Word: trained
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...production company. On others, he'll hop a plane for Srinagar for a day's shooting in Kashmir, or roar off in his white Mercedes to Pune (formerly Poona) for a locationer. Then he will rush back to Bombay to read the script for Last Train to Pakistan, his next starring vehicle, and perhaps consider offers from abroad...
Turning southwest, they cross the Continental Divide, push past gaudy Las Vegas and climb the Sierra Nevadas, pausing at Donner Pass. Here, explains Twain, whose lecturing is becoming a mild irritant, a wagon train, led by George and Jacob Donner in the winter of 1846-47, became trapped in a fierce snowstorm. Several members of the party died, whereupon the survivors proceeded to cannibalize the dead. Twain, having now discovered the credit-card culture, suggests that this event gave rise to the Donner's Club. Trollope is puzzled. "Is that like Carte Blanche?" Dickens, who has been dozing, starts...
...people in Wigglesworth the 12:45 train into Harvard Square is an annoying shudder coming up from the basement. But for a small group of fanatics, the 12:45 is a sacred institution. These are the subway freaks--the guys who tape small maps of the MBTA to their wristwatch bands, who let three trains pass until they get the right car, who make tape recordings of the Muzak at the Park Street station...
...fascinating cross section of the city. After Essex, the Orange Line is elevated, and the old wooden trestle winds like a drunk through rows of three-deckers, sturdy brick houses with bay windows and modern subdivisions. Be sure to stand at the window in the front of the train next to the engineer's compartment so you can look right out on the tracks. You can chart rising land values by looking at how close new subdivisions come to the threstle--the closer the homes, the more expensive the lots are for the builder. The trestle neight offers excellent view...
...final analysis, however, each subway freak chooses his own spot in the MBTA--and there are plenty to choose from. When I'm depressed, my favorite is the Central Square stop of the Red Line, when the last train of the night is due, and the station is deserted. A big iron monster takes the place of the turnstile after the man at the change booth has gone home for the night. On particularly bad nights, the iron monster will swallow your quarter and not allow you on the platform. But there is nothing in Boston that quite compares with...