Train of Thought

Today I took the plunge and switched from riding the subway to taking the R5 commuter train. It is definitely on the other side of the tracks, but in a really good way. Why I didn’t do this earlier I can only chalk up to simply being a creature of habit. What I will say is that all the time I spent suffering on the subway makes this mode of transportation akin to door-to-door Bentley service. Or something.

The train drops me off at Philadelphia's 30th Street Station, where President Obama began his inaugural train ride to Washington D.C. This large station has both a commanding and historic presence and is second only to New York's Penn Station in rail traffic. It gave me such pause to step off the train this morning and hear a conductor call out “All aboard to New York City!”


I've always had a soft spot for riding the rails. In college, I often took the train back and forth from Seattle to Chicago. When I left to school for the first time, my mom, dad, sister and grandma waved goodbye while I sobbed all the way to Everett, simultaneously mourning and celebrating the transition to adulthood. Four months later I returned home on the train at Christmastime. As night fell and the train rocked its way across the prairie, I remember looking out into the darkness for miles and miles, seeing nothing but my own reflection. Then suddenly there would be a cluster of lights in the midst of the nothingness and a farmhouse would slowly come into view, decorated in Christmas lights reflecting onto the snow.

One college summer, I flew to Milan to pursue my studies in Europe. Having just barely survived a year of Italian but combining it with a little nubile charm, I was able to land myself on the correct train heading north to Lake Como. This timeworn relic had a narrow hallway on one side and sliding glass door compartments with vinyl benches on the other. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the toilets flushed directly onto the tracks. Mamma mia! At that time still a voracious consumer of Marlboros, I reveled in the haze of cigarette smoke that hung in the car, inviting my contribution. Soaking up the ambiance of an ancient nonna rolling her rickety snackcart down the hallway, I happily bought from her a day old panini and a lukewarm Peroni.

Okay, so SEPTA isn't exactly serving up daily doses of coming of age memories and quintessential European experiences. But with their Quiet Ride program, at least I have a few moments to read, listen to music or look out the window and watch the world go by.