Taking the morning train.
Jan. 24th, 2010 06:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusAt 5:30am Friday morning I slapped my alarm into submission and forced myself awake. No cats in the room. Hmm. Rare. Usually I rate at least one cat. They must have seen me set the alarm.
Checked the weather report. The wintery mix (read: pellets of face-pocking ice) hadn't materialized yet.
By 6:30 the sky was blue-dark, the lake still. Frozen. Caught a brisk breeze heading over the bridge and zipped my coat higher. The train station was farther than I thought.
Deer startled in the brush off to the side, their fluffy white tails like flags of surrender. Then I hit the little lane to the station. The pavement old and crumbled in places. The air peaceful and quiet. Trees lit by the streetlights.
Three or four people waited for the Marc train in their cars, sipping coffee, their tail lights red. A freight train passed, its grumbling racket broken by the trees. After it passed, I stood on the platform next to man who radiated retired military, briefcase in hand. Black tree branches were sketched against the dark blue sky.
The Marc train hooted, that happy sound. Its headlight approached slowly. It was five minutes late. Glad I was late, too. Definitely cold.
The conductors were all in their sixties with twinkles in their eyes. They sold me a ticket on the train and used the old fashioned hole punches. Seemed amused by me. Not sure why. Maybe the beaming grin. I love trains.
I stepped on board in a wash of warmth. Plush leather seats double-wide. Everyone on the train was in a business suit with either a newspaper or laptop. Expensive wool coats and fashionable haircuts, bound for DC. Hushed and peaceful.
I wanted to write but couldn't resist the view.
The train threaded through forest and over a bridge. A meandering river shone slightly more blue than the shadow trees around it. We paused at the next stop, a major one. Here people stood in a snaking line to board. Yes, my little station was definitely the place to get on. Parking was free, too. (Not that I had a car.)
My trip was too short.
I alighted (it's the proper train phrase) at a train station preserved from 100 years ago. The original carved seats and a plaque on the wall honoring a railway man who tried to save a child at this station in 1927 (both perished). A lamp post with a clock that reminds me of an oversized pocket watch marked the station.
Here I pulled out my notebook and outlined my Help_Haiti stories as daylight crept in. The wintry mix began, pellets of ice bouncing off the sidewalk. The rest of my trip would be by bus in an area where bus travel is mostly done by the rough sort that spits on the sidewalk.
I decided to bask in the aura of the train a little longer. Not a bad way to travel.
Checked the weather report. The wintery mix (read: pellets of face-pocking ice) hadn't materialized yet.
By 6:30 the sky was blue-dark, the lake still. Frozen. Caught a brisk breeze heading over the bridge and zipped my coat higher. The train station was farther than I thought.
Deer startled in the brush off to the side, their fluffy white tails like flags of surrender. Then I hit the little lane to the station. The pavement old and crumbled in places. The air peaceful and quiet. Trees lit by the streetlights.
Three or four people waited for the Marc train in their cars, sipping coffee, their tail lights red. A freight train passed, its grumbling racket broken by the trees. After it passed, I stood on the platform next to man who radiated retired military, briefcase in hand. Black tree branches were sketched against the dark blue sky.
The Marc train hooted, that happy sound. Its headlight approached slowly. It was five minutes late. Glad I was late, too. Definitely cold.
The conductors were all in their sixties with twinkles in their eyes. They sold me a ticket on the train and used the old fashioned hole punches. Seemed amused by me. Not sure why. Maybe the beaming grin. I love trains.
I stepped on board in a wash of warmth. Plush leather seats double-wide. Everyone on the train was in a business suit with either a newspaper or laptop. Expensive wool coats and fashionable haircuts, bound for DC. Hushed and peaceful.
I wanted to write but couldn't resist the view.
The train threaded through forest and over a bridge. A meandering river shone slightly more blue than the shadow trees around it. We paused at the next stop, a major one. Here people stood in a snaking line to board. Yes, my little station was definitely the place to get on. Parking was free, too. (Not that I had a car.)
My trip was too short.
I alighted (it's the proper train phrase) at a train station preserved from 100 years ago. The original carved seats and a plaque on the wall honoring a railway man who tried to save a child at this station in 1927 (both perished). A lamp post with a clock that reminds me of an oversized pocket watch marked the station.
Here I pulled out my notebook and outlined my Help_Haiti stories as daylight crept in. The wintry mix began, pellets of ice bouncing off the sidewalk. The rest of my trip would be by bus in an area where bus travel is mostly done by the rough sort that spits on the sidewalk.
I decided to bask in the aura of the train a little longer. Not a bad way to travel.
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Date: 2010-01-24 11:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-25 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-26 06:21 pm (UTC)