Car vs train across the United States
There's a train in the station. I'm swearing lightly and repetitively until Dan points out that the train is the wrong shape, colour and size. Ah. So we scream into the arrivals area, and I simply abandon the slightly careworn, bug-spattered red V8 in a restricted parking zone and shout at Dan to take care of it.
As I pile through the foyer, I dial Marc from Amtrak and burst through onto the platform with his voice in my ear. "I'm here, Marc, I'm here," I gasp. "WHERE IS THE ZEPHYR?!" "It's... due in eight minutes." He says, sounding faintly disappointed. I do a little inappropriate dance, you know the one, where you stir an imaginary cauldron whilst bouncing from foot to foot and repeating a stupid phrase. As I'm embarrassing myself, I hear a now-familiar honk. And the California Zephyr pulls into Emeryville station, notably, completely, utterly and incontrovertibly after I get there.