Christmas on the Train

As you may have noticed, I have moved around different places in the United States. In the first few years, I had some snow-clad Christmases in the Midwest. A kind local family opened their house to international students around town. I remembered the gingerbread house and the fragrant cinnamon smell. A golden retriever sat quietly around a small Christmas tree, smiling at us. We helped decorate the cookies, painting them into snowmen and stars. Manimala, a very talented art major student originally from India, drew a ninja turtle out of a cookie, which became the highlight of our small town that winter. I didn’t know back then that in a few years, I would have the most unconventional Christmas with Manimala on a train.

We international students left that small Midwestern town many years ago. I moved first to the South, then to the West. We all stayed on a listserv, so from time to time, one of us would share their accomplishment: Bilan got a tenure-track teaching position at UC Berkeley; Shayan started a new job at Tesla; Manimala’s art works were showing in this gallery in NYC and then in that museum in Chicago. I felt happy for them, of course. But struggling to publish papers in graduate school, I felt like a loser on the listserv.

Last year, when I once again failed to finish my dissertation, Manimala sent me an email.

“Hey, I’m traveling around the country by train. I’ll arrive in Seattle on the 21st. Question: Will you join me for my next route, from Seattle to Los Angeles, on the 22nd? I have a roomette so you do not need to pay anything. All the meals are included—I’ll also cover the tips. If that sounds too crazy, I hope you will still have coffee with me.”

I was puzzled. But then my partner left for Korea to visit his parents. I had to spend Christmas alone anyway. Why not take the train to see some friends in L.A.? The winter in Seattle was rainy and gray and depressing and maybe that was why I couldn’t write.

Call me nuts. I replied yes instantly.

“You are the first to respond,” Manimala emailed back. “You got the deal.”

I didn’t know it was something up for grabs, but I remembered hearing that Manimala had a luxurious lifestyle—when in college, she already flew business class everywhere. While I was having my doubts, Manimala sent a list of duties:

I was going to take the lower bunk bed, which had no windows.
I was going to model for her artworks.
I was going to help carry her art tools to the viewing car.
When others asked, I was going to say I was Manimala’s assistant.

Well, others might jump out of the ship right there. But as I told you, I was a pathetic nobody living on a very low university stipend. Normally I dog-sat or cat-sat for others in exchange for a free stay in another city. This looked much easier.

“Agreed,” I returned.

I met her at King Street Station on the morning of the 22nd. Beneath a Christmas wreath the size of a car tire above the ticket counters, Manimala sat like a cover girl for Vogue: a long beige coat, a wool beret, and a canvas portfolio strapped to her back like a yoga mat. She waved at me as though I were her long-lost sibling.

She hugged me more firmly than I’d like. I had a decade-old carry-on suitcase, whose handle couldn’t be fully extended. She raised her eyebrow slightly before she grinned again. She handed me one more duffel bag, full of charcoals, brushes, and watercolor palettes.

“Thank you for assisting me,” she said. I couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not.

We marched to the VIP waiting room. I kept two steps behind her. The passengers looked rich, with Louis Vuitton suitcases lining up behind the counter shelf. Less than an hour before the train departed, but right at the coffee table where others enjoyed their hot chocolate and donuts, Manimala spread out a small easel and started to draw.

A few heads turned in our direction. Two kids who looked about five and seven approached her.

“What are you drawing?” the older girl asked.

“What do you want me to draw?” Manimala smiled.

Before the girl responded, Manimala had already fleshed out a ninja turtle in front of an Amtrak train—a quick but vivid sketch.

“Wow!” Now the younger boy joined the girl, both opening their mouths wide.

“For you.” Manimala signed the sketch and handed it to the girl.

“You are an artist,” said the woman who must be their mother. “I must pay for your work.” She fumbled in her Prada purse.

“Please don’t bother,” Manimala said. “Consider this my Christmas present for—”

“Jenny,” the mother said. “Jenny, come say thank you.”

Manimala gestured at me for something, but I didn’t understand.

“My assistant will give you”—she now pointed to the back pocket on the duffel bag—“my business cards if you’d like to keep one. I do a lot of creative workshops for children.”

“Really?” the mother said. “I teach at a private school in Portland. I might be able to put in a good word.”

That was why she traveled in the sleeper car. Perhaps she’d built her network through traveling business class since college years.

Soon, all of us in the VIP waiting room were riding a charter bus to the platform. An old man wearing flannel approached us, saying he used to teach art history at UCLA. Manimala took out her phone and showed him her previous exhibitions. I could tell more people were peeking and listening.

Manimala was a star before we even boarded the train.

My job wasn’t bad though. During the day, the bunk beds were folded into two upholstered chairs. Only that Manimala rarely stayed in our roomette. She took her sketchbook and asked me to pose for her in the viewing car.

People were reading, scrolling down their phone screens, or looking outside the fading Seattle cityscape. But now, they were also stealing looks at us. My cheeks were burning hot.

We had put her business cards on the drink holder so people could help themselves. I heard gasps. A small crowd formed behind her. I was curious, but then my face turned even hotter.

It wasn’t me on her sketchbook. Not exactly. It was a female ninja turtle wearing my down coat, shoulder-length hair, and anxious expression. The drawing was impressive.

Oh, I should also clarify that Manimala’s ninja turtles were not that big franchise—Leonardo, Donatello, Raphael, and Michelangelo fighting crimes in New York City. She changed them into baby sea turtles, with big cute eyes and small clumsy bodies. She also feminized the ninja part—the sea turtles wore chokers and all kinds of hairdos and earrings.

Perhaps Manimala wanted to meet a Hollywood producer on this trip so her works could become a big-screen hit.

She continued to claim all the spotlights during lunch and dinner. On the train, meals were served in communal seating. Meaning the waiter would pair us with two other passengers so we could chat.

“You are the ninja turtle artist!” People greeted her like that. They asked her about her inspiration, artistic values, plans in L.A. She answered with brimming confidence: she grew up loving the ocean; her turtle ninjas were meant to empower young women; she had no work plans for the holidays.

Only once, another little boy tapped on my arm while I posed for yet another portrait in the viewing car.

“Are you her bodyguard?” he said.

“Assistant,” I corrected automatically.

Night fell early and hard, as it always did in winter in the Northwest. We returned to the roomette, and the beds were already made. I crawled into the lower bunk while Manimala climbed to the upper one. The train rocked me awake several times in the night, but I didn’t mind.

By dawn on the 23rd, we were somewhere along the Oregon border. I woke to the clatter of something falling.

“Art emergency!” Manimala shouted.

Half her charcoal pencils had rolled off the tiny shelf. I helped gather them while the train rattled over a narrow bridge. Outside, fog wrapped the river like gauze.

After breakfast, we settled again in the viewing car. The train had begun winding through a dense forest of pines, their branches heavy with wet snow.

“My ninja turtle the arborist,” Manimala said, pointing her charcoal pencil at my face again, “This tree-trimming industry is dominated by men. I’ll change that with art.”

The train lurched.

Then it groaned.

Then it stopped.

Everyone in the car swayed forward. The overhead lights flickered once but stayed on.

We waited. Nothing moved. Outside, the forest stood absolutely still, silent, gray.

After a minute, the conductor’s voice came through the speaker: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve come to a temporary stop. A tree has fallen on the tracks ahead. Please remain patient while we assess the situation.”

A tree. The night before Christmas Eve. In the middle of nowhere.

Manimala’s eyes sparkled, as if the emergency kindled something inside her.

“Well,” she said, gesturing at me to fetch her duffel bag, which I had to drag out from behind several heavy Louis Vuitton suitcases.

When I came back, Manimala had set up her large sketchbook on a bigger easel. In quick strokes, she sketched a group of people in the car looking anxiously out the window. One by one, she turned these humans into ninja turtles.

“Californian Night,” she said, even though we were not in California yet.

Another announcement: “We may be here a while.”

Passengers complained. A baby began to cry. Someone muttered about the possibility of missing the family dinner. The staff brought out trays of bottled water and snacks.

Manimala didn’t say anything. She was engrossed in her drawing. She didn’t raise her hand when I stood up and walked behind her to watch. She was working on two sketches at the same time, the second one being a group of seated ninja turtles groaning.

The first hour passed with everyone trying to stay calm. People paced the aisles, refreshed apps that showed no signal bars. An older woman tried, unsuccessfully, to talk the attendant into serving lunch early.

Around 3 p.m., someone announced they had cell service. Within seconds, twelve people were huddled near that window, arms raised like antennae. The conductor returned to the car and told us the fallen tree was larger than expected—massive enough that a maintenance team had to drive from a town nearly two hours away.

Interestingly, that announcement somehow calmed people down. Now a family of four was playing a card game, and the previous UCLA art professor was passing around a box of gingerbread cookies he must have planned to give his grandchildren.

Manimala was working on the fourth sketch now. Surprisingly, I was the only one who paid her attention. And I was being the real assistant, handing her the right charcoal pencil and wiping her fingers with paper towels from time to time.

The ninja turtles were playing poker on the page. More turtles around them were chewing on cookies.

Again, darkness crept in early and fully. The dining car opened for quick service, meaning we had microwaved food. I fetched Manimala a sandwich. She let it cool while still working on the page. Now a sixth sketch: stranded turtles getting quick bites.

Around 9 p.m., the conductor came to the viewing car again.

“The maintenance crew is here,” she said. “It’s going to be a bit longer.”

“How long?” someone asked.

She paused. “About five hours.”

We all knew what this meant. It would take another 24 hours from where we were to Los Angeles. Hopefully we’d make it home before Santa came to deliver the presents, but we were not sure.

I felt sorry for those traveling with or to children. But one by one, the crowd in the viewing car thinned. Manimala asked whether I could wait a bit longer.

“Sure,” I said, sharpening another charcoal pencil for her.

I didn’t know when exactly we went back to the roomette to sleep, but the sketches Manimala did were better than anything I’d seen. Her previous works were clever, but cheesy. This time, her works felt realistic and relevant—or maybe because I was one of her turtles.

When I woke up the next day, the train was already passing Sacramento. Manimala was not in the roomette. She’d been working on her drawings again in the viewing car. Now, the ninja turtles were sitting back on the train holding their little gift boxes.

A woman in semi-formal business attire stood near Manimala.

“Do you offer online tutoring?” she asked. “My niece is very interested in drawing.”

I rushed to her, handing out Manimala’s business card.

“I’m her assistant,” I said. “I can take your contact information and request. Please let her focus on drawing now.”

The woman murmured, “I’m sorry,” shoved the business card into her coat pocket, and told me that her niece was ten and lived in Santa Barbara.

Out of the corner of my eye, Manimala curved her lips at me, her way of saying thank you.

Down from San Jose, the train followed the shimmering coastline. Manimala’s eighteenth sketch captured not the turtles inside the train, but those out on the beach, waving to the train. By then, I no longer needed to model for her. I brought her water, paper towels, and more sharpened charcoal pencils.

We arrived at Union Station in Los Angeles at midnight. It was officially Christmas. Manimala asked me to stay at her hotel for one more night—not to rest, but to wait until she finished all the sketches.

She booked the smallest room in a Marriott hotel in Downtown L.A. I guessed normally she would perform her drawing in the lobby and attract the attention of potential business partners. But now the two of us rushed to the room with our suitcases and duffel bags.

“The last sketch,” Manimala said as she set up the easel.

“What’s it about?” I asked, moving chairs into the corner to make more room.

“The turtles give up their ninja costumes and return to the ocean.”

Nothing really happened that Christmas. But somehow I felt we were both reborn.