I have enjoyed some history of traveling on the train together with Dagma-to break from our normal on-the-backroads travel that is our usual means of travel. Taking a train has always been an adventure for us. We tip the steward handsomely when we board the train to look after our comfort on the trip. When we take an occasional break from the luxury we've created in the 'roomette' we occupy with our own assortment of delicious foods, we take to the train's dining car to dine alone or with other guests who have been assigned to our table. We've met all sorts of interesting travelers as our table guests. On one trip two singles in their twenties who joined our table facing us-he, a dealer of cannabis (big jars of 'flowers' on the way to a dispensary in Colorado)-she, a stripper in Nevada clubs. They warmed to us quickly as their tales continued and in the process they were building an attraction to one another better. Later, they ended up sharing his 'roomette' across the hall from ours, we pulled our curtains for privacy and did our best to ignore the howls of activity during the night and day that followed. We turned up our music, wrapped our blanketed limbs around one another, let our eyes enjoy the falling river and snowy panorama. I'd look at her facing me and say, "Hi Sweetheart. Pretty nice, huh? Would you like a grape?"

For all the guests we dined with we shared the fine wines we brought to the table and shared our stories. We've had interesting conversations with bookies, auto mechanics, authors, international students traveling the US, and grandparents...like us, on the way to visit family.

On one trip we hooked up with my buddy Tom (the beekeeper), in Grand Junction, Colorado, who got on our train to Chicago with two of his grandchildren to ride with us the rest of the way to Chicago to visit his family farm where Tom spent his youth with his recently deceased wife, Barbara. Dagma and I stayed in Chicago for a couple nights of glorious dinners then flew home.

The train trip Dagma and I took a few years back, from Venice to Munich to visit her aunt where she grew up for a while as a child, was memorable. We had a room on the train that accommodated eight passengers, four on each side facing one another. Interesting passengers came and went, but most of the trip we enjoyed the room for ourselves. We pulled the curtains on the interior windows and enjoyed our music and even some brief train-sex- luckily avoiding the conductor who periodically would stop by our room to check on new passengers for tickets.

At one point as our train crawled away from one of the stops along the way, another train on an adjacent track was picking up speed going the opposite direction. We started waving to passengers in the other train as they settled into their seats. Then, Dagma impulsively took off her blouse and pressed her naked breasts into our window while waving to folks on the other train. Both of us laughing as she re-dressed and settled down to share some of her memories of being a young 'military brat' in a small German neighborhood.

Unlike air travel these days with crowds, long lines of travelers and arduous security rituals, we find taking the train a much more intimate way of connecting and departing from friends and family. And being the 'driver' of our family, I take great pleasure in letting my attention drift to the scenery rather than being dedicated to our safety on the road. I have some history of 'drifting away' through train windows across landscapes.

As a boy I remember taking the train. When I did travel on the train, by myself, I would press my face to the window, and drift away from my young mind as I sped along the tracks. I'd imagine, waving at my 'friend' (my companion, a winged horse) who would fly over rivers and townships alongside my window. I would imagine myself getting up from my seat, walking to the space between cars where I could feel the rush of air and see the tracks below. My winged friend would let me climb on his back and the two of us would leap over the scenery together until he returned me safely back to the train, where I would return to my seat. I felt like a lost kid on a train...going someplace. Clickity-clack. Clickity-clack.

During my senior year at Yorktown High School, NY, I would finish my classes and one day a week head to the train station in Peekskill. I'd get on a southbound train, sit next to a window, and follow the thirty-five miles of countryside along the Hudson River to Manhattan where I took singing lessons and attended acting and dance lessons at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I was bedazzled with negotiating the city alone as a teenager. Returning home, I would sit waiting for my train immersed in the rhythm of commuters in the center of Grand Central Station. As I waited and watched, I would venture the possibility of a new life on my own after school.

So, I have a built-in affection for train-travel. To this day, I associate getting on a train with easy traveling to a bountiful experience or place. And I bring abundance to every encounter. When I pack up and deliver Dagma to the train toward grandchildren, I do so with love, imagination and my full attention.

Someday, perhaps, a trip on The Orient Express