A breath of fresh air

Yesterday, readers, was fantastic.

I awoke early, and though I didn't need too much time to get ready, I managed to get to Penn Station barely in time to catch the train to D.C. I'd assumed I could just use the self-service check-in machines when I got there. Well, I could have done so, had I committed my reservation code to memory. Alas, I had not. With mere minutes to spare, I took my place in line, a line so long I very nearly wept in frustration.

Knowing I'd miss my train if I stood there and waited, I did something I'd ordinarily never, ever do: I got out of line and entered the forbidden Acela Express line. I feared the man at the counter would see me for what I was -- a 185 Regional Service interloper -- and sternly shun me. But he did not! Perhaps he could sense my desperation (was it my panicked eyes, or perhaps the beads of perspiration that were snaking their way down from my rapidly dampening scalp?). He took pity on me, gave me my tickets and pointed me in the right direction.

As I was running along the track to find an open car, it occurred to me this could be rather romantic in a different context. And then it occurred to me I'm a moron. Anyway, I climbed aboard, pushed open the door and asked the nearest stranger, breathlessly: "Is this train bound for D.C.?" He said yes, and then I looked around me. Everyone was dressed well, and they were seated at tables. This was my first trip on Amtrak (if memory serves me correctly). Expecting more cramped accommodations, I stammered to the aforementioned stranger: "But ... this is business class, yes? Or is it my class?"

Good God. Could I be more ridiculous? He assured me it was coach, so I plopped down at the nearest empty table. It turns out I was in the dining car, hence the tables. As I retrieved my iPod, phone and writing materials from my bag, I sneaked a glance around me. Readers, I was very pleased with what I saw. There I was, the lone woman amid a sea of well-dressed, powerful-looking men. Men in suits. "I could get used to this," thought I. Shortly after that, I was joined by a Philadelphia-bound gentleman, whose company I enjoyed until he disembarked.

Finally I arrived at Union Station, and holy jeebus is it gorgeous! I didn't have time to stand around gawking at its splendor, however, for I needed to find a taxi. (By the way, the cab-catchers outside Union Station are the nicest cab-catchers I've ever met.)

Once I was safely situated in the taxi, I had a chance to take in my surroundings. Though New York has a beauty and charm of its own, this part of the country takes my breath away. Having grown up in Tulsa, I have a particular fondness for lush, mature trees, and I was delighted to find myself surrounded by them. The ride to Gaithersburg was made all the more pleasant by the driver, a kindly man from Ethiopia with three children (the youngest of whom, I learned, was a surprise "gift from God" -- how sweet is that?). I was a little shocked at the cost of the ride, however. I'm not sure I've ever paid $65 for a cab. Oh well.

Actually, I'd have paid much more for the several hours that followed. I spent the afternoon with an exceptional group of people devoted to a cause I care about deeply, and I even met a fellow Battlestar Galactica fan -- a female one! I left D.C. feeling that come what may, I want to get to know the area better.