City of New Orleans

Once upon a time I dreamed that I would be America's next native son. Spurred on by Arlo Guthrie I would ride "the train they call the City of New Orleans," exploring America and writing about my experiences.

Countless stories were waiting for me to write about people and their hopes and dreams in towns and cities from sea to shining sea. I would get it all down in an eclectic, half-crazed patchwork reflective of styles and perspectives from Jack Kerouac and Charles Kuralt to Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson.

Early on I published op-ed articles in The New York Times and Newsday, a slew of articles in weeklies and a children's novella. That was back in the day when I lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. The view of the Manhattan skyline from my apartment was mesmerizing; the city glittered just across the river like a million precious jewels in the night.

When I decided I was no longer headed in the same direction as the City of New Orleans - starting a family meant getting a real job - I put aside all thoughts of becoming America's next native son. It was time to grow up, or so I thought.

I embarked on a career in public relations that has taken me down many new and different roads. Over the miles traveled I have learned that exploration of just about any sort is a good thing, and that as T.S. Eliot observed, “…the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time.”

So here I am years later standing on yet another train platform. Much to my amazement, the City of New Orleans is just pulling into the station. It turns out that despite all of the highways and byways and the occasional detours that I've taken, I never completely lost sight of my dream. I just put it on hold for awhile.