Riding Trains

Riding the trains

Leaving Washington D.C.—barbed wire and graffiti outside, small red bricks, “glassful equals joyful” on the billboard, “Capital Self-storage” mixed with Burger King signs—“No blood for oil” splashed across a building and now I see trees before a dark tunnel and more trees. It’s almost summertime. We’ve ridden trains from the beginning of the trip—the subway of my childhood in NYC—the stops I know so well—turn right to 14th Street with the smells of cotton candy, and popcorn—Then the train to Philadelphia. I hardly every rode that train as a child—and then up to Swarthmore to visit friends and do readings of m memoir, Burned. When I was 16 I rode the train to Swarthmore by myself to an interview for college. So different than now where parents take children by the hand to visit schools.

In Philadelphia we waited in the large area with hundreds of others—for the track to appear and then the madhouse rush, a rush my husband hates but reminds me of the crowds of my childhood, people going to and fro—a purposeful group of humanity. From Philadelphia we rode the train to Washington D.C. where I slept and read—luxurious stolen moments after the crunch of grading papers. And now we’re going to New Haven, Ct. leaving the Capitol—leaving the museums where we saw Calder mobiles turning in circles, metal sculptures, the horrors of the holocaust and the brave lists of people who stood up and helped—the train is now moving into the trees by small houses out of the city and its searing heat.

At 12 years old I rode by myself on Amtrak to visit a camp friend, Christina Anderson(Pooky we called her then). She lived outside of Boston and I was tired on the train and wanted to sleep but was terrified I’d miss my stop. I was going to go skiing for the first time. I remember my legs crossing on the small slope, my fingers almost slipping on the rope lift. Pooky had been skiing since she was young and exercised a lot of patience with me as I navigated skis, poles and lifts. When I took the train home, the last stop was Grand Central. I don’t remember if my parents met me. I probably took the subway home since I was on them since 10 years old. So much independence then.

Now we’re on our way to Conn. A few remnants of graffiti are left but mostly all I see are trees and telephone lines now—some scattered clouds—almost empty station platforms early morning on Monday. Only workers in orange shirts gather around a large truck—my neighbors on the train sleep across from me. It’s great to give over everything to others—the conductors, the train, the tracks. To sleep, to write, to dream.