Editor’s note: This is the first half of a two-part column. The second will appear in Friday’s edition.

“God! I will pack, and take a train, and get me to England once again!” – Rupert Brooke

A little less than a lifetime ago, I had a dream date with my late husband on a train.

Both now exist only in the Land of What Used to Be. But lately, thoughts of him and of that intimately sweet adventure have been poking gentle fingers into long forgotten corridors of my mind, and as I try to concentrate on paying bills or making deadlines, words pop into my head to lure me away from occupation and obligation.

Evocative words like Pullman, porter, and 20th Century Limited. My mind dawdles over these words, and I hear a sound – a drawn out whistle as lyrical as a wind chime echoing through a tunnel – and suddenly, I am no longer sitting at the desk in my office; I have been transported back to the polished mahogany, plush upholstery and gracious personnel of the offices of the American European Express.