I was all smiles. I needed to go to Chicago, and I hate to fly. Really, hate to fly--call it a fear of flying, sure. It's not a fear of crashing, though, know this, it is a fear of flying. I hate being up in the air, where Man does not belong, I hate being in planes, with their square white pillows and non-dairy creamer packets and stewardesses that aren't nearly as sexy as they are in the movies. And airports, shit, even travel-lovers hate airports. So what I did for Chicago, 'cause I had to go to Chicago, was connive and cajole and re-kajigger schedules and got myself out there on the Amtrak sleeper car.

And while many snickered (Hoffman's a pussy, he saw Alive one too many times) I was looking forward to it. Even with the knowledge that the sleeper cars are only for the eccentric elderly and self-made business-types who have the luxury of time to take forever to get cross-country, I knew not whether to fantasize for a Woody Guthrie-like "bound for glory" adventure, or to go all cosmopolitan a la James Bond or North By Northwest. I decided to hedge my bets and prepare for both.

I brought some good CDs, Hank Williams and Doc Watson and Rambin' Jack Elliot and the new tribute album to Springsteen's "Nebraska," and I was sure not to pack a suitcase, rather a sack that I could sling over my shoulder as I ambled on down the line. I was ready to get to settin' on down next to some good folk and hearin' their travellin' tale, maybe share a little of some home-cooked liquid fire--technically, I may've been fixin' to do this; I ought to double check.

But in case I was to meet Eva Marie Saint, I wanted to be prepared. I put on a good shirt and figured I'd pick up some provisions for in-between mealtimes. There's a cheese shop in my neighborhood, but I never go there because it's on the opposite side of the block than what gets me fastest to the subway. Typical thinking of the rushing man. So nuh-uh, not this time. This time, yes, I'll not be chicken, and I'll cross the road, going, heaven forbid, a little bit out of the way.

A cowbell clunked and this fella asked what he could get for me. I picked up a box of non-descript crackers and asked for some Brie.

"Oh . . . the Brie is coming in at 11, can you wait til then?"

"I'm afraid I can't, just wanted to pick something before I headed out on the train."

"Yeah? Where ya headed?

"Chicago. Yeah, I know, it's crazy . . ."

"It's not crazy, it's relaxing. I take the train whenever I can, you spread out, read the paper, have a little snack. Tell ya what, I'll give a nice smoked Gouda. Try this. It's good right? How big a slice? This a good piece? By the way, my name's Sal. What else can I get ya?"

"Maybe something a little crazy, too?" I liked this guy.

"I can give you a Blue cheese, a Gorgonzola is good for spreading, here, let's go with this. That's $6.95 all together. And come back after your trip, I'm always here. Been here for 23 years."

In my little Amtrak room, which is, frankly, more comfortable than my living room, I'm doing just as Sal said. I'm spread out, I got the paper, relaxing, I crack out the crackers and the smoked Gouda. It's great. And Fay, the hostess for the car, is also all smiles and can tell how happy I am to be on the train. A while later I crack out the Gorgonzola.

I like extreme cheeses. Really I do. And I've seen Gorgonzola, it's supposed to have little clumps of greenish-blue. Well, this one had thick chunks of dark cement grey. And nearly got me vomiting once I unpeeled the foil. An eternal question: how do you know when Blue cheeses are bad?

I've never experienced such a stink in all my life. All the wealthy eccentrics up and down the Viewliner were hitting their in-room fans, as the smell shot out into the hall and infected the whole car. I heard murmurs, my cheese created murmurs, it was the talk of the train. That smell, what is that horrible, horrible smell? It didn't smell like feet, it didn't smell like ass, it smelled like bile, like diseased bile--that had been stepped on by awful feet and shat on by constipated septuagenarians.

I went looking for Fay and got some Lysol, she shot me a "that smell is from you?" look. I muttered something, and rolled up the cheese and put it in the little garbage. . . were it sat like a slowly leaking chemical weapon. "Oh no," Fay said with a think Latina accent, "we'll need to throw this out at the next stop."

"Or toss it out the window once we hit the next overpass!" an unseen voice called out.

So much for traveling in style, or ingratiating myself to the freewheelin' dusty Americans. They were all in coach, anyway, drinking four dollar Heinekens in their Warner Bros. sweatshirts.