Traipsing Around: Travel and Psychogeography

The train journey from Los Angeles to Chicago, called the South West Chief, must be one of the most epic train journeys in the World. It stretches over 2256 miles and 8 States, takes 43 hours in total and encompasses some of the most spectacular and diverse scenery in America, from the rock formations of Arizona, the native American reservations of New Mexico, through the mountains of Colorado, where the rocky valley walls seem to almost brush the panoramic windows of the observation car, to the vast great plains of the mid-west where spectacular sunsets illuminate big skies and where small clouds, like bursting fireworks frozen in time, are caught by the sun’s dying rays. As I’m heading for Dodge City, the journey is only 28 hours. It is fantastic to sit and watch the beautiful landscape roll by, mile after mile and to chat with the other passengers. I talk mainly to Jonas, a creative strategist, who has abandoned the artistic restrictions of corporate life for a while and is working on a number of photographic projects and Nancy, who lives in Henderson, near Las Vegas, who supports Donald Trump and is against any form of gun control. Later we are joined by Sam, from the UK, who is a music engineer and graphic designer. I ask him where he comes from and he says Swindon. When he asks me where I come from, I smile and say Swindon! How crazy a coincidence is that? Of all the trains in all the world, we happen to be on this one! He lives in the Old Town, which of course I know very well. Together with Jonas we dine together in the buffet car and exchange contact details. Mid-way through Sam writing his last name, Widd.. I immediately know what he’s going to write. Widdowson. I ask if his Father’s name is Richard. He says yes. Shit! I used to hang around with Richard Widdowson in my mid-teens! I have no idea what the probability of that happening is, but I probably have more chance of winning the lottery. Or perhaps the whole of history has conspired to create that very moment? Who knows? Whatever the reason, the meeting was a bit surreal and strange!

I arrive at Dodge, a mid-West cattle and cowboy town, at 2am and walk the mile or so to the hotel I have booked for the following night (well, strictly speaking tonight, but not yesterday), following the 4 lane highway to the edge of town, past some closed and some open fast food outlets and squat, flat-roofed restaurants, garages and patches of waste ground which back onto the railway track. For some reason I find landscapes of featureless urban impersonality quite comforting. I had planned to spend the night at the station, but they have closed it and I am really tired, so I take a chance that there will be a vacancy. Fortunately there is. I don't think there is anyone else staying.

Dodge is situated in a vast expanse of nothing much. It has an interesting museum, located on the original Boot Hill cemetery and contains a reconstruction of the cowboy High Street of the 1870’s when Wyatt Earp was a Deputy Marshall here. It includes various shops and a saloon where you can buy a beer. I take a trolley bus tour to the original Fort Dodge, where General Custer stayed for a while before going off to kill Native Americans. On the way, we pass mile upon mile upon mile of cattle pens, where cattle are fattened before being slaughtered. At the centre is a National Beef processing facility, where up to 6000 cattle are ‘processed’ each day. I’m told the stench in Dodge from the factory, perhaps 5 miles away, can be overpowering on some days. The people in Dodge are very friendly, saying hello as I pass and are very curious about my accent. Despite the killing fields, which cast a dark shadow in my mind, I like the friendly intimacy of the place and the wide open, blue skies.

Two days later, for strange reasons to do with physically having to obtain tickets from a manned station for my onward journey to Charleston, via Chicago and Washington DC, I find myself in Newton, Kansas. I arrive at 4am and I need to depart at 4am the following morning, so I have a full 24 hours in a town with a population of around 30,000 people. This should be interesting! One of the passengers I descend the train with suggests getting the bus to Wichita, which is round 40 minutes away, but I decide to see what this small town has to offer. Surprisingly, I’m now really glad that I decided to stay. I get talking to the station attendant about travelling and he describes his past adventures in London and other parts of Europe. Before I know it, it’s 6.30am and he directs me to an early morning breakfast place, The Breadbasket, where I am greeted by a sincerely friendly blonde lady and I get a very good buffet breakfast. Then I walk up and down Main Street and around town for a few hours, taking pictures of doors and chatting to a couple of people in the Catholic Church until I stumble cross the Rewards Bookshop. Here I am helped in my selection of books by Mary-Anne, a retired librarian, who enquires about my travels and also makes suggestions on places I might find interesting in town, including a free, self-guided walking tour and the inside of a law firm building. Given I have gone around 24 hours without sleep at this point, she also offers me a chair to sleep in, if I need it, which, although I decline, is a really very nice offer! A couple of people stop me in the street, curious about the guide I’m following and are surprised that there is such a thing, but that then prompts questions about where I’m from and what I’m doing here, which is great. Whilst following the guide, I do indeed call in at the Cornerstone law firm and the owner, Steve Johnson, completely unprompted, offers to give me a guided tour of this beautiful building that used to be the town post-office, including a look at photographs prior to the renovation. His enthusiasm for the building that he is slowly restoring to its original style as a labour of love is great and conversation turns later to politics and gun-control and travels in Australia as part of his charity work. It is a very interesting insight into the difficulties and rewards of conservation and into the psychology behind the right to bear arms. Later still, I visit a local art shop and the owner suggests stopping at the local museum and art gallery, which I do and in the evening I get chatting to the very funny and outgoing Chef at Reba’s Bar and Restaurant, where I eat and have a few beers. Despite misgivings at the start of my extended stay in a very small town in the back of beyond, it was in fact a very fascinating and enjoyable experience with very friendly and hospitable people. If Dodge and Newton are representative (and I’m surprised to hear myself say this), I do like small-town, mid-west America.

Train to Chicago: New Mexico

Albuquerque

Lamy Station: Rush hour commuters jostle to get on the next train

Observation Car, under observation

Great Plains

Stunning sunsets and big skies!

My Classic Motel in Dodge. I didn't get the rude desk person in a stained vest, but you can't have everything!

Dodge Museum

Dodge itself

Cattle being fattened for slaughter stretch into the distance

Beef 'processing'

Dodge City Railway Station

Newton Kansas Railway Station

Masonic Lodge doorway

Main Street

Roman Catholic Church, with essential accessory

Elegant Chamber of Commerce Building

Police Department (Skateboard chasing division)

Old Post Office

Old Post Boxes, with security locks

Is it Safe?

Post Office Counter, now the reception area

Big Mill

LA is a massive city and it is initially a bit of a shock! The airport is vast and tricky to negotiate, but people are very friendly and helpful (apart from at the information desk, ironically). I sort of got to establish by asking around that I take a bus to a certain stop and then get on the Metro and do 1 change. The bus was easy, but there were problems with the track and some diversions, which meant going in the opposite direction (counter-intuitive), but whenever I stopped to ponder, people would come up and offer to help, completely unasked! That was countered by the miles of suburban wasteland of small, tatty businesses, breakers yards and wholesalers, broken walls covered with graffiti and topped with barbed wire and ramshackle houses before we reached the City centre. It is really interesting being on a train with such a mix of people, some obviously with mental health issues (a larger proportion than you might see in the UK, it seems, but maybe that is just due to the large population). I had forgotten about the poverty and insanity of America. In terms of the landscape, it is a million miles from forests and soft, sandy beaches, but so far it is redeemed by the people.

Next day I collect my Amtrack rail pass from the very beautiful Art Deco Union Station building and travel back to downtown LA (7^th/Metro Center) with the intention of going to Rodeo Drive to watch expensive cars, but I see a sign for Long Beach and the train pulling up and I just get on. I descend at the end of the line after about a 40 minute journey and look for a long beach. It is harder than it sounds, about a mile away, initially past some white, square, dream-like buildings, straight out of a David Hockney painting and then past a marina. I walk past the many boats, including the still very graceful Queen Mary. The yachts are the culmination of someone’s life work and a salty eulogy to their tired but hopeful owners; Dream On, Milestone, Second Wind, Last Chance. Some names are more spirited and defiant: Desperado, Vagabond, Kontiki and Odyssey. Tethered rebels awaiting their next adventure. It is like watching birds in a cage or large predators in the zoo, without the hopeful hopping from perch to perch or psychotic pacing in frustrated anticipation of future new horizons. I sit on the beach for a while, but it is a little bit dismal to my eyes after tropical beaches, flanked by buildings and houses which follow the greyish-yellow sand into the far distance. On the train back a man stares at me for an uncomfortable period of time and then sits in the seat directly behind mine, tapping his feet loudly on the floor beneath my seat. He is quite big, maybe 6” or more, with long, straight brown hair and brown skin. He reminds me of an indigenous American. I turn around and say Hello. He tells me he is Mexican, that the Mayas were the personification of evil, that Europeans brought Christianity to Latin America and that we can all find redemption in Jesus Christ.

Hollywood Boulevard is an eclectic mix of souvenir shops, mini-marts, tattoo parlours, smoke shops selling cannabis related accessories, theatres, bars (the waitresses are beautiful!) and wax work museums, tour touts and people begging. The Walk of Fame is very funny, intentionally so, I think, where the names of the famous in music and film (many of whom I’ve never heard of) are contained in pink, gold lined stars which are embedded in the pavement, to be ignominiously and eternally trodden on by passers-by; a reminder of the intransience of fame, fortune and ambition. The star of Clarke Gable, just outside the entrance to a Trader Joe’s supermarket, amidst the strong smell of urine and cannabis made me laugh out loud. Humphrey Bogart is outside a vintage clothes shop, Charlton Heston is facing a Wells Fargo office building. There are also some interesting juxtapositions; Sylvester Stallone is next to Yehudi Menuhin, Errol Flynn next to The Go Go’s and Jamie Lee Curtis is two down from The Rugrats (Yes, The Rugrats!). Whoever says Americans don’t get irony is completely wrong! There is even one to Swindon’s own Diana Doors. I was surprised not to see stars for Phil Spector and Bill Cosby, but perhaps I missed them?

However, I do see one for someone I do know, a real blast from the past: Roy Rogers! He was the star of a 60’s Wild West show on TV when I was very young. Roy Rogers! Fantastic! I’d completely forgotten about him and his horse, Trigger! I’m disappointed that Trigger doesn’t get a mention (even though fictitious cartoon characters such as Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse do). Perhaps he has his own, separate star. Yes, that would be appropriate. I search but I can’t see it anywhere. No tribute to Trigger? I’m bitterly disappointed. Anyway, I have been looking at the map and thinking of the next destination. Roy Rogers swings it. I’m off to Dodge City! No idea what’s there, but I’ll soon find out. On such sometimes random inconsequentialities are decisions made!