This, inspired by "The Train Man Cometh" and various thoughts and ramblings.
The doors hiss shut with the sigh of dying hydraulics, closing in once again this steel tube of existence. How is it possible, I find myself wondering, that such a place as this manages to so well capture of the nature of the obligatory but hollow city above it. Down here, down in the dark, this is where the flavor of the city lives, where its life’s blood drips as the city above bakes in the sunlight, and congeals to form that stock which is the city its self, in all its aspects.
I have ridden on the strangely antiseptic but well used trains of outer Vienna, as well as on their Victorian slum loving brothers who guard the ringstraβ and the city center. I have seen the strange beasts which haunt the dark layers of DC, the many colored worms of the New York lines, even the strange above ground wonders of San Francisco. I have even, despite my better judgment, been in the depths of the tope and pastel world that is my local transit authority’s vision of hell, the two line wonder that is MARTA.
But no matter what system, no matter where I am, I can wake on any train and know distinctly what city I am in. Without the cue of language, without the clues of context, the very radiation of place tells me, deep within my bones, that I am on the Underground, or on the famous L, or even in some god forsaken rapid rail with a euro card, about to be boarded by the ubiquitous AK toting border patrols.
There is a smell unique to each, and even those I have spent bare moments on, I remember the smell as almost a part of the place its self. The lighting, the flicker, the sparks, the advertisements, all of it an atmosphere, and above all, the people which fill the cars, these are the essences of the underground. From the rotting bums to the bored business traveler, to the every day commuter who knows each bump on the tracks by heart, even the tourists. They all add their flavor to the mix.
And that is how it is. A train is a way of getting from one place to another, yes, but is a way through space and time as well. And sometimes, we find ourselves at an unmarked station with no exists, and no train coming for hours. And that is simply how it has to be. Because no matter how long we have to wait, the train will come.
The doors hiss shut with the sigh of dying hydraulics, closing in once again this steel tube of existence. How is it possible, I find myself wondering, that such a place as this manages to so well capture of the nature of the obligatory but hollow city above it. Down here, down in the dark, this is where the flavor of the city lives, where its life’s blood drips as the city above bakes in the sunlight, and congeals to form that stock which is the city its self, in all its aspects.
I have ridden on the strangely antiseptic but well used trains of outer Vienna, as well as on their Victorian slum loving brothers who guard the ringstraβ and the city center. I have seen the strange beasts which haunt the dark layers of DC, the many colored worms of the New York lines, even the strange above ground wonders of San Francisco. I have even, despite my better judgment, been in the depths of the tope and pastel world that is my local transit authority’s vision of hell, the two line wonder that is MARTA.
But no matter what system, no matter where I am, I can wake on any train and know distinctly what city I am in. Without the cue of language, without the clues of context, the very radiation of place tells me, deep within my bones, that I am on the Underground, or on the famous L, or even in some god forsaken rapid rail with a euro card, about to be boarded by the ubiquitous AK toting border patrols.
There is a smell unique to each, and even those I have spent bare moments on, I remember the smell as almost a part of the place its self. The lighting, the flicker, the sparks, the advertisements, all of it an atmosphere, and above all, the people which fill the cars, these are the essences of the underground. From the rotting bums to the bored business traveler, to the every day commuter who knows each bump on the tracks by heart, even the tourists. They all add their flavor to the mix.
And that is how it is. A train is a way of getting from one place to another, yes, but is a way through space and time as well. And sometimes, we find ourselves at an unmarked station with no exists, and no train coming for hours. And that is simply how it has to be. Because no matter how long we have to wait, the train will come.
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