"You will believe you have been transported back in time to Railroading's Golden Age!" proclaims the Tennessee Valley Railroad's promotional brochure. It isn't an idle boast.

A brief excursion on the local rail line a few years back while covering a reception hosted by a communications company left me feeling that way, even if the cellular phones and conversation about high-tech business seemed anachronistic in a Depression-era rail car. Still, it was a pleasant reminder of, to quote the brochure again, "an era not to be forgotten. An era when rail empires were built, two world wars were fought, and passenger trains rolled across this great land in astonishing numbers."

It's sad that there's no longer such a thing as real passenger rail service in America, unless you count Amtrak (which I don't, because that's about like comparing 1970 Chateau Trotanoy to a bottle of Cold Duck). An abandoned rail line is a sad reminder of a time we'll never see again, all gone with little to remember it besides Steve Goodman and Arlo Guthrie singing the disappearing railroad blues.

Still, the Tennessee Valley Railroad is living up to its commitment of "Rebuilding Yesterday for Tomorrow." Daily and weekend excursions are available depending on the time of year, charters can be scheduled, and its website ( www.tvrail.com ) even offers a really neat virtual train ride.

Viewing it reminded me of the first time I set foot on a train, many years ago in Scotland . I'd signed up for a 10-day group tour of England, Wales, and Scotland, and one of the trip's selling points was that we were to return to London from Edinburgh by overnight train. Not only had I spent the previous 19 years without ever having been inside a rail car, I'd never even been out of the South, much less to an exciting new country.

All kinds of romantic train images kept playing in my mind: "The Night Train to Munich," Hercule Poirot hunting for a killer on the Orient Express, Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes searching for the stolen Star of Rhodesia in "Terror By Night," distinguished gentlemen sharing snifters of brandy over their game of whist in the club car. Man, I couldn't wait.

Wouldn't it be neat to run into a little danger? Get involved in a bit of international intrigue? I had it all worked out. I'd be walking down the corridor to my sleeper when an exotic, mysterious woman would step out of the darkness. She'd grab my arm, pull me close to her, and slip a small package into my hand. "Beware of the homburg in compartment four!" she'd whisper into my ear before fading back into the night. "Don't fear the clock tower!" A series of harrowing adventures would follow as I tried to decipher her cryptic message.

All of those images were kicked out of my head the second we walked into the train station. Instead of being a spotlessly-clean, glitzy place teeming with glamorous people, it was dirty, drab, and practically deserted.

Several of us went to the one concessions vendor who was open to grab a snack before boarding, only to be accosted by the stereotypical drunkard: rumpled suit, tie askew, red eyes, slurred speech, a day's growth of beard. He shuffled from person to person, asking for the loan of a few pounds. Finding no willing lender, he staggered away to look for better pickings elsewhere.

The situation did not improve when we got to our compartments. I had in mind nice, big luxurious accommodations, not the shoebox I walked into. Upper and lower berths, a tiny nightstand, and an index-card-sized window through which nothing was visible. Then there was a rumbling sound and a slight jerk to let us know we were on our way.

And that was it. No mysterious females. No danger. No intrigue. Just a drunk on the platform and Tom Wolfe to put me to sleep.

It may not have been what I'd imagined, but there's still not much for which I'd trade the experience. I'm fortunate to have had it. It isn't romantic, it isn't even Americana, but at least it's a train story.

Everybody should have one. And it's a shame that not everyone will.