On the Chinese express train from Los Angeles

September 1, 2026

Dell Franklin,

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s latest book – “Hitchhiking, A Destiny” – is currently on Amazon.

Observing Chinese tourists on the Amtrak Starlight’s observation car on the trip from Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo is, well, a trip into a whole new world of, to me, fascinating if not frustrating enlightenment.

This was my ninth or tenth return trip on the Starlight, and on my last one I entered the observation car shortly after taking off, and realized in shock that Chinese tourists had taken every table and chair except for perhaps a few–which were taken by Americans–and there was no doubt nobody was going to give up their turf, as they were all settled in—cameras poised.

I retreated to my seat beside a window along the coastal side and enjoyed the ride, but I was pissed off I couldn’t pass my time in the more comfortable and less confining observation car, where I usually met somebody to talk to and pass the time quickly.

I have written stories of my Amtrak rides and hoped to get one, but was denied!

This time I entered the train before anybody, placed my ticket above my seat for the conductor to find, and entered the observation car just as the Chinese tourist onslaught began and secured the first table on the left and placed my notebook on the table, along with pencil and a crossword puzzle and sighed with pleasure and relief as the car quickly filled and only a few non Chinese tourists managed to find seats in the melee.

I realized also that a person by themselves was supposed to find one of the few single padded chairs by the windows, but these chairs were in the center of the melee, where the Chinese tourists all seemed to know each other and were, like a club, piled in among one another until there was little room.

In time they sized up the bearded old man missing three bottom front teeth hogging an entire table and peering at them with a challenging but nevertheless cheerful mien.

These Chinese tourists struck me as happy to the point of giddiness. To a person, male or female, child or adult, they wielded phones with a cameras or in some cases high powered cameras with long lenses. One male child, in sunglasses and knee pads, who could not have been over 8 or 9, toted a huge long-lens camera like a bazooka on his shoulder.

As we skimmed along past the junkyards and debris of LA, they pressed cameras against all windows, as if making movies. They were loud and spoke Chinese but they were not obnoxious, just loud and excited.

When the conductor announced the cafe opening beneath the observation car, another onslaught went downstairs, and soon they were back holding cartons loaded with the kind of junk food guaranteed to kill Americans.

They were so happy. A different kind of happiness. Like discovering nirvana. Distinctly non-American.

They ate and gabbled and took photo after photo of each other, of others, of the scenery—nonstop. Several times new Chinese tourists entered, passed my table, glanced at me, smiled, and moved on. They met with seated fellow tourists and talked, glancing down at me as I sat back staring directly at them with a further perfection of my challenging/cheerful mien, knowing without a doubt they wanted my fucking table.

A couple of them wandered around my periphery, perhaps searching for a smile of invitation, but only received the same gaze, which I made sure not to be menacing, only standoffish.

Finally a very tall pretty young Chinese woman with a camera strapped around her shoulder, approached with her perhaps 12-year-old son who was fat and rather vacant looking, and asked in halting English if she could sit. I nodded.

They sat down across from me and immediately the kid pressed his nose against the window and the mother peered around, caught my eye, flashed an uneasy smile, then stood and had her son pose for a photo. She took several with her expensive looking camera. Then she sat at the table and the kid took a photo of her. They sat back down. I gazed at what was the beginning of the ocean somewhere around Ventura, and it was then that the Chinese, now fed and somewhat quieted, stampeded to the coastal-side windows and began snapping photos in an utter frenzy.

In time, friends of my table mates came and took photos of them and forced uneasy smiles at me, all receiving the same gaze, and finally the nice lady and her son squeezed in with several others and I was again alone and smugly satisfied, holding down the last American fort in a struggle for national dominance.

A few minutes later a middle-aged Black man with a slight beard entered and asked if he could join me.

Well of course. He was an accountant fleeing to San Luis Obispo to get away from the pressure in LA. He was staying at a hotel in Madonna plaza where I had once worked. He wanted to know where to eat. I gave him a couple suggestions. He was from Culver City. He wanted to know where I was from and how I liked the central coast and the conversation was free and easy and lasted until he had a reservation for lunch in the dining car and bid farewell.

Along the coast somewhere beyond Ventura, I noticed long lines of people walking along a road and realized they were Chinese tourists. Most of them wore these coolie hats.The line went on and on. In Santa Barbara, the entire crew of Chinese disembarked, again excited about what was to come next.

As they hurried by, I waved and smiled and they found themselves smiling and waving back.

An outnumbered diplomat has to know how to hold the line, no matter the odds.

The remainder of the trip was typically gorgeous as we swept past Point Concepcion.