If you have never ridden first class on Amtrak’s Acela, you aren’t missing much. Before I went to New York, Rob gave me a free upgrade coupon, which I redeemed on my return trip only because I was hungry and they serve lunch in first class. It is otherwise a dismal experience, from the grimy clubroom at Penn Station to the business-suited zombies that populate the seating.

What is it about privilege that evaporates people’s minds? As we boarded, a man who had already been told that the first-class car was on the front of the train made a big deal out of asking everyone what direction the train was traveling because he just couldn’t bear to ride backwards. Charitable soul that I am, I told him; the next time he captured my attention was when his cell phone rang a half hour later, and I glanced over to see him chatting merrily away—riding in a backwards-facing seat. Perhaps it was just his jacket that couldn’t bear to ride backwards, as it alone occupied the forward-facing one. By this time, the two elderly society women across the aisle from me had begun an intricate conversation on the topic of whether a particular man had killed his family and fled the country. “He had to have done it!” said one about five hundred times, to which the other consistently replied in Miss Marpleish tones, “Its too obvious!” Had we been in a stadium, the topic of investigation might have been whether “it tastes great” or is “less filling,” but there is something not a little ghastly about two well-dressed people cheerfully debating the details and motivation of murder over white wine spritzers.

It is odd being served in luxury* on a train as it darts past housing projects, seedy industry, trailer parks, and maximum-security prisons. There is no physical insulation from the world as one would get on an airplane, so a passenger must maintain distance by escaping inward (and lacking anything of note there, must then fuss to the porter about the ingredients of one’s Caesar salad). After lunch, I spent most of the trip staring out the window, wondering why anyone would choose to pay six times the normal train fare for a dry turkey sandwich, but it seems as if First Class infiltrated my soul anyway. Walking home from the train station, I was approached by an homeless man who asked me if he could have a moment of my time.

“No,” I snapped.

“Two cents! That’s all I need, two cents to get something to eat!”

I stepped curtly around him, my wheeled suitcase practically knocking him into the street. Two cents indeed! Today it’s two cents, tomorrow it’s a dollar. Soon I’ll be paying your cable bill and the late fees on your Netflix account while you kick your feet up. Why don’t you go out and get a JOB!

Ahem.

Anyway, don’t ride first class.

* Amtrak's idea of luxury includes a little cup of trail mix but, oddly, no chocolate-chip cookies.