swaying like a drunk giraffe at 60 mph. Also, every four seconds, you hear the horn. It’s like falling asleep in a haunted house made of metal, but you’re warm.
