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No exit (from Merion)
Adventures with SEPTA
Robert Zaller
P. T. Barnum would have loved the idea. I didn't.
Recently, SEPTA put some "sunshine" trains into service on its regional lines— trains that had not only turned their exteriors into moving billboards, but their interiors as well. Unsuspectingly, I boarded such a train and found myself swimming in a carton of Tropicana Orange Juice. The whole inside of the train had been painted orange, with the company name and product printed large whichever way one turned.
I spent the next quarter-hour trapped in a commercial. Reader, wonder not what it is like to be slowly heaved along the digestive tract of an anaconda. The experience may be yours, although of course you will, unlike your average rabbit, be required to pay a fare— one that, as was just announced, will be going up.
There are moments when the surrealism of American life opens up new dimensions. Pennsylvania mass transit provides many of them. Every few months, rail schedules are changed— or not changed, but reprinted with new dates on them. They will bear no relation to arrival or departure times, of course.
The phantom R5
The other day, I waited by Merion Station, land of lost souls, for a train that was late, later, lost. A large sign informed me that "slippery rails"—a hazard apparently unknown to transportation systems outside the Delaware River Valley— were often responsible for delays.
The R5 was a no-show on this day because, it seemed, of brilliant sunshine. At least, no other explanation was offered. The loudspeaker whose dreaded voice is the announcement of missed appointments, broken dates, and lost deals was silent. So was the stationmaster, busy with her crossword puzzle or manicure (I didn't catch which).
Yes, the station was open. Which straphanger, stumbling upon such a windfall, could be so churlish as to ask for a train as well? Inside, along with other amenities, was a well-stocked library.
A library in a train station? My fellow passengers— would-be passengers I mean— looked at one another. Somehow, it didn't seem we were going anywhere very fast.
The stationmaster said she had heard nothing about a train. It hadn't occurred to her to inquire about it. I suggested she might wish to do so. She said she would, though plainly she was surprised— offended may not be too strong a word— at the request. She went back to her nails.
Echoes of Eisenhower
Some say our republic began to die the day we stopped defending our borders from the undocumented aliens without whom no salad would ever appear on our plates. Some say it was the day we agreed to submit to full-body X-rays as a precondition of travel, or eat genetically modified fish.
I say it was the day we accepted the idea that the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority was a transportation system.
Until a year or so ago, SEPTA was still operating trains built in 1952, the year Eisenhower was elected president. I must confess I miss them now, with their seats faded through every conceivable shade of yellow until they looked like objects exposed to the frosts of many Martian winters and perhaps an asteroid or two.
The new SEPTA fleet, Tropicanaed or not, has seats that are stiffer, less commodious, and also fewer in number. Set at the angle of a back brace and with about as much legroom as a Jet Blue coach cabin, they seemed to have been designed by and for robots.
Oh, and yes, the trains to which they're attached break down more frequently than the Eisenhowers. Any given ride on the new fleet can turn into a Carnival Cruise experience without warning.
Escape to Trenton
A week ago, catching the 1:10 to Trenton from 30th Street after having been sold the wrong tickets by the station lady— an opportunity made possible only because the train had come in, you guessed it, late— we stopped about 50 yards down the track because of an announced "obstruction," which turned out to be faulty brakes. It took us half an hour to reach the Schuylkill River.
I had visions of being stranded in Bridesburg, but, no, we limped and lurched on, at what risk I know not, until much of the day had passed.
I was never so glad to see New Jersey. In fact, I had never before been glad to see it at all.
The good news is that, on a lucky day, you can catch your ride, if it comes, on one of the 1974 or 1976 model trains, still constructed more or less for the human backbone and posterior and happily prior to telescreens regaling you with endlessly repeated images of Prohibition hooch raids, buzzers and shrieks going off to commemorate every station arrival, and Tropicana wraparounds.
I can't wait for the new swipe card.♦
To read a response, click here.
Recently, SEPTA put some "sunshine" trains into service on its regional lines— trains that had not only turned their exteriors into moving billboards, but their interiors as well. Unsuspectingly, I boarded such a train and found myself swimming in a carton of Tropicana Orange Juice. The whole inside of the train had been painted orange, with the company name and product printed large whichever way one turned.
I spent the next quarter-hour trapped in a commercial. Reader, wonder not what it is like to be slowly heaved along the digestive tract of an anaconda. The experience may be yours, although of course you will, unlike your average rabbit, be required to pay a fare— one that, as was just announced, will be going up.
There are moments when the surrealism of American life opens up new dimensions. Pennsylvania mass transit provides many of them. Every few months, rail schedules are changed— or not changed, but reprinted with new dates on them. They will bear no relation to arrival or departure times, of course.
The phantom R5
The other day, I waited by Merion Station, land of lost souls, for a train that was late, later, lost. A large sign informed me that "slippery rails"—a hazard apparently unknown to transportation systems outside the Delaware River Valley— were often responsible for delays.
The R5 was a no-show on this day because, it seemed, of brilliant sunshine. At least, no other explanation was offered. The loudspeaker whose dreaded voice is the announcement of missed appointments, broken dates, and lost deals was silent. So was the stationmaster, busy with her crossword puzzle or manicure (I didn't catch which).
Yes, the station was open. Which straphanger, stumbling upon such a windfall, could be so churlish as to ask for a train as well? Inside, along with other amenities, was a well-stocked library.
A library in a train station? My fellow passengers— would-be passengers I mean— looked at one another. Somehow, it didn't seem we were going anywhere very fast.
The stationmaster said she had heard nothing about a train. It hadn't occurred to her to inquire about it. I suggested she might wish to do so. She said she would, though plainly she was surprised— offended may not be too strong a word— at the request. She went back to her nails.
Echoes of Eisenhower
Some say our republic began to die the day we stopped defending our borders from the undocumented aliens without whom no salad would ever appear on our plates. Some say it was the day we agreed to submit to full-body X-rays as a precondition of travel, or eat genetically modified fish.
I say it was the day we accepted the idea that the Southeastern Pennsylvania Transit Authority was a transportation system.
Until a year or so ago, SEPTA was still operating trains built in 1952, the year Eisenhower was elected president. I must confess I miss them now, with their seats faded through every conceivable shade of yellow until they looked like objects exposed to the frosts of many Martian winters and perhaps an asteroid or two.
The new SEPTA fleet, Tropicanaed or not, has seats that are stiffer, less commodious, and also fewer in number. Set at the angle of a back brace and with about as much legroom as a Jet Blue coach cabin, they seemed to have been designed by and for robots.
Oh, and yes, the trains to which they're attached break down more frequently than the Eisenhowers. Any given ride on the new fleet can turn into a Carnival Cruise experience without warning.
Escape to Trenton
A week ago, catching the 1:10 to Trenton from 30th Street after having been sold the wrong tickets by the station lady— an opportunity made possible only because the train had come in, you guessed it, late— we stopped about 50 yards down the track because of an announced "obstruction," which turned out to be faulty brakes. It took us half an hour to reach the Schuylkill River.
I had visions of being stranded in Bridesburg, but, no, we limped and lurched on, at what risk I know not, until much of the day had passed.
I was never so glad to see New Jersey. In fact, I had never before been glad to see it at all.
The good news is that, on a lucky day, you can catch your ride, if it comes, on one of the 1974 or 1976 model trains, still constructed more or less for the human backbone and posterior and happily prior to telescreens regaling you with endlessly repeated images of Prohibition hooch raids, buzzers and shrieks going off to commemorate every station arrival, and Tropicana wraparounds.
I can't wait for the new swipe card.♦
To read a response, click here.
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