Rail travel for me is the most relaxing, most scenic way to see

When John Paul DeJoria reflected, “Rail travel for me is the most relaxing, most scenic way to see the country,” he spoke not merely of locomotives and steel tracks, but of a way of experiencing life itself. His words carry the wisdom of one who has known both hardship and triumph, who has walked the busy roads of business and fortune, and yet finds peace not in speed, but in stillness within movement. In this love of the train, there is a lesson: that life is not always about haste, but about allowing the journey itself to shape the soul.

The meaning here is layered. Rail travel offers a rhythm unlike that of air or car. The rails hum, the cars sway, the landscape unfolds slowly like a scroll being unrolled. To DeJoria, this is not mere transportation but meditation. It is relaxing, because the train frees the traveler from the burden of steering or the confinement of the sky. It is scenic, because one can look upon mountains, rivers, plains, and villages, watching the heart of the land pass gently by. It is a way not just to cross a country, but to truly see it.

History itself bears testimony to the power of the train. When the Transcontinental Railroad was completed in 1869, it bound the far coasts of America together. Suddenly, what once took months by wagon or perilous sea could be traversed in days. Yet beyond commerce and conquest, the rails opened the eyes of millions to the vastness of their own nation. The immigrant, the pioneer, the dreamer—each saw from the window of the train the endless prairies, the snowcapped Rockies, the deserts glowing under the sun. The rails were not just iron, but a bridge between people, a unifier of perspectives.

There is also a spiritual undertone in this reflection. To sit by the window of a train, watching the countryside glide past, is to be reminded of life itself. We are passengers, carried forward by unseen engines of time. The view changes—now a forest, now a river, now a field of golden grain—but we do not control the unfolding. We can only watch, reflect, and savor the scenes as they pass. Thus, rail travel becomes a metaphor for living wisely: to be present, to see beauty in the fleeting, and to accept the rhythm of life without constant struggle.

Consider the example of Leo Tolstoy, who in his later years traveled by rail across Russia. It was on these journeys that he observed peasants, soldiers, mothers, and merchants, drawing from their lives the insights that would shape his writings on justice, humility, and love. For him, as for DeJoria, the train was not only a means of moving through geography but also a classroom of the soul, where one could see humanity and the world in their truest forms.

The lesson then is clear: seek not always the quickest way, but sometimes the way that allows your heart to breathe. In our age, where speed is worshipped, there is deep wisdom in choosing the slower road. Allow yourself moments of stillness in motion—whether by rail, by walking paths, or by quiet reflection in the midst of a busy life. The most beautiful vistas of existence often appear not when we rush, but when we allow the journey itself to unfold.

In practical action, this means: take time to travel in ways that let you see and feel the world around you. Ride the train if you can; walk through your own city as though it were foreign; look from windows not only with eyes, but with the spirit of one who seeks meaning. When life offers you a choice between rushing ahead or savoring the scenery, choose at least sometimes to savor. In doing so, you will not only reach your destination but also enrich your journey.

Thus, DeJoria’s words remind us that rail travel is not just a mode of transport but a mode of living. It is an invitation to see more deeply, to feel more quietly, and to carry with us the landscapes of the world as treasures in memory. For the true traveler does not only arrive; he becomes transformed by the journey itself.