A Different Way to DC

Last week, my thirteen-year old son sent me a text about taking Amtrak to Washington, D.C. to attend a MLS soccer game. I’ve never traveled by Amtrak or attended a professional soccer game, so naturally I decided it was a good idea. In the past, I’ve had the pleasure of springing last-minute vacation plans on my son; most recently a 48-hour heads up that we were traveling to Big Sky country. So, I figured it was his turn.

The closest train station to Virginia Beach is tucked off of Warwick Blvd. in Newport News, a town once known primarily for its ship building prowess, but tends to make the news these days for random gang murders and drug arrests.

The Amtrak station itself is a boxy, beige colored building whose interior has the style and personality of a well-worn DMV office. Twenty or so black, airport gatestyle chairs take up the majority of the waiting area. Two Amtrak employees chat amongst eachother behind thick bullet-proof glass which could use a good squeegee. With tickets in hand, we found a seat among our future fellow travelers. Nearby, an overweight and farsighted woman does her best to decipher a crumpled crossword puzzle while others stare into space sipping coffee and waiting for, I hope, the proverbial “all aboard,” which by the way, never comes.

My son and I decide to wait outside when an Amtrak bus (who knew they made such a thing?) from Virginia Beach spilled about 40 travelers curbside. The bus driver quickly birthed luggage of varying sizes and shapes from its belly. Duffle bags, roller suitcases, beach umbrellas and surprisingly, two brand new white Styrofoam coolers which contain either freshly caught Virginia Beach seafood or human body parts. I pray for the former. A sunburned man in an orange tank top accompanied by two girls clad in pajama bottoms and t-shirts quickly gathers up the coolers, straps them to a luggage carrier and hurriedly heads in side. Perhaps this is a common occurrence, because I’m the only one who notices and thinks it odd. But then again, this is Newport News, and maybe it’s best to look the other way when encountering suspicious behavior.


A quick word about zone boarding, at least as it applies to the Amtrak Station in Newport News: Nowhere on your ticket does it tell you if you are to board from zone A, B, C, D, etc. When I saw the zone signs along the track, I inquired from one of the attendants behind that translucent bullet proof glass as to which zone I belonged, and she told me I was in “zone D” because “that’s the way we do it.” Turns out, everyone was assigned to zone D that morning. As the train backed into position, the procession of travelers shuffled quietly trackside; bags and children in tow making their way to down to “zone D.” It had that eastern-European, cold war refugee feel to it. I fully expected to see elderly women in babushkas clutching chickens and dreams for a better future but instead, here comes suspicious cooler guy.

I avert my eyes and help a older woman squeeze a four-foot wide suitcase through a two-foot wide train door. Luggage size, weight, or content are of no concern. Security is non-existent. If it can fit through the door, it can come along for the ride. Once we boarded, I was pleasantly surprised how roomy the train car was as compared to the claustrophobic confines of most airplanes. The isles, seats, windows and overhead compartment where twice a big. We had power outlets, tray tables, leg room and a snack car. We quickly found a couple of seats, stowed our backpacks and out of habit, I reached for seatbelts that didn’t exist. Fine by me. Also, there was no need to power down electronic devices, store tray tables or listen to flight attendants drone on about various exiting options.

We slowly pulled away from the Newport News station. The train swayed gently back and forth as we clickity-clacked our way down the tracks. Passengers did what passengers do: read, sleep, or cautiously navigate through conversations with total strangers about past and future travels. One lady was on her way to a business meeting, a young man was off to visit his father, and two teens the size and evidently the appetites of NFL linebackers waited impatiently for the snack car to open.

Between Newport News and Richmond, it appears that the major forms of industry are farming, manufacturing, and fencing in rusty machinery. These random monuments to industrial demise include gutted cars, extinct harvesting implements, and oddly shaped twists of iron and steel that, if plopped down in front of office buildings, would make fine works of art.

Train travel does allow one to take note of your surroundings. For me, traveling from Newport News to Richmond has always been in a car, where the view is always the same: A narrow strip of cracked concrete chock-a-block with cars and trucks, weaving through a trough of shrubs and trees. The only respites being exit ramps leading to convenience stores packed with over priced goodies and stressed out drivers. I find myself growing tired of the familiar to the point where I stop seeing things -- or even looking for things -- that might be of interest. A drive to work is a drive to work. The traffic looks the same. Buildings are just buildings. I arrive but don’t remember journey. It’s only when I get off the beaten path, travel to someplace entirely new that I become more aware of my surroundings. The search for new is the recognition of my own mortality. It’s a big world out there, and I want to see as much of it as possible before time stores the suitcase in the attic and announces it’s time to board at Gate Pearly.


After about an hour into our trip, we emerge on the open plains of the Richmond airport - pun intended - where our train’s power cut off twice, affording us a lovely view of planes taking off and landing. I commented to my son that an incident such as this would have dire affects if we were traveling by plane. Luckily, we powered up and made our slow approach to the Shockoe Slip area of Richmond and Main Street Station. Shockoe Slip earned its unusual name from the creek that once flowed through it. "Shacquohocan" was the Indian word for the large, flat stones at the mouth of the creek, and "slip" refers to the area's position on the canal basin where boats loaded their cargo.
One thing you notice as you inch your way to Main Street station – and I do mean inch – is the many dark red brick buildings that greet our arrival to the capitol of the Commonwealth. These buildings once housed the likes of Lucky Strike cigarettes, American Cigar Company and other titans of tobacco. The name “Lucky Strike” is spelled out in large white vertical letters on a non smoking, smoke stack. How appropriate.
If there was ever for the train to reduce speed to 15 miles per hour, the stretch between Main Street station and Staples Mill Road is not the place. Creeping along at this pace allows you to to get a close look at the tattooed underbelly of Richmond. Cinder block walls, cargo trains, and support columns are tagged with brightly colored, illegible graffiti; their bulbous letters communicating some kind of message to some type of audience to elicit some kind of response. Maybe “Rosetta Stone” will release graffiti language software that will help with the translation.

The stop at Staples Mill Road is quick, less we get tagged by spray paint yielding bandits. We pick up speed, and the scenery north of Richmond changes for the better. We enter tunnels of green and slice through corduroyed fields of crops. On occasion, I peer out the window to see the front of the train peeking around upcoming corners. Overall, the ride is smoother now. Maybe I’m just getting used to it. I liken it to traveling at 30,000 feet in an airplane but much nicer, roomier, although much slower.

We travel smack down the center of North Center Street in the quaint little hamlet of Ashland. A few, brightly colored Victorian homes whizz by the window. I pray that hoop-skirted ladies holding Parasols and waving kerchiefs will welcome our arrival. Instead, we stop at an empty station. No one gets on, no one gets off. Maybe that’s what keeps Ashland the way it is.

By far, the best train stop on our journey is the town of Fredericksburg. Home of countless civil war battles, George Washington’s childhood home, and a historic downtown mere steps from the train station. Having a station in right in the heart of town is not uncommon. Main Street Station in Richmond, Union Station and DC are two examples. However, there’s a sense of arrival here. Because the track leading intoto the station is elevated, you are provided with an inviting panorama of the town. There is activity here. I see people strolling down shaded, brick sidewalks, stopping to peek in windows or chat with town folk. Two spires poke through the Fredericksburg skyline, one of which belongs to the Circuit Court building which was designed by the same architect of St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City and the Smithsonian Castle in Washington, D.C. The town oozes history. If only I had time to hop off, explore and take a whack at a cherry tree.

We invade Quantico, a military installation along the Potomac River. I later learned this sprawling campus is one of the largest U.S. Marine Corps bases in the world. “OohRah” to that.
It’s also the site of the Marine Corps Combat Development Command and HMX-1 (the presidential helicopter squadron). The United States Drug Enforcement Administration's training academy and the FBI Academy are also located here. And, now I’m here. But hardly anyone else is. No troops marching in formation; no FBI cadets scaling walls and shooting bad guy silhouettes; no tanks rumbling over dirt hills. All I see are two camouflaged solders standing sentry along a quarter mile section of fencing that’s topped with glistening razor wire. I suppose they keep the cool stuff hidden from the curious eyes of Amtrak passengers. As we pull out, I see two large helicopters parked on an adjacent runway. From a distance, they look like large black insects sunning themselves.

We retreat from Qauntico where the tracks begin to hug the banks of the Potomac River as we head toward to Alexandria. To be honest, I really didn’t have a sense as where I was, other than south of Washington DC. I did a Google map of the area and was surprised to see that practically the entire Potomac River belongs to the state of Maryland, not Virginia, Stand on the shores of the Potomac in Virginia, put your big toe in the water and bam, you’re in Maryland. At the very least, they should share ownership.

Before too long, I catch a glimpse of Interstate 95, east coast’s main clogged artery, off to my left. The track snakes its way under the beltway and approaches the Alexandria station. High rise condos stand sentry to this gateway to the nation’s capitol. Each condo probably contains the population equal to that of small town but chances are no one really knows their neighbors. It’s one of the disadvantages of city life: being close to everything doesn’t necessarily mean being close to anyone. Nearby a metro train gobbles up and spits out commuters, an act that’s repeated thousands of time throughout the DC metro area.

The familiar skyline of Washington D.C is here before we know it. The Washington Monument serves as a bold explanation point for our arrival at the nation’s capitol. It’s been four long and very interesting hours. Arriving in DC by train is a lot like riding the monorail into the Magic Kingdom. Both are theme parks in their own way. Disney is a celebration of imagination; DC a celebration of freedom, democracy and occasional corruption. Disney has Cinderella’s castle, DC has The Capitol and The White House. And, both areas have their share of Goofies.

Everywhere you look: white granite and stately columns. There are signs that proclaim “department of this” and “department of that.” You feel AND fear the power. "Lights out" was as we enter a tunnel just outside of Union Station. We emerge and see tracks everywhere. The conductor announces that we have arrived at Union Station. But for me, it was more about the journey.

After I returned home, people asked me about train travel and whether I would do it again. I answer with an emphatic yes. But I would want more time to get out and explore the towns along the way. There was a young man on our return trip who spent three long days traveling from Flagstaff, Arizona to Newport News, Virginia. Not the way to do it. The way I would like to do it is to find an interesting route, preferably out west, and have the freedom to hop on and hop off whenever and wherever I want.