Trains

I have a love/ hate relationship with trains. On one hand, they make me feel somewhat vulnerable; the duotone rhythm in the woman’s voice announcing the scheduled stops is said with a degree of both impatience and command. Having- in my best time-keeping efforts- boarded the train 20 minutes early, I heard her message regulated 4 times before we jolted on our way. Train stations are also foreboding; a reminder of the moving world outside my bubble, and I am met with the harsh fact that even if I stop- the wheels, clogs and announcements around me wont.

I am, however, wooed by the romance associated with trains, as they bring together people from all walks of life. I enjoy recognising familiar characters; the ‘collected businessman’ for example will be reading the paper, his subtle reactions expressed through empathetic nods or disapproving pursed lips. His latter expression may not be so subtle if he were sat next to the track-suited Russian, currently across the aisle from me, who has singlehandedly turned the quiet coach into a mobile disco through the drum and bass pumping through his headphones. On the most part however, strangers appear to get on in harmony and we use the train together, as both a literal vehicle and one by which we will progress to the next level- or should I say, platform- in life. I just politely asked the Russian if he could lower the volume in his headphones but- forecasted by his reluctant nod- little improvement has been made. Ironic- perhaps- that he heard my “excuse me” above that racket, and yet his hearing isn’t sensitive enough to be satisfied by a moderate volume.

It is as though... Vladimir... is trying to enforce the fact that not only will this machine of movement not stop if I do, but it wouldn’t even turn its head to my running up and down the aisle screaming “Noise pollution!”. You get too many strange types on trains to get noticed anyway. Specifically requesting a seat facing forward, I didn’t initially welcome my allocated 15B, which could have stood for ‘Backwards’, or more fitting to my state of mind- ‘Bloody nuisance’. Nausea crept in as the platform ahead of me floated away, so I flung my bag to the seat opposite; apparently, if the train is going to move around for me, then I’ve got to do some leg work. In which case, I guess my ‘Train as a pathway of life’ analogy reaches some solidarity. Returning now from a visit to a potential University, I am reminded that I can only reap what I have sewn: that the University can only help me if I choose to help myself. For the moment, I am happy in my new forward-facing position; looking where I’m going, rather than where I have been.