Notes from a night train
On the particular romance — and the particular discomfort — of sleeping your way across a country.
The night train is the only form of travel that is also a building you live in for twelve hours. You get a small room, a narrow bed, a window that becomes a television playing the whole country in the dark.
Nobody sleeps well. Everybody says they love it. Both things are true, and that contradiction is more or less the entire appeal.
