The Heaven of Train Travel.

The Silver Meteor pulls out of Miami's Amtrak station on time at 8:10 a.m. It rumbles past the sun-bleached industrial landscape, and the large car window is lit up by the low-lying autumn rays. "Have a Safe and Productive Day" reads a squat white wall, directed at the train cars and framed by palm fronds and power lines. I do the opposite: close my laptop, close my book, and remember Robert Louis Stevenson's words—"And ever again, in the wink of an eye, / Painted stations whistle by"—as my co-passengers and I zip past Hollywood, then Fort Lauderdale, then Deerfield Beach. The fluorescent lights illuminate an interior of scuffed vinyl and tired textiles, but extrawide seats and expansive windows make up for these deficiencies. I take out wool and needles and start to knit a vest, measuring the journey in centimeters of fabric; stations tick by in tidy rows of stitches. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]