Planes have no names (for use in polite company)

Bi-coastal sophisticates refer to the Midwest as the "fly-over states," a quilt of fields and towns occasionally glimpsed through clouds. When I fly, I never feel like I've really gone anywhere--sort of like using the transporter on Star Trek, except rude, cramped, scary and smelly. But riding Amtrak's Lakeshore Limited and the Empire Builder out to Minneapolis last week, I knew I was on a journey. I watched every mile go by, and discussed it at leisure with my companions. High up in the big sightseeing lounge, one must concede that Wisconsin is, in fact, pretty good dairy country, and that Wisconsin Dells can almost hold its own against some Adirondack resorts. And if you must be laid over in Chicago, it is pleasant to be in walking distance of the Arts Institute and Symphony Place, the aquarium and the Fields Museum. There is a trolley driver who sings acapella; there is a modest and substantial slow-food diner with mouthy help--but not if you're stuck out at O'Hare. We considered staying aboard all the way to Seattle and skipping the conference. Who would know if we didn't tell? The journey IS the destination.