JUNE 26, 2025 – When you’re in Connecticut, people refer to Gotham not as “New York City” but simply as “the city.” I’ve never encountered this reference in writing, so I don’t know if it’s capitalized, but when I say it or hear it, I always think of it as capitalized, given the size and stature of what its Dutch founders called, “New Amsterdam.” In any event, on Tuesday my wife and granddaughter and I took Amtrak to . . . the City.
We wound up taking the slow boat . . . er , , , train.
The Northeast Regional train from Boston to Washington was delayed by nearly 90 minutes, but the heat was too extreme for us to muster the energy to grouse about it, even among ourselves. Because the Amtrak station in Old Saybrook—our boarding point—wasn’t air-conditioned (the equipment having been out of service for over a year), we sought temporary relief inside the adjacent Ashlawn Farm coffee shop. I slowly consumed a blueberry-banana-yoghurt smoothie garnished with nutmeg (appropriately enough, the locus being Connecticut, after all) and cinnamon. If it didn’t make me any more enthusiastic about the extreme heat, the treat did revive my eagerness for a two-and-a-half-hour train ride in air conditioned comfort.
A good 20 minutes before the Boston-to-Washington train was finding its way to Old Saybrook, I dragged our luggage up and over the tracks (via elevators inside an enclosed walkway structure) to the platform for southbound trains. There I encountered another gentleman, perhaps a few years ahead of me. To gauge more accurately his age I tried imagining him as a school kid: when I was in fourth grade, was he more likely a second grader or a sixth grader ? I decided he was more likely a sixth grader. I later surmised that this assumption was based on his sartorial superiority to my monochromatic Indiana Jones-like attire.
He was viewing his phone intently and moving the screen up and down with a stylus. When he looked up at me, I said, “Hot enough for ya?”
He returned my smile and said, “Summer arrives here all of a sudden. It’s New England, after all.”
“Are you coming or going?” I asked. What I’d meant to say was, “Are you leaving home or returning?”
He answered, “Going,” but he looked too much under the influence of the heat advisory to realize he was answering a dumb question, which was definitely the product of the extreme weather conditions. He didn’t look dumb, however. His bespectacled face looked perfectly intelligent, and his words weren’t as slurred as he was entitled to utter them, given the perspiration that covered his forehead.
“This sure is a beautiful part of Connecticut,” I said, identifying myself as a non-local.
“Yeah, but it’s way too quiet,” he said with a mirthful look. “I like lots of noise around—the noise that goes with a big city.”
His response surprised me. By neither age nor voice nor appearance did he strike me as a noise-seeker, let alone a noisemaker. I figured he had to be a New Yorker.
“I prefer quiet,” I said, “though I know what you mean about the vitality of urbanity. From time to time I relish being in the heart of a big city among lots of people and activity.” I waited a beat and asked, “Are you headed for the City?”
“No, Stamford,” he said.
With that the voice of the stationmaster blasted from the speaker mounted just above our heads. “The Northeast Regional train from Boston is approaching the station. Stand back from the yellow line.” The other gentleman had nothing other than a computer bag to contend with, whereas I had responsibility for several items to gather up.
Minutes later the train’s bright engine light arrived, and the train itself soon pulled up to the platform. We new passengers were afforded barely enough time to board. As Beth, Illiana and I made our way through three cars before finding three seats together, I pondered the gentleman’s remark that the part of Connecticut I know so well was “too quiet.” What would such a person think of Hamburg Cove beyond the hub-bub of Old Saybrook? I wondered . . . let alone a secluded place such as Björnholm way out in northwestern Wisconsin? This reflection in turn prompted memories of “Gaga,” our grandmother Holman, a life-long New Jerseyan who referred to the family’s weekend getaway on the cove as “the country” and called Björnholm, the wilderness. She could never understand our attachment to such a place where there weren’t any neighbors in sight.
We encountered more delays en route to the City, but under the circumstances, I didn’t mind. Across the aisle from me, Beth and Illiana were happily engaged in various diversions, jointly and individually. With a shoreside view, I preferred watching the scenery go by as I contemplated life.
As 8:00 approached, we entered the City and wound our way southwest through the Bronx, into Queens and eventually over to Midtown Manhattan and Madison Square Garden/Moynihan Train Hall, New York City’s enormous ground transportation hub. I hadn’t set foot in it since its renovation/construction. I was duly impressed—and encouraged that such a major, complex project had succeeded. With so much infrastructure in America generally and New York specifically requiring upgrades, improvements, replacements, I was hopeful that so many neglected areas—again, nationally, as well as locally—could one day be as bright and splashy, modern and utilitarian, as the facility through which we dragged our luggage to the “C” train (subway). (Ironically, the place to start would be with New York’s ancient subway system, in such dire and costly need of major upgrades. Having said that, however, I note that the particular subway car we rode was brand new.)
If the complex itself was impressive, so were the crowds that patronized all the high-end shops, bars and eating establishments that lined the broad passageways through the hub. In observing the scene I concluded that at least in these quarters, the economy was booming and people were satisfied with life. But I was not so naïve to think that these people represented the majority of Americans==except from a racial and ethnic perspective. From that standpoint, at least half the people streaming in and out of the station complex or working there reflected our Nation’s steadily increasing racial/ethnic diversity.
Our effort to reach the “C” train platform involved an extended underground hike with a bag in each hand and a fully loaded computer bag over my shoulder. It was rough going as I attempted to prevent being mowed down by the crowds, though they’d declined from the height of rush hour.
On one staircase, I overheard a young man ask Beth, who was behind me as I struggled with my stuff up the incline, “Does he need help?” Beth answered for me and in the negative but thanked the man for his kindness. Around us I witnessed other displays of politeness and generosity of spirt among strangers. In my stress and strain, I found hope and relief in the future. Despite all our woes and troubles, our deficiencies and dysfunctionalities, how can we lose when perfect strangers in the rush of the crowd in Midtown Manhattan say, “Excuse me,” “Thank you,” and even reach out to ask if a 70-year-old codger struggling with baggage “needs help”? Once we were on the subway heading uptown to my sister/brother-in-law’s apartment, I observed further courtesy, as men gave up seats for Beth and Illiana—and even offered to do so for me, the codger (which I politely declined).
Upon emerging from the staircase leading out of the subway, we were smacked by the oven-like heat. We had but a two-block walk to our destination, but the conditions nearly brought us to our knees. Global warming, I thought, recalling the massive expanse of the current heat wave and the number of high temperature records that have become the norm.
I lacked the energy to continue that train of thought. All three of us felt immense relief as we exited the elevator and crossed the threshold into our wonderful quarters for three nights and two full days. GK welcomed us graciously, as Jenny was still at her book club’s monthly meeting. Following directions to a “T,” he laid out the delectable smörgāsbord that Jenny had previously arranged. She arrived on the scene just as we were preparing to sit down for the repast. We were ever so grateful to be received by a couple whose middle names, first and foremost, are “Gracious” and “Generous.” (Cont.)
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
