That Way!

We left Union Station, known as "WAS" in the indigenous dialect of the Amtrak, on Monday morning, riding on the "Vermonter" bound for St. Albans "and all intermediate stops along the way." One of those stops being Waterbury-Stowe, also known as "WAB," some 12 hours worth of train track into the future. From there, we would taxi 30 min north to the von Trapp Family Lodge & Resort, for a few days of rest, relaxation, and hip flexor destruction courtesy of cross-country skiing.

The trip is an old favorite, but this was the first time we were leaving behind snow in Charlottesville for snow in Vermont. Well, not snow exactly. In Charlottesville, I mean. We were experiencing the second week with a packed slab of frozen sleet covering everything. Not something you want to exploit on skis. Vermont was looking awfully inviting.

Sensible New England farms have their contiguous home, barn, and ancillary sheds all set close to the main road, and the occupants are well prepared for heavy snowfall. As we live in the less sensible mid-Atlantic, we boast a more characteristically Southern layout, with everything about a mile back from the county roads, on a hilly gravel lane with steep ups and downs, just for variety's sake.

I gather this design evolved for reasons of efficiency such as to put the Southern farmer equidistant from all his fields, and as far away from Revenuers as possible. An efficiency made plausible only by the usual scarcity of crippling snow storms. As of right now, however, the lack of snow was not top of mind.

Under the circumstances, the evening before the storm we parked the car about three-quarters of a mile back up the lane in a side clearing where it was soon enough sleeted into place. At the end of the storm a pickax, and a little shoveling, broke it free, and the 4-wheel drive was able to gain enough purchase to get us the rest of the way out to plowed roads. With mountaineering cleats strapped to boots, and ski poles in hand, it was a relatively safe trek to the car, then to the wider world, and back again.

So we packed our gear for the Vermont trip, made several looping cycles of schlepping stuff up to the car, waved goodbye for now, threw the Honda into all-wheel drive, crawled out of the sleet and ice, and drove North up US 29 towards Washington, D.C.

The Vermonter, the train, leaves Union Station at 8:10 AM, which poses certain logistical challenges for those of us deep in the central Piedmont of Virginia. The first year we tried to go direct in one hop, leaving home at 5:00 AM in time to catch the train later that morning. This was such a smashing success that we vowed never to do it again

Instead, we now drive up the day before and stay in a D.C. hotel overnight. This year's iteration was the best yet. We discovered a great hotel, the Phoenix Park Hotel, just a 10 min walk from the Union Station parking garage. So we parked the car on the first level of that behemoth of an aircraft carrier, gathered just the things we would need for the night, and puzzled over how to escape the garage in the direction of the hotel.

The sign said "Bus Terrace Level," pointing to a set of stairs. That seemed promising. The stairs were straight out of central casting for Dante's Inferno. Cement throughout, in washed-out brown, with a reluctant light bulb that had seen better days back when it starred, together with Humphrey Bogart, in Casablanca. The stairs went down seemingly forever. How far below Level 1 can Bus Terrace Level possibly be?

The metal door at the bottom of the stairs had donated it's handle to charity, squeaked open with a push, and caught the wind, slamming it against the outside cinder-block. From the looks of things, this was clearly one of its favorite activities. We came out of the stairwell into something of an urban blank, a nondescript nowhere obvious. A fragment of a 1950's freeway underpass. It was dark by this time, biting cold, and the wind thought we might also like to play the slam-into-the-cinder-block game.

"That way!"

Across a span of concrete, behind a railing, stood a ghost in attendant-looking uniform. He was all bundled up, as fit for the job, masked against the cold, and he gestured energetically to our right.

"That way!" he shouted and waved emphatically.

Now, "that way" was the way to the Union Station main hall, at least according to the faded signage leaking off the concrete piers. I have decided it was quite reasonable to assume that lost strangers with luggage were looking to be waved "that way," and I expect our would-be guide had only ever encountered such. But Union Station was not "that way" that we wanted to go. At least I knew that much.

"We're looking for the way to Phoenix Park Hotel," I shouted back.

"What?" he shouted.

We crossed over the concrete toward him, and he edged along the railing toward us, until we could hear each other over the wind.

"We're trying to get to Phoenix Park," I said again.

"Where is that?" he asked.

After some back-and-forth it was clear that he had no idea where or what Phoenix Park might be and, losing interest, he drifted back up the railing to wave "that way" emphatically at an on-coming hearse driving up the ramp.

I had a general idea of where Phoenix Park was supposed to be relative to Union Station, and by now I had a relative idea of where we stood in that matrix. My hands froze up trying to coax sense out of the map on my cell phone, but the little directional arrow on the display was having none of it, pointing one way and another, swinging wildly around, back and forth, over the dotted walking route sown as bread crumbs on the screen.

Apparently magnetic North, along with all the GPS satellites in the night sky, had gone off with our attendant apparition. What the hell. We headed off down another car ramp opposite the direction taken by the hearse. This, it turned out, was the correct direction but not one that was intended to be used.

The exit ramp started off with a pedestrian sidewalk as its companion, but they soon broke up, the sidewalk disappearing under a concrete barrier covered with snow, the ramp narrowing to a single lane of traffic. We ended up having to walk down the middle of a one-way chute designed to carry taxis, internal combustion engines determined to rush out from their Level 1 taxi stand and down into the ground level traffic jams clogging the surrounding streets.

Fortunately for us, it was a slow night for the taxis – unfortunate for the long line of taxi drivers up top – and thus we reached the shores of New Pedestrianville safely. With a right-hand turn, just following the crowd, and a cold, windy trek down a long city block, there across the boulevard was neon announcing the presence of the Phoenix Park Hotel. Newly risen from the ashes of asphalt.

I highly recommend the Phoenix Park Hotel, especially if you are juggling funky train schedules in and out of Union Station, as we were. The hotel is great, not just for the rooms and amenities, and its proximity to Union Station, but also for its attached restaurant, The Dubliner.

The Dubliner, you will not be surprised to learn, bills itself as "a lively Irish pub." We arrived on Super Bowl Sunday, and it lived up to the billing. The interior has that warm, dark, well used vibe expected of a pub where everyone knows your name. The walls and shelves and crannies bore pictures, knick-knacks, and remembrances that told a weathered pride of authenticity.

We managed a table at the side of the crowd and watched, intermittently, as the Seattle Sea Hawks' defense conjured up the complete disappearance of the New England Patriots. Given the competition, beer and food took precedence, an engagement-slight indulged in by most of the pub's patrons.

I had the fish-and-chips and, zzchang!, like a scene from Ratatouille, I was instantly transported back decades to a former life lived in Edinburgh, Scotland, frequenting the corner fish-and-chips shop, an establishment run by a wonderful Pakistani immigrant family. The only thing missing was a page from The Scotsman newspaper in which to wrap it up.

In the morning, in the daylight, the walk back to Union Station was uneventful. Not pleasant so much – the wind and cold were apparently jubilant Seattle Sea Hawks fans still partying – but uneventful nevertheless. At 7:50 AM we boarded The Vermonter, and at 8:10 AM it began its assigned duty transporting us on the 12 hour journey towards the von Trapp Family Lodge.

A journey that would bring an unsettling vision of history in rhyme.