A Visit to Pullman, Model Town of the Golden Age of Rail
// I was in Chicago earlier this winter, and I had a morning to spare before catching a southbound train out of Union Station. (More on that trip in my Financial Times travel feature.) Given the parlous state of Canadian-American relations, it occurred to me I might not be returning to the U.S. for a while, so I decided I'd better take the opportunity to visit a place I've long been curious about: the model community of Pullman [^1], twelve miles (20 kms) south of The Loop.
For rail-lovers, urbanists, and students of the history of labour, it's something of a pilgrimage site—a well-preserved example of a planned industrial town, conceived by one of the leading robber barons of the 19th century. Given the re-emergence of wealth inequality, and with it the spectre of paternalism returning to the built environment, I figured a visit might give me a little perspective on what our 21st century Gilded Age has in store for us.
I checked out of my hotel, a 1910 beauty overlooking Grant Park (and named after Timothy Blackstone, president of the Chicago & Alton Railroad), and, staying true to my straphanger guns—Must Use Public Transport Wherever Possible!—I headed for the nearest El station, where I flashed the Ventra app I'd downloaded on my smartphone to get through the turnstiles. From there, it was a straight shot south on the Red Line, on one of the Chicago Transit Authority's rough-and-ready, stainless-steel trains, mostly on aboveground tracks, and mostly stuck between multiple lanes of traffic on the unlovely I-90. Then came a ten-minute wait at the Red Line's southern terminus, 95th Street and Dan Ryan, some pacing in a wind-blasted bus loop a-roar with the sound of rushing car tires on asphalt, and a ride the 115 bus twenty-five stops to my destination. (My return trip, aboard a bi-level train along the old Illinois Central railroad line, was far more entertaining. Some commuter rail in North America seems to be stuck in the 1950s; Chicago's Metra is an outstanding example. I watched a conductor in a stiff hat and cloak roaming the cars, making confetti of paper tickets with a hole punch; at several stops, he disembarked to cross the tracks and unlock a chain to allow passengers to board. Much time was spent counting out dimes, quarters, and dollar bills. For a visitor, this is endearing; for a regular rider, I imagine such old-fashioned service is either reassuring, or maddening. Maybe a bit of both.)
I walked from the bus stop across Cottage Grove Avenue to a sign, planted on a winter-browned lawn, which introduces Pullman as a national monument and state historic site. At the center of the community: the impressive red-brick Clock Tower and Administration Building. It was once flanked by erecting shops, where Pullman railcars were assembled, and was fronted by Lake Vista, which was filled by condensation from the massive Corliss engine that powered the entire complex. The lake has long since been drained, and the erecting sheds have been demolished, though the ruin of one, now roped off from trespassers, remains on the site. The Clock Tower Building is now home to a museum, where I was greeted by a trio of national park rangers, who proved, on this quiet weekday morning, to be eager and earnest guides to the site.
You might have heard the name Pullman before. The "Pullman sleeper" evokes the apex of luxury in the golden age of North American railroads. (In Siena, Italy, a ticket vendor once asked me if I wanted to take the "Pullman" to Florence; disappointingly, this turned out to be an intercity bus. Italy is the one European nation where Pullman had a measure of success. On the rest of the continent, the formidable Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, they of the Orient Express, dominated the international sleeper market in the 20th century.)
Given the long distances covered by trains in the Americas, it's not surprising that the United States pioneered the sleeper car. Webster Wagner, a stationmaster for the New York Central, cobbled together a wagon with a single tier of berths and a bedding closet in the 1850s. Unfortunately, Wagner was killed in a train wreck: when two New York Central trains collided in the Spuyten Duvil crash of 1882, he was crushed between two of his own company's cars. It was up to George Pullman, a transplant to Chicago from upstate New York, to take the sleeper car idea and rolled with it.
