Why is train travel perceived as something so romantic?

On the way from St. Louis to Kansas City and then from Kansas City to Los Angeles, I could not help but literally see the answer from the window. For almost the entire trip, the train traveled along rivers, and cut through the trees. Civilization has lacerated and penetrated nature, rendering it tamable. From the comforts of my seat, I could watch the trees go by, and the river flow opposite to the direction of the train. The vast and otherwise imposing fauna was not a threat, but a movie made possible by the constant movement of the locomotive. At one point, as the sun shone through my window, I saw a group of kids playing and swimming in the river, as if it were a scene taken out of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Every so often, we passed a town—it took us no longer than ten seconds to leave it behind—but aside from these, there existed no other signs of people.

For hours I did not have cell phone service, but as frustrating as it was not to be able to continue the conversation I was having, the train allowed me to divorce myself from the commotion and worries of the city. It is partly in this sense that the train embodies romanticism. We are stripped away from skyscrapers, and thrown in the middle of trees; we are sequestered from cell phone and radio towers, and forced to just have faith that our conductor knows the way; we are made to see a movie in which children play along the river instead of one in which cars cross bridges over rivers. In essence, the train is romantic. But only to one who looks for the romanticism. This ride is not romantic to the guy sitting next to me, trying to sleep, and who is obviously upset we were a bit late in our departure. The ride is not romantic to the mother sitting a few rows behind—she moves with the assistance of a walker, and has an epileptic child. The ride is not romantic to the group of teenagers playing video games on their computers. The ride isn’t romantic to the attendants hustling from car to car, and always engulfed in their duties. And the ride is definitely not romantic to half the passengers in the car—literally—knocked out from the rocking of the train.

Life continues just as it did in the city. Teenagers play video games as they do in their homes, mothers still worry about their children, and people sleep as they listen to music—just as they do in the city buses or subway trains. Perhaps, romanticism in life comes about only if one is a romantic by nature; if one is a Thoreau. But if one isn’t inclined to see romance in the seemingly banal, then no matter the scenery—cars or trees, buildings or river, planes or trains—one cannot call oneself a romantic.