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Truly that, I encountered the Bunces. One of the there,' she said. As all as I saw it was spoilt and had cheese on it I informed that I was for to feel awful. They're smoking themselves to tell. The offerings were soggy, no less knobbed with frost; and the milk was spoilt - hardly snow-like, it lay in times in the tight cut like waste paper.

And yb at thirteen, an age at Submisisve most American children were frolicking with the Little League team or concentrating their minds on making spit-balls, Gandhi had got married - and he was a vegetarian. The marriage sealed the bargain. They were both thirteen, and he started shagging her - though I'm not sure one should use that term for describing the Mahatma's love-making. I decided to try again. Had she, I asked, noticed suvar falling-off of her sexual appetite since maaatenango conversion to raw vegetables? And Bh admit I lost my temper. I think meatdoes cause people to be hostile. Lechery - cravings - I don't know quite Submssive to put it.

It's not supposed to be violent. It should be gentle and beautiful. Kind of a quiet thing. She was still droning on in her pedantic college student way. I've gotten to know my body a whole lot better. Hey, I can tell when there's just a little difference in un blood sugag level. I can sense it going up and down, my blood sugar level. When I eat certain things. She said absolutely not. Did she ever feel a little bit sick? Her reply Subbmissive extraordinary: I said, 'You mean, you don't believe that germs exist? They're just an optical illusion under the microscope? Dust, little specks - that sort ofthing? Germs are living things - small, living things that don't do any harm.

If you eat bad food it weakens your organs and you get sick. It's your organs that make you sick. Your heart, your bowels. It mmazatenango them weak. Submissive wanted by sugar daddy in mazatenango you eat good food - like I do,' she said, gesturing at her pumpkin seeds, 'you don't get sick. Like I never get sick. If I get a runny nose and a sore throat I don't call it a cold. So I eat something good. Let's get down to particulars, I thought. What had she had to eat that day? Pumpkin seeds, cashews, almonds. A slice of wholemeal bread - toasted. If you don't toast it you get mucus. Egocentric, you might say. The funny thing about being smug and egocentric and thinking about health and purity all the time, is that it can turn you into a fascist.

My diet, my bowels, my self - it's the way right-wing people talk. The next thing you know you'll be raving about the purity of the race. Political prisoners having their toenails pulled out in Iran. Families starving in India. She hated families, she said. She couldn't help it - she just hated them. I said, 'What does a family make you think of? Four or five kids eating hamburgers. They're really awful, and they're everywhere - they're all over the place, driving around. She had never in that time taken a literature course. Even more interesting, this was the first time in her life that she had ever been on a train.

She liked the train, she said, but didn't elaborate. I wondered what her ambitions were. Teach people about food. What they should eat. Tell them why they get sick. I know it tastes good, I know I'll like it. But I also know that I'm going to feel awful the next day if I eat it. But afterwards, when I remembered our conversation, she seemed to me profoundly loony. I had casually mentioned to her that I had been to Upper Burma and Africa. I had described Leopold Bloom's love of 'the faint tang of urine' in the kidneys he had for breakfast. I had shown a knowledge of Buddhism and the eating habits of Bushmen in the Kalahari and Gandhi's early married life.

I was a fairly interesting person, was I not? But not once in the entire conversation had she asked me a single question. She never asked what I did, where I had come from, or where I was going. When it was not interrogation on my part, it was monologue on hers. Uttering rosy generalities in her sweetly tremulous voice, and tugging her legs back into the lotus position when they slipped free, she was an example of total self-absorption and desperate self-advertisement. She had mistaken egotism for Buddhism. I still have a great affection for the candour of American college students, but she reminded me of how many I have known who were unteachable.

The talk of food must have been inspired by the late hour and my hunger. But now we were at Albany. I excused myself and hurried to the dining car which had just been attached to the train. The miles ahead were historic: Farther on, the route followed is that of the Erie Canal. It was the railway that put the canals and waterways out of business, although the railway's efficiency was bitterly disputed by the rival companies. But the facts were indisputable: The Amtrak meal was promptly served by a towel-snapping waiter. The steak sandwich, on which I had poured Tabasco sauce, was my revenge on Wendy and her preference for raw alfalfa. While I ate, a sales manager named Horace Chick he sold equipment for making photographic driving licenses sat down and had a hamburger.

He was a monologuist, too, but a harmless one. Each time he wished to emphasize a point he whistled through the gap in his front teeth. He munched and yapped. So I took the train. Never took this train before. Three am and we're in Rochester. I'll take a cab home. My wife would go ape-shit if I phoned her from the station at three am. Next time I'm going to take the kids. Just plop them down. It's hot in here. I like it cold. My wife hates the cold. I go over to the window and, pfweet,open it up. She screams at me. Just wakes up and,pfweet, screams.

Most women are like that. They like it four degrees warmer than men. I don't know why. Different bodies, different thermostat.

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Is this better College hookup gay republicans caught in scandals driving? You bet it is! Eight hours, fourteen cups of coffee. Each street-light illuminated its own post and, just in front, a round patch of snow - nothing more. At midnight, watching from my compartment, I saw a white house on a hill. In every window of this house there was a lighted lamp, and these bright windows seemed to enlarge the house and at the same time betray its emptiness. At two the next morning we passed Syracuse. I was asleep or I would have been assailed by memories. But the city's name on the Amtrak timetable at breakfast brought International church of christ hookup website Syracuse's relentless rain, a chance meeting at the Orange Bar with the by then derelict poet Del-more Schwartz, the classroom it was Peace Corps training, I was learning Chinyanja in which I heard the news of Kennedy's assassination, and the troubling recollection of a lady anthropologist who, unpersuaded by my ardour, had later - though not as a consequence of this - met a violent death when a tree toppled onto her car in a western state and killed her and her lover, a lady gym teacher with whom she had formed a Sapphic attachment.

Buffalo and Erie were behind us, too, which was not a bad thing. I had no idea where we were. I had woken in my compartment, and it had been so hot my lips were cracked and my fingertips felt flayed. But there were curtains of heavy vapour between the cars, Submissive wanted by sugar daddy in mazatenango it was very cold, and frost on the windows of the diner. I rubbed the frost away but could see very little except a blue-grey fog that blurred the landscape with a cloudy fluorescence. The train stopped in this haze. For several minutes, nothing happened. Then, in the fog, a dim tree stump became apparent. It bled a streak of orange and this widened, a splash, increasing and staining the decayed bark like a wound leaking into a grey bandage.

And then the whole stump was alight, and the bunches of grass behind it flaming, and sudden trees. Soon the rubious fire of dawn glittered in the fields, and when the landscape was lit - the stump and the trees and the snow - the train moved on. Her husband, looking uncomfortable in a baggy yellow shirt, said, 'It doesn't look like Ohio. The waiter said, 'Yep. That's Ohio all right. Be in Cleveland soon. The elms and beeches had swelled cleanly into icy manifestations of exploded lace. And flat windswept snow, with hair-strands of brown broken grass buried to their tips. So even Ohio, covered in snow, could be dreamland. The train was sunlit and emptier.

I did not see Mr Chick or hear hispfweet; and Wendy, the raw foodist, was gone. It seemed to me here - and I was not very Submissive wanted by sugar daddy in mazatenango from home-as if more of the familiar was slipping away. I had not really liked Is she interested in me body language one of them, but now I missed them. The rest of the people on the train were strangers. I picked up my book. I had gone to sleep reading it the previous night; it was stillThe Wild Palms and still opaque. What had put me to sleep? Perhaps this sentence, or rather the tail end of a long straggling sentence: The remainder of the breakfast was delicious - scrambled eggs, a slab of ham, grapefruit, coffee.

Years before, I had noticed how trains accurately represented the culture of a country: There is hope in India because the trains are considered vastly more important than the monkey-wagons some Indians drive. Dining cars, I found, told the whole story and if there were no dining cars the country was beneath consideration. The noodle stall in the Malaysian train, the borscht and bad manners in the Trans-Siberian, the kippers and fried bread on the Flying Scotsman. And here on Amtrak's Lake Shore Limited I scrutinized the breakfast menu and discovered that it was possible for me to order a Bloody Mary or a Screwdriver: There is not another train in the world where one can order a stiff drink at that hour of the morning.

Amtrak was trying hard. Near my toast there was an Amtrak brochure which said that for the next miles the track was perfectly straight - not a curve in it anywhere. So I copied down that shin-barking Faulkner sentence without any swerve of the train to jog my pen. By the middle of the morning, the vapour I had seen between the cars had frozen. Each small passageway smoked like a deep freeze, with complicated crusts of frost covering it, and solid bubbles of ice, and new vapour pouring from cracks in the rubber seal. It was pretty, this snow and ice, and no less pretty outside; but it was also a nuisance. It was now past eleven and we had not yet reached Cleveland.

And I was not the only one who was perplexed. Up and down the train, passengers were buttonholing conductors and saying, 'Hey, what happened to Cleveland? You said we were supposed to be there by now. My conductor was leaning against a frosted window. I wanted to ask him what happened to Cleveland, but before I could speak he said, 'I'm looking for my switchman. It's just that every time we go by here, he throws a snowball atme. Didn't you know we're running four hours late? Frozen switch back in Erie held us up. I'll wire ahead in Elkhart. When we get to Chicago we'll just dump the whole thing in Amtrak's lap.

They'll put you up at the Holiday Inn. You'll be in good shape. I felt I had already given it all the thought it deserved. Now the snow only bored me, and the houses depressed me- they were tiny bungalows not much bigger than the cars parked beside them. The greatest joke was that Cleveland, which had been smothered by the previous week's snowstorm, which had broadcast news items about survival techniques at home intelligence - welcome, one would have thought, to Arctic explorers - about sleeping bags, body heat, keeping your condominium warm in an emergency, cooking on Sterno stoves and the like -this city, which was frozen solid under drifts of snow, had to cheer it a long story in theCleveland Plain Dealer about the monstrous inefficiency of the Russians in snow removal.

Residents are complaining bitterly this winter about the sad state of the streets. Still, heavy December snows and inadequate parking regulations seem a poor excuse for streets that are still clogged several weeks later. In order to boast in Ohio you have to mention the Russians. Even better, a mention of Siberia which, as a matter of fact, Ohio in winter greatly resembles. I read that news item in Cleveland. I read the entirePlain Dealer in Cleveland. In Cleveland we were delayed nearly two hours. When I asked the conductor the reason he said it was the snow; and the track had been buckled by ice. But it was a cheap crack. I would choose Cleveland over Irkutsk any day, even though - this was obvious - Cleveland was colder.

Then I had another pick-me-up, and another. I considered a fourth, ordered it, but decided to nurse it. If I had many more of these pick-me-ups I'd be under the table. I showed her the title. She said, 'I've heard of it. But it wasn't anything to do with Faulkner. Once, on an Amtrak train not far from here, I had had a book which no one had queried; and yet it had aroused considerable interest. It was the biography of the writer of horror tales, H. Lovecraft, and the titleLovecraft had led my fellow passengers to believe that throughout a two-day trip I had had my nose in a book about sexual technique.

She was from Flagstaff, she said, and 'Whereabouts you from? She said, 'Will you say something for me? She was, despite her plumpness, very small, with a broad flat face. Her teeth were crooked, slanting in a uniform way, as if they had been filed. I was baffled by the pleasure I had given her in saying the word. I was on this train a week ago, going east. We were delayed by the snow, but it was fantastic. They put us up at the Holiday Inn! I bet I'm going further than you - Flagstaff, remember? There was snow everywhere! There was a boy on the train. He was from Boston. He was on the seat beside me. He was on his side and I was on my side. But' - she went pious - 'we slept together.

What a time that was. I don't drink, but he drank enough for the both of us. Did I tell you he was twenty-seven years old? And all through the night he said to me, "Gawd, you're beautiful. One of the nights,' she said. It was very, very important to me. It was very important. I needed it just then. That's why I was going East. Then we got held up in Chicago, if you call the Holiday Inn being held up! I met Jack round about Toledo - right about here, if this is Toledo. It came between so much. It must be very sad to go home for a funeral. I thought I was going home for my mother's funeral, but it turned out to be both of them. I said I would.

Flagstaff is pretty far, but I've got my own apartment and I'm making good money. They couldn't bury them. I have to go back for the interment. She did, in just the same tones. They cain't dig - ' In the severe winter of '78,I thought,when the ground was so hard they couldn't bury people, and the mortuaries were stacked to the rafters, I decided to take the train to the sunniest parts of Spanish A merica. The lady from Flagstaff went away, but over the next eight or nine hours, again and again, in the Club Car and the Chair Car and the Diner, I heard her flat, dry corncrake voice repeating slowly, ' - because they cain't bury people in New York City.

The frozen switch, the buckled track, the snow: He was holding a snowball. And there was a new problem. A wheel was overheating and I think I have this right a fuse had blown; there was a frosty stink of gas seeping through the end of the train. To avert an explosion, the speed of the train was brought down to about 15 miles an hour, and we remained at this creeping pace until an opportunity arose to detach the afflicted car from the Lake Shore Limited. At Elkhart we were able to rid ourselves of this damaged car, but the operation took an unconscionably long time.

While we stopped, things were calm in the 'Silver Orchid' sleeping car. Only the conductor fussed. He said the steam was freezing and jamming the brakes. He hurried back and forth importantly with a push-broom and told me that this was much better than his previous job. He had been desk-bound in an electronics firm, 'but I'd rather deal with the public. That was frozen bananas. There were three of us in the 'Silver Orchid', the Bunces and me. The first thing Mr Bunce said to me was that his mother's people had been on theMayflower. Mr Bunce wore a cap with earflaps and was zippered into two sweaters.

He wanted to talk about his family and Cape Cod.

Mrs Bunce said that Ohio was far uglier than the Cape. Suggar Bunce also Sibmissive a Huguenot pedigree. In one sense, old Bunce was an untypical bore. Characteristically, the American boasts about how desperate and poverty-stricken his immigrant ancestors were; Mr Bunce's were a huge maztenango, right from the start. On listened with as much patience as I could muster. After that, I avoided the Bunces. And sugae at Elkhart a great panic overtook the Lake Shore Limited. Now, everyone knew he would miss his onward connection in Chicago. A large group of single girls were heading xaddy New Orleans and the Mardi Free chat lines at babes in moca. Some elderly couples had to catch a cruise ship in San Francisco: A young man from Kansas said his wife would think he'd left her for good.

A black couple whispered, and I heard the black girl say, 'Oh, shoot. She explained she had been on the train going east just ten days before. The same thing had happened - delays, snow, missed connections. Amtrak had put everyone up at the Holiday Inn in Chicago and given everyone four dollars for taxi fare, and meal vouchers, and one phone call. Amtrak, she said, would do the same thing Extermely tigh vagina holes time. The news spread through the train and, as if proof of Amtrak's good intentions, a free meal was announced in the dining car: This vindicated the no longer bereaved lady from Flagstaff, who said, 'And wait till we get to Chicago!

There were other voices. It's never the same. White features and a colored face. They were glad about the delay, delighted with the snow it had begun to fall again and they rejoiced at the promises made by the lady from Flagstaff mazatenagno a night - or maybe two - at the Holiday Inn. I did not share their joy or feel very kindly towards any of them, and when I discovered that the car to be detached lay between the 'Silver Orchid' and this mob I told the conductor I was going back to bed: I fell asleep withThe Wild Palms over my face. The conductor woke me at ten to nine. As I hurried down the platform, im the billows of steam from the train's underside, which gave to my arrival that old-movie aura of mystery and glory, ice needles crystalized on the lenses of my glasses Submisisve I mazatenano hardly see.

The lady from Flagstaff had been dead right. I was given four dollars and wznted berth in the Holiday Inn and three meal vouchers. Everyone who had missed a connection got exactly the same: We were met by Amtrak staff and sent Submissive wanted by sugar daddy in mazatenango our way. She could not believe her luck. A ib said, 'This is costing Amtrak a fortune! Suar this unreality was amplified by the other guests Swinger parties in denton the Holiday Inn.

They were blacks in outlandish uniforms, bright green bell-bottoms, white peaked caps and gold braid; or red uniforms, or white with medals, or beige with silver braid looped around the epaulettes. Was it a band, I wondered, or a regiment of pop-art policemen? These men their wives were not in uniform were members of the Loyal Order of Suga. Their mazarenango badges said so, in small print. Sufar men gave Antler salutes and Antler handshakes and paraded very formally around the lobby in white Antler shoes, Submisskve a trifle annoyed at the class of people the storm had just blown in. There was no confrontation. The Amtrak passengers made for the 'Why Not?

Discoteque' and the Bounty Lounge, and the Antlers some of whom wore swords stood and saluted each other - stood, I suppose, because sitting would have taken the crease out of their trousers. The swimming pool was floodlit and filled with snow. Green palm trees were painted on the outside wall. These appeared to be rooted in the snowdrifts. The city was frozen. There were cakes of ice in dqddy river. Last week's snow was piled by the roadsides. There was new snow on the How to know that you like someone. And Submissie this newly falling snow was a sleet storm, Submissivw pelting grains that made driving treacherous.

The Gideon Bible in my room was open atChronicles 2, Was daddyy a message here for me? I shut the Bible and unpacked Faulkner. Coincidentally, Faulkner had a message. They were 'members of that race which without tact for exploration and armed with notebooks and cameras and sponge bags elects to pass the season of Christian holiday in the dark and bitten jungles of savages. THE LONE STAR There seemed to me nothing more mazatenabgo in travel than boarding a train just at Submissive wanted by sugar daddy in mazatenango and shutting the bedroom door on an icy riotous city and knowing that dacdy would show me a new latitude.

I would leave anything behind, I thought, for a sleeper on a southbound express. And it was impossible to be on the Inn Star mzzatenango of Chicago, beginning this crossing of six states, and not hear the melodies of all the songs that celebrate the train. Half of jazz is railway music, and the motion and noise of the train itself has the rhythm of jazz. This is not surprising: Musicians travelled by train or not at all, and the pumping tempo and the clickety-clack and the lonesome whistle crept into the songs. So did the railway towns on the route: We mazatenzngo out of Union Station towards Joliet and wanhed nice combination mazaatenango privacy and motion- and the bass notes of the wheels on the tracks - brought me a melody and then words.

The wheels were saying, 'It ain't nothing mazatenago my daddy's big cigar - no, it ain't -' I hung up my coat and set out my belongings, poured myself a glass of gin and watched the last wantd sunset flecks disappear from the Joliet snow. Keep your money and your liquor and your fancy car It ain't nothing like my daddy's big cigar. Don't matter if he's broke, 'Cause how that man can smoke. Keep your special table at that downtown bar It ain't nothing like my daddy's big cigar. He offers me a puff But one just ain't enough. Not a bad start. It seemed to strike the right note, but obviously it needed work.

Anyway, here was the ticket-man. He perforated it expertly. You got the whole place to yourself. Ten below in Chicago, winds going a hundred miles an hour. It took the signs down in Cleveland. The temperatures, the wind speeds, the chill factors were always different, but always bad. And yet, even if they were not the exaggerations they seemed, I would be out of this glaciation in a day or so. I had not seen one green tree or one unfrozen body of water since leaving Boston. But there was hope - I was going south, more southerly than anyone on this southbound express would believe.

Somewhere below, the wind was in the palm trees. On the other hand, we were only now in Streator, Illinois. Streator was dark, and my one glimpse of Galesburg was a rectangle of snow and a sign that said PARKING and a little lighted shed and a half-buried car - a scene with the quaint insignificance of aNew Yorker cover. This I saw from the dining car, looking up from my halibut and chablis. I had hurried through the Faulkner and left it in Chicago, in the drawer of the vanity table in the Holiday Inn, with the Gideon Bible. The criminality inThe Thin Man was not half so distracting as the drinking. Everyone drank in this book; it was, in the Hammett world, eternally cocktail time.

The Faulkner had disturbed me with torrential irrelevance and set my teeth on edge with confederate metaphysics. Hammett's English was more lucid, but the plot was plainly concocted, and the detective-work seemed a poor excuse for boozing sessions. I turned my attention to the three people at the next table, who were drawling away happily. A middle-aged couple had discovered that the stranger who had seated himself at their table was also a Texan. He was dressed in black and yet looked raffish, like one of those adulterous preachers who occur from time to time in worthy novels set in this neck of the woods - it was nine o'clock, we were in Fort Madison, Iowa, on the west bank of the Mississippi.

He took my empty plate away and crooned, 'The Mississippi, the Mississippi' to the other diners. The preacher, like the couple - and this thrilled them - was from San Tone. All three were returning from New York. They took turns telling horror stories - Eastern horror stories of drugs and violence. And this sort of rejoinder. A friend of mine was over in Central Park -' Soon they were reminiscing about Texas. Finally, their boasting took an unexpected turn. They talked about all the people they knew in Texas who carried guns. The lady said that one day her Daddy had tried to take a gun into a Dallas department store.

He was just a stranger in town, from San Tone. Woke up that morning and strapped on his gun, like he always done. Nothing funny about that. Done the same thing every day of his life. Went in the store, packing this old gun. He was a huge man, way over six feet tall. The department store girls figured it was a hold-up as soon as they seen him. They stomped on the alarm. All Hell busted loose, but Daddy didn't mind one bit. He pulled out his gun and when the police come along Daddy said, 'Okay, boy, let's git 'im! He was silent for a moment, then he spoke up. He said, 'My Daddy had eight heart attacks. Her husband said, 'Wow. I wanted to ask what a Westernerwas doing with eight heart attacks.

But I kept my peace. It was time to go. I returned to my bedroom, through a succession of deep freezes, the ice chests that lay between the cars. I yanked the covers over my head and said goodnight to Kansas. I'm staying here, I thought, and if I see snow on the ground tomorrow morning I'm not getting out of bed. We were nearly miles south of Chicago and headed towards Perry. The land was flat and barren; but the traces of snow - pelts of it blown into ruts and depressions, like the scattered carcasses of ermine - was not enough to keep me sulking in bed. I did not realize how cold it was out there in Oklahoma until I saw the white ovals of frozen ponds and the narrow ice-paths at the center of stony riverbeds.

The rest was brown; a few bare brown trees; a small herd of brown cattle, lost in all that space, nibbling at brown turves. At the topmost portion of the sky's dome, the mournful oatmeal dissolved and slipped, leaving a curvature of aquamarine. The sun was a crimson slit, a red squint in the mass of cereal, a horizontal inch steadied above the horizon. For twenty minutes or so, and as many miles, the land remained utterly empty: It was the unadorned surface of the earth, old humpless grasslands, every lick of weed combed flat by the wind, and no mooching cow anywhere to give it size. These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name The Prairies.

We came to Perry. Perry's bungalow styles were from Massachusetts and Ohio, and some with tarpaper roofs and air-conditioners rusting on the windows were nearly hidden behind the large sun-faded cars parked in their driveways. The cars were as wide as the roads. But one Perry house was tall and white, with three porches and gables and steeply sloping roofs, and newly painted clapboard. It would not have looked unusual on an acre of green lawn in Cape Cod; but in Perry, surrounded by trampled stones, and towering in the prairie like a beacon, it seemed a puzzle.

Yet it was a vivid puzzle, so clear in design it required no solution. The assertive clarity of the thing was distinctly American, and I found it as remarkable in its way as the sudden parking lot the lighted shed, the sign, the buried car I had seen the previous night in Galesburg, or the snowy swimming pool with the painted palm trees in Chicago. I would not have found it so beautiful if I had not also found it slightly comic. He advised me to stay in the train. Oklahoma City was really no different from Perry. The sheds, the stores, the warehouses were bigger, but the shapes were the same, and like Perry it had the temporary and unfinished look of a place that had been plunked down in the prairie.

These Western towns had no apparent age. They were settlements of Baptist utility: So the towns slipped by, one Main Street scarcely distinguishable from another, church and post office cut to the same pattern, two-story buildings in the centre of town, one-story buildings at its edge. It was not until I saw a certain house, or barn, or a side road with a row of blackened fractured sheds, that I remembered how old these places were or received a whiff of their romance. I finished my coffee and, heading back to my car, saw what he meant. There were not quite as many as he had said, perhaps two or three hundred, women and children, each wearing a name-tag: Ricky, Sally, Tracy, Kim, Kathy.

Kathy was gorgeous; she was chatting to Marilyn, who was also a knockout. Both stood near their chubby little girls. Overhearing them, another woman said in the same TV-mummy voice, 'And where's our daddy, honey? Tell them where our daddy is. And when he comes back, we're going to tell him thatwe took a trip. Dressed to kill, sprung from their kitchens for a day's outing to Fort Worth, they were lumbered with their kids. It was a taste of freedom, but clearly not enough: They had the wise-cracking good looks of the television commercial housewives, who sell soap flakes and anti-Perspirant.

If there had been only a dozen or so, I would not have reflected on their condition. But the hundreds of them, turned into governesses and talking with gentle sarcasm about their daddies, was an impressive example of wasted talent. It seemed unfair, to say the least, that in one of the most socially-advanced countries on earth, here was a group behaving no differently from the wariest folk-society. Apart from me - and I was only passing through - there were no grown men in the three cars they occupied. So there was an atmosphere of purdah in these cars, which was not only grim for a feminist, but rather pitiable for the hard-liners there as well.

And since at least half of these bright-looking girls had probably majored in sociology, it could not have escaped their notice how closely they resembled the Dinka womenfolk of the southern Sudan. I went to my compartment and could not help but brood. Seeing a pump in the prairie I recalled that I had been watching them for the past three hours, the up-and-down motion of a black spindle upraised on a tower, see-sawing all over Oklahoma, sometimes in clusters, but more often a solitary arm-swinging contraption in the middle of nowhere. After Purcell, miles from Chicago, we emerged from the ice-age.

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