Hobos be traveling in CLASS.

As previously mentioned, we live about two blocks away from the heart of a small suburb--with it's own *working* train station.  It's made out of stone, and it's next door to a custard stand, and down the street from the Farmer's Market...and it's freaking darling.


Now, I have always known that you could hop an Amtrak train from our suburb to Washington, Missouri--it's a 40-minute ride to a small town just down the Missouri River.  You catch the thing at 9:45, have a two-hour window for lunch, and then head back home for an afternoon nap because you drank a lot of wine the night before, and also a few beers on the golf course before that.  I know that sounds like a lot of work to visit a town just outside of the St. Louis county limits, but ROLL WITH IT, we were looking for an *adventure* straight out of 1927.


However, it is almost impossible to dial one's expectations back to a time when you couldn't buy a used Honda Civic off Craig's List for LESS than the cost of these tickets, and so, from the very start, it was clear that this whole railway system is...flawed.  Beginning with the automatic ticket machine and the guy who was responsible for it, with ZERO idea of how to trouble shoot it.  At all.  Like when we were unable to purchase 8 tickets and he just told us to board the train and pay the conductor.  Um, in the world of air travel, this would red flag you as TERRORIST.


As time was low, and the train was in the station, and the place was packed AND it just so happened to be National Train Day (WHAT are the chances)--we followed his advice.   And three minutes outside of the station, we learned that we probably couldn't buy tickets because the train was SOLD OUT (someone should probably tell this to the guy working the ticket machine and giving free rail rides to terrorists).  I mean, GEEZ, I really had no idea that anyone rode trains anymore, but by some miracle, we rode to Washington (not in handcuffs) with a whole bunch of train nerds and a bachelorette party sporting wedge heels.  


{It should be noted:  Despite the fact that EIGHT of us jumped a train without tickets, or even giving anyone our names, for that matter, Amtrak is pretty nice.  Like, WAY nicer than my mini van that is growing black mold.}


Per the outbound goat rodeo, we took the conductor's advice and called in reservations for the return trip home (leaving in 93 minutes).  Turns out that train was near-full too, and for a moment we thought we might be spending the night in Washington, until we remembered, we are only a 35 minute car drive from all of our friends and family.  Instead, we decided to upgrade two of us to "business class", and purchase the remaining six economy seats.   This was an excellent plan, except that when we boarded the home-bound train, there were BARELY two seats together, and so we ended up scattering, with some of us sitting next to a group of boy scouts in the snack car--which is where Mike snapped this photo of a 16-year-old scout with a potty training badge.  Someone with a boy scout--PLEASE EXPLAIN.  I mean, I assume he is potty trained, because he appears to be of age to SHAVE.  We speculated that he, perhaps, trained a toddler in the ways of the potty?


I'll tell you what.  That scenario is f-ing weirder than if he was still wearing a pull-up.


{Edited to note:  I googled it, and it's a joke.  Which is FUNNY, because the boy scouts, as a group, do not appear to be the type to find humor in their uniforms.  I stand corrected, Boy Scouts.}


I digress.


We got off the train in Kirkwood, regrouped at the station...at which point it was discovered that NONE of us had paid for our tickets--we had merely made the reservation by phone, and as it turns out the reservation system doesn't in ANY WAY correlate to the actual running train.   So basically we were like a family of traveling hobos aboard a government subsidized train.  As far as we know, they have ZERO idea we were on that train, which is what it feels like to be a secret agent, or Jason Bourne or James Bond or a TERRORIST.  We simply told the conductor that we had a reservation for 8, and that is apparently like saying you are P. Freaking Diddy and they don't ask you any questions.  Also, they didn't provide us with strippers, so it's not *exactly* the same.


Because my mother is an honest woman, she decided to call the Amtrak line once we walked back home; and apparently, there is NO WAY for them to collect money after you have unknowingly hitched a ride on one of their trains--because, as you'll remember, it's 1927 and that kind of technology just doesn't exist (Oh, wait).  And so they thanked us for our honesty, and picked up the tab for a family of eight to travel back from Washington, Missouri on a sold out train.  I'm assuming this is the case on any given Saturday, or anytime there is a crowd, a *perceived* element of chaos, the need for credit cards, or machines that spew tickets.  


I mean, it's not even like you have to chase down a moving train anymore, with all your posessions contained in a pouch on a stick; turns out that one can travel as a hobo (or a terrorist) on any crowded Amtrak train across the country.  For free.