Speed of Life

I love trains. I love the view out the window as the countryside passes before me. I love pulling into train stations and wondering about all the people getting on and off. I love eyeing little towns, random houses, glimpses of rivers as the train passes over a bridge; even the long stretches of nothing but bushes or walls that hide the view are intriguing to me. Right now I am on the train between Edinburgh and London, having just pulled into the station at York.

There is time to think on trains, there is time to be leisurely. There is no rush to see something, or do something or be somewhere. It is enforced leisure. Even the business people who have stepped on board today, dutifully unpacked laptops, unfurled “work” from briefcases, and tucked into their tasks seem to eventually slow down. The tapping of the keyboard becomes less frantic and soon you notice that they are taking long periods to stare out the window. I have to believe that they have stopped pondering the work dilemma in front of them and instead are lost in some daydream.

In the seat across the aisle from me, a woman has traded a journal she had clutched from the moment we left Edinburgh for a pink and white piece of knitting. Two rows up, the nattily dressed man (dark chalk stripe suit on a Saturday!) has turned away from the business section of his paper and is now concentrating on a crossword. Both have smiled almost apologetically to me when our eyes have met.

As for me, Jimmy Buffet is on the iPod, a half full bag of cashews and an empty can of Fanta orange are sitting on the tray next to me, and I ponder the sheep, the cows, the horses and the fields of lavender that are now zipping past. York is somewhere behind me, London lies somewhere in the distance, and I have another hour of this blissful confinement.