On the Train Again

The same train, the same destination, the same routine, and yet it's never the same ride twice

My husband isn’t as big a fan of traveling as I am (though to be fair, after the past several years, I haven’t been racing to get on a plane again, either), but I get stir crazy; I’ve also found that I do my best writing and thinking and drawing and everything creative-ing from trains and other cities. So I guess this is what I do now - take bi-monthly trips to the DC-ish area.

(Why DC? It’s the furthest I can go to somewhere that has lots to see and I don’t need a car —I love the DC metro. In my 20s, I used to travel to DC for work, and it became a familiar place, a city that I knew well enough to easily move from neighborhood to neighborhood on the metro or by foot. It got stuck in my head and now I guess it’s “my thing.”)

Admittedly, I’ve been nervous about going this time - ya know, inauguration and all. But I’ll be gone before the main event and the protests (I’m kind of curious to see the set-up), and I’ll be going the opposite direction of the crowds when I leave.

I’ve been thinking of this week as my birthday trip (don’t say ‘happy birthday’ yet - it’s not for another couple weeks), and so far this train ride is delivering. For a Monday morning, the train station where I transfer (Boston’s South Station) was surprisingly quiet… and not only did I get my usual reservation in the quiet car and not only do I have the entire row to myself but I have an entire 4-top table setup to myself.

What is this magic?

12:33p

As I write, we’re passing through Connecticut. The train runs along the water, and there’s something about watching the winter ocean landscape rush by as you stare out the windows.

Now, it’s noon but it looks and feels like earlier morning; winter clouds blanket the sky and there’s a hazy strip of peachy-pink along the water line in the distance, beneath the clouds. The sky is bright, illuminating the blanket of clouds. The trees are bare. A landscape of pale browns and grays, accentuated by the dark green of pine.

There is not much to observe on this train, other than the scenery. The quiet car is my happy place, people on laptops or staring out window. The occasional nose blown. The lightning fast tapping of my ice-blue stiletto nails on my keyboard. Outside, we pass another small beach, and I see someone bundled up, walking slowly along the beach with a small white dog running ahead of them. Tiny waves break on the shore, a line of foamy white.

I have five and a half hours to go. The first few hours are light, invigorating. I’m buzzing with all the words I want to write, the reading I want to get done, the sketches I might do. But always around the five-hour mark, when there’s just a couple hours to go, the excitement wears off and I just want to be done. I will step off the train, buy a week-long metro pass, and head to my hotel where I’ll sprawl across the bed, watch weird old movies I’d never otherwise choose to watch, and enjoy the weightlessness of having no obligations or responsibilities for a few days besides a few hours of work here and there.

I tell myself I’ll try a pilates class in DC, but I likely won’t. I tell myself I’ll go to the fitness center at the hotel a few times — this I might actually accomplish. One of the days this week, I’ll meander through the National Gallery to see the Impressionists special exhibit. I thought I might try to sit and do some sketching, but I think I’ll sit with my notebook and observe people, instead.