It occurred to me today, while coming home from work, that I spent about 12 hours a week on the train. And if I count the occasional “meeting friends”, those 12 hours quickly turn into 15. But for 3 hours a day, 4 days a week, the train is my home and I share it with the strangers going on and off the stations. It is the only time that I can be around people and not care about answering questions, listen to stories I am not interested in and have that moment completely for me and my thoughts.
But sometimes I wonder, who are all these stranger? All these diverse and colourful people that come in every possible shape and size, with familiar languages to languages I only thought existed in star trek movies. While dragging my exhausted body on the train, I always manage to scan my tiresome eyes around at my fellow travellers before I find a seat to crash into. I love to sit at the window side, leaning against the often beautiful outward view where my thoughts automatically start to wander around, but once in a while, I cannot help but glance at these pretty unusual individuals whom I don’t know, but find myself to be completely comfortable around.
With the music in my ear shutting out all the noise, I observe the businessman, the sleepy head, the reader, the student, the loud mouths, the bag lady and the phone addict. They all seem to have adapted to certain roles on the train. I look over at the reader, sitting with his briefcase next to him and his eyes fixated on his book. He is not aware of his surrounding nor does he care because his book takes him to a world probably much more exciting than his own. I think about the book that is always in my bag and wonder if I am “the reader” too. I take a look at my left, where the old gentlemen sits, a type I really enjoy seeing during my trips. A type that usually greets before he takes his seat, asks politely whether I am done with reading the newspapers that you usually find on the train and wishes me a friendly good day before he takes off. It always amazes me how such small gestures make my day, because in the end, it is the smallest of touches that move me in ways bigger than anything else. And there is “the space stealing bag lover” who either doesn’t want anyone to sit next to her or she just really loves her bag! Does she not care about that one individual standing for half an hour after a long working day? Shouldn’t anyone say something about it? Should I, I wonder?
But then I get distracted by the sound of girls laughing so I turn my music up, lean my head against the window and watch the sun go down on the never ending Dutch flat land. And if I close my eyes for a few moments and forget all my worries, I am grateful, because trains make me feel like there is always a way to get to where I wish to be.