We woke up in Arizona. I had slept a little fitfully during the night, though apparently I had slept through the excitement when just a little past Palm Springs the train had apparently hit someone on the tracks. We were told that the crew and the police had search for some time to try to find out what had happened. But they never discovered anything.
The Sonoran Desert is probably the prettiest of all the North American deserts, and when we work us the sun was glinting on the sage and cactus, casting a golden glow over the ground. Alas, a camera did not seem to be handy at that moment and before long we were instead on the outskirts of Phoenix.
The train does not stop in Phoenix itself but in Maricopa, south of the city. It looked like one of the least prosperous areas of the metropolitan region. It seemed odd that the train did not go into the city itself, and I wondered if conservative Phoenix just found Amtrak too socialist to enter its boundaries.
From Maricopa, the train went south towards Tucson. If you have ever spent time in Arizona, you know that Phoenix and Tucson regard each other has parallel and foreign universes. Phoenix has well-watered green lawns; Tucson mandates desert planting. Phoenix is dominated by white emigres and retirees; Tucson is proud of its Hispanic heritage. Phoenix is resolutely red; Tucson has a distinctly blue tinge. And so it was no surprise to me that the Amtrak station in Tucson was proudly in the heart of its downtown area near art galleries, trendy bars, and a light rail line.
On the ground floor of the lovely, historic Spanish Revival station is an upscale restaurant and a wine and cheese shop.
The beautifully restored Congress Hotel is just around the corner.
We bought bottle of wine in Tucson, despite Amtrak’s warnings that no alcohol could be brought aboard. We have discovered that there is a blatant double standard on the train: sleeper passengers are treated far better and with greater deference than the hoi polloi in coach. So we knew that even if we were caught with the bottle in our hands, nobody would say a thing.
The rest of the ride was pretty enough and quite uneventful. We passed through some of the most iconic of Western scenery — the lonely desert butte surrounded by sagebrush. Oh, where was the Lone Ranger?
As the late afternoon turned into evening, we knew we had many miles of desert ahead of us still. Almost imperceptibly the Sonoara Desert turned into the Chihuahuan, and we passed at the same time from Arizona into New Mexico.
This will be our last night on the train. We should arrive quite late tomorrow into the Crescent City. I am ready to be off, but I have enjoyed our time on the Sunset Limited.
