Ever since I boarded the Amtrak five months ago, I’ve been absolutely obsessed with the idea of jumping back on. As the ultimate extrovert and a curious explorer, I’m always on the lookout for new sources of happiness and unlikely adventures, especially with the toxicity of election season in full swing. You know who’s always positive? Travelers. People on vacation. So when I saw a Pride group was about to roll through town on its annual “Ride with Pride” - riding Amtrak’s California Zephyr from San Francisco to Chicago - I couldn’t resist booking a ticket and crashing the party.
I enjoy following posts in Amtrak groups, but this page was different. They weren’t on solo excursions - they were traveling as a pack, picking up and dropping off new friends along the route. Within the first few hours, their colorful posts gleamed with camaraderie and connection. As someone who thrives on meeting new people, it sounded like the perfect excuse to link up with strangers from far-flung places. I even imagined dazzling these city slickers with tales of my tiny Iowa town so that they return home remembering that crazy gal from Creston, and maybe causing them to look up the town. How does one go from bustling San Diego to a town of 8,000, sight unseen? It’s a story that never fails to amuse, especially when I get to set people up with my romanticized expectations versus the reality that greeted me. Somewhere between the two, though, lies what I’ve grown to love and my favorite tales to tell.
So without much thought (and even less sleep), I bought a last-minute ticket for $14, and enlisted the help of a friend to shuttle me home after leaving my car at a neighboring station following a concert at Val Air. All this in preparation for a 5 a.m. “stroll” to the depot.
Stroll, in this case, is loosely defined. Groggy and disoriented, I rolled out of bed, threw on clothes that smelled “clean enough,” and stumbled into the quiet, still-dark Creston. The streets were deserted, but under the starlight and a few lamp posts, my double shadow loomed, elongated and strange. It was too early to be rational, so naturally, I screamed at my own shadow, momentarily terrified someone was following me.
Then I saw a cat - a Cheshire-looking thing planted in the middle of the sidewalk like it owned the place. “Hello, friend,” I said. But it continued to stared me down, unblinking, so I made a cautious arc around it, walking into the street before rejoining my steps to the sidewalk. All that drama before even reaching the depot.
Along the way, I grabbed a coffee at Casey’s for a much-needed dose of caffeine. It turned out to be a great decision; the air was brisk, and despite the posted hours, the depot was locked, leaving me to wait outside. Fortunately, I struck up a conversation with two BNSF railroaders also waiting to catch Amtrak back home to Galesburg. Having just visited the town, I shared my favorite spots, like the Innkeeper’s Coffee and the Carl Sandburg house-turned-historical site honoring the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, author, journalist, biographer, storyteller, and musicologist. Hearing about my interests, one of the railroaders mentioned the town’s new $14 million library, which they were quite proud of. We bonded over our shared love for paperbacks. It seems to be a popular choice among bibliophiles with nothing but time. As the Amtrak rolled in, we exchanged quick pleasantries, said goodbye, and went our separate ways.
When I boarded the train, I glanced at my assigned seat but bypassed it for the observation car. I’d pictured it packed with a jubilant rainbow of riders, ready to regale me with stories from San Francisco, Denver, and beyond. Instead, it felt more like a waiting room at urgent care: an Amish couple, a few others scattered in silence, and a table piled with what looked like a student’s forgotten homework. I sighed, trying to accept my fate, realizing my new “friends” may have jumped off somewhere along the route or may be still asleep. Either way, I was left to quietly watch the passing cornfields and contemplate my poor decision-making.
But then I felt alright. I told myself, “Sarah, you followed them here and this is the adventure you were meant to have.” Honestly, it was beautiful as the sunrise hit the corn just right. Golden Hour in rural Iowa has a way of sneaking up on you with its soft, glowing fields that seem to stretch on forever. In that moment, I let myself sit there, not needing conversation. I just let the quiet settle over me and felt contented in my calm.
Suddenly, a young guy, about 20, with wild curls dropped into the seat across from me. Before I could say hello, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, scruffy frog.
“I like your frog,” I said, because what else does one say to a stranger who produces a frog at dawn? “What’s his story?”
“Thank you! This is Mr. Pickles,” he replied with the seriousness of someone introducing a beloved family member. Mr. Pickles, it turned out, was a Japanese immigrant and lifelong companion.
The young man was from Truckee, California, and we bonded quickly over our shared love of train travel. For us it’s the view, the slower pace, and especially the people. We agreed that planes had lost their magic. I asked if he’d heard of “Ride with Pride,” and while he wasn’t part of the group, he’d chatted with some of the riders the day before and said they were a fun bunch.
Just then, I noticed a guy in an Alcatraz T-shirt - a dead giveaway for a Bay Area tourist if ever I’d seen one. I wasn’t trying to stereotype him, but his shirt was a clue, and I thought his journey could very well have also started at the Emeryville station.
“Are you, by chance, with the ‘Ride with Pride’ group?” I asked, explaining my impromptu trip.
He laughed and called over his friends, and within minutes, I found myself sitting with a lively group of strangers, each as warm and friendly as expected. As they told me about their journey, I learned that this year marked the tenth anniversary of the cross-country Pride ride, a journey taken to celebrate connection, community, and friendship.
Jay, the organizer, shared how it all began, and I worried I wouldn’t get the whole story as the train started to slow at my stop.
“This year we had 22 people,” Jay said. “Well, twenty-three of us, including you.”
Most wouldn’t know, but I have an obsession with the number 23. I told them it’s my lucky number, and to prove it, I whipped out my phone and called my friend Kelly on speaker.
“Kelly, what’s my lucky number?” I asked, eager to show off.
“Twenty-three!” she shouted back and I quickly hung up. My new friends laughed, clapped and cheered as if I just pulled a rabbit from a hat.
With only a few minutes before my stop, I launched into the condensed version of my move from San Diego, my life in tiny Creston, and my unexpected love for train travel. They laughed, they listened, and by the time we reached Osceola, I felt like I was leaving a little part of myself behind.
As I ran toward an exit, I promised to catch up with them next year. From my car, I watched the Zephyr pull away, and savored the last bit of coffee and warmth from my wonderful morning with the world’s friendliest strangers. Unlike my typical exploration around Iowa, I wasn’t just passing through; I was a part of it. I hope my new friends know that they are welcome here, and that Iowa can be very nice.
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