(no subject)
The longer the ride, the better.
Made friends. The kind of friends you'll never see again, whose names you've already forgotten, who won't remember you or your name or where you're from, but with whom you have an inexplicable, undeniable bond.
An old man who barely spoke to me for seventeen hours but then bought me tea and a cookie and gave me a map of Chicago, three chatty college guys from central new york, an older black couple who cheer for different football teams but are best friends anyway, a middle aged guy who looks at you like he wishes he had the gall to hit on you, the two guys who hiked to the store to get beer and jack daniels when we were stuck in truckee, and a group of amish people who are actually grateful to you just for talking to them.
I love them.
There's them, the people, the train itself, and then there's the moment I woke up just in time to see the sun setting over the pacific ocean, there's nearly fifteen minutes going through the moffat tunnel that feels like holding your breath until you burst out into the gasp of clear air that is winter park, there's the overwhelmingly beautiful feeling of calm that overtakes you for no apparent reason in Osceola, Iowa, and there's a certain pit of the stomach excitement for every leg of a trip, every new train, every new city, everything.
I could sleep uncomfortably every night if it meant waking up somewhere I'd never been before.
Made friends. The kind of friends you'll never see again, whose names you've already forgotten, who won't remember you or your name or where you're from, but with whom you have an inexplicable, undeniable bond.
An old man who barely spoke to me for seventeen hours but then bought me tea and a cookie and gave me a map of Chicago, three chatty college guys from central new york, an older black couple who cheer for different football teams but are best friends anyway, a middle aged guy who looks at you like he wishes he had the gall to hit on you, the two guys who hiked to the store to get beer and jack daniels when we were stuck in truckee, and a group of amish people who are actually grateful to you just for talking to them.
I love them.
There's them, the people, the train itself, and then there's the moment I woke up just in time to see the sun setting over the pacific ocean, there's nearly fifteen minutes going through the moffat tunnel that feels like holding your breath until you burst out into the gasp of clear air that is winter park, there's the overwhelmingly beautiful feeling of calm that overtakes you for no apparent reason in Osceola, Iowa, and there's a certain pit of the stomach excitement for every leg of a trip, every new train, every new city, everything.
I could sleep uncomfortably every night if it meant waking up somewhere I'd never been before.