On Trains

Some musings on my way home from training one day. Musings which became, well, this.

Some of my quietest and most formative moments have been nurtured in train stations. Some on the platform, many hugging good bye on the steps, endless memories come to mind on personless carriages, printing off trip tickets, snack stops and rush hour clamminess. Building companionship on sticky Underground seats with acquaintances who then became family, huddling up for warmth with my love in the wintry crook of a platform bench, losing myself to the siren of my headphones coming back from training, the unbridled conversations on the Tube with friends, the night promising to satisfy camaraderie and courage.

I can imagine these moments are why so many people don’t just love holidays. Not to relax, or explore new places. To escape the void that exists in daily routine. All days tend to edge void-ward. This is the generally accepted function of time. So there must be something about commuting on trains that simultaneously breathes life into our yearning for adventure and adding a nagging texture to our travel plans. The London Underground might be the sigh of an underfunded infrastructure, and to many, represents mornings they will never get back, fogged by the roar and heat of being, but it is also the promise of opportunity; a screeching, grey razor, darting towards the dark and unknown. For most people, there are but two places in this world. Where they sleep and public transport. Sometimes, the two are indistinguishable. If something of note, if anything, happens on the London tube, we have the right to emblazon it into our minds forever more. I once had the pleasure of witnessing a group of accordion players grasp at the notes for ‘Silent Night’. It was chaos and novelty all rolled into one.

These moments between banality and awe are the boundaries us city dwellers need. Seeing a pair of ragtag kittens vying for dominance amidst the debris across Deptford’s arches, having half-expected yet another train delay to put a stop to my journey, only salts the joy for these discoveries even further. You have to ask yourself whether anything you see, do, experience, feel, taste or touch in this life would have any kind of meaning - or beauty - at all, without the knowledge you carry of impending ugliness. Such are these travel inconveniences; a reminder of the fading compassion political leaders insist upon having for thriving cities and idyllism. I counted two strikes for March. One to let us know our city is dying, the other to let us know who the murderer is.

Still, whenever I see those two kitties - the stowaways of Deptford - sharing chicken bones, each a profound shade of pitch, there is a promise of play; of mischief yet to unfold. Sometimes, when the sunbeams hit the glass just right, and both temperature and commuter mood is mild mannered enough, there are glimpses of other worlds, shimmering in February condensation, portals strewn across half-dusted carriage windows. The promise of a world beyond razor-grey and financial sectors.

Perhaps this is the reason why our hearts swell a little, glimpsing young sheep and horses plopped in tawny-green meadows, a thousand miles from TFL fares and Oyster zones. Perhaps this is the resultant force of those otherworldly sunbeams - a susurration in our blood for adventure and open air and finding magic in the mundane. Perhaps, in spite of the days where commuter sweat becomes one, and we question all previous life choices that led to London-living, it is within these little moments - before work, after training, during times of quietude - that we accept trains are the most reliable form of adventure.