A surreal train ride

The Sabres have gone a bit flat but are in the playoffs.

It’s a bit of a slow news day today. A week ago Friday, Beth and I went to see the Sabres lose to the Red Wings.

We parked on Delaware Avenue and had dinner at Cafe Azul. It is a fine, affordable scratch-made Mexican restaurant. Besides, why pay to park when you can park free and get a walk? It was a chilly night but we walked to Church station to take the train to the arena.

Metro Rail has always struck me as nonsensical – one of those things you just can’t figure out, like Robert Moses Parkway or the LaSalle Expressway, monuments to car-centric society and urban-centric development that just never seem to make sense or lead to anything.

Along the way, we encountered jovial Red Wings fans drinking beer in the street as they made their way to the arena. Who cares if there is an open container law when police have better things to do than hassle out-of-town visitors?

We waited about 10 minutes and then started walking, mostly to keep warm. 4 visitors from Detroit joined us. We made it one more stop up before the train came.

The arena experience was unremarkable. $6 for a bottle of water is crazy. We didn’t go near food either. The lower bowl of the arena, despite the sellout, still seemed empty but it was a better atmosphere than recent years.

After the game, we browsed through both giftshops. I thought about buying a $35 hat or a $225 JJ Peterka jersey on closeout but then came to my senses.

When we headed outside to go back to our car, a group stood at the arena station waiting for the train. A pair of senior women waited with the crowd. We started chatting. One was a Sabres fan. The other came from Michigan to cheer for the Wings and stay at her friend’s house in the Town of Tonawanda.

“I like Tonawanda,” the host said, almost defensively, clutching her train ticker. “It has everything I need. We need to go back to the University. Is that this way?”

Tonawanda is one of those milquetoast enclaves like Amherst, West Seneca and Cheektowaga, the kind of soulless suburbia that could be outside Pittsburgh, Detroit, Cleveland or any other once-great industrial city finding its way or trying to. The biting March wind cut to the bone as we contemplated whether there is actually a difference between Sloan, Ebeneezer, Kenmore and Williamsville.

At last, the train came but headed in the wrong direction. Metrorail in Buffalo is a single spur going a few miles from downtown before traversing the carcass of once-great Main Street and ending just past the arena.

“It has to go back in the other direction” I said, thinking aloud, reasoning it was better to get out of the wind than wait for the next train, especially when only one track was operating.

Our new friends joined us and climbed aboard. It wasn’t crowded. There were seats for everyone. The train headed away from the arena toward the water and parked at the DL&W terminal.

There was no announcement. No one seemed to have a clue what was happening. Then people started chatting. Not doom-scrolling social media on their phones but interacting like we used to 40 years ago, engaging.

The doors opened. A couple people, including me, stepped off to have a look around at the murals and the restored train terminal.

Someone started showing photos of their children to the women from Tonawanda and Michigan. Someone else showed dog photos. Of course Gord made an appearance.

Somebody else produced a pizza box filled with soggy, leftover nachos from the game and passed it seat-to-seat, too expensive to throw away but to gluttonous to finish. A couple strangers dug in grabbing handfuls of gooey, drippy disgustingness.

Eventually someone made their way to the front of the train, spoke to the conductor and determined not only was the train going to head back the other way in just a bit and the driver’s name was Jerry.

The crowd on the train started randomly chanting “Jerry. Jerry. Jerry.” It was like a forgotten episode of the Seinfeld show or frivolity dreamed up by Norman Lear for Meathead and Gloria only without the biting social commentary of Mr. Bunker. 

The odd thing was, game outcome be damned, everyone seemed happy, kind, friendly and sober. It’s hard to get drunk when beer is $18 a pint.

As we waited, weary arena employees climbed aboard, you could tell who they were by uniforms and badges. They knew when the train was leaving and were glad to be on it.

The train started moving and we resolved to ride one stop into the pay zone and get off at Allen-Hospital to have a shorter walk to our car parked near Tim Hortons. There was no chance to buy a ticket.

We got off at our station. The first escalator wasn’t working. Why is there always at least one escalator out-of-service in every station?

The second escalator was working. We got to the gate with about 75 other people on this surreal night. I paused and contemplated paying at the turnstile but every darn person seemed to be hopping through without paying and, just like earlier, the cops had better things to do so we hopped through and walked 3 blocks or so back to our car.

A Red Wings fan joined us on the sidewalk, wearing Gordie Howe’s red 9 jersey. He said he was staying at the Lenox Hotel.

The whole post-game scene on that train was a reminder that at its core, as much as we sometimes struggle in this world, people are mostly decent and grateful.