Waiting on a train
I am sitting in the Xiamen North train station, just off-island in China's "greenest" city. As I wait the two hours for my train, a delay caused by my own consistent inability to properly prioritize the practical, I find myself thinking back to all of the other train stations I have found myself sitting in over the years.
I adore traveling by rail. I am not someone who knows a great deal about trains or their engineering. Instead, I find train travel to be the best way to see the parts of a country where you would not otherwise find yourself exploring. Those beautiful rural or mountainous areas, often inaccessible due to physical or linguistic barriers. Places where, if you were to visit, you would almost certainly need to commit to "relaxing" on a level that I have never found pleasant.
Above: Somewhere along the train ride from Gangneung to Pohang, South Korea. Below: Somewhere along the train ride from Pohang to Deagu, South Korea. November 2017
And yet, I adore these places. Watching them speeding out my window, as I coast smoothly along with nothing to do but read, write and think. Therein lies my second reason for enjoying rail travel. One is forced into a situation where any external obligations are rendered secondary. Committing completely to finishing that book, reading that paper, or writing that essay becomes an almost facilitated decision. Train journeys are typically longer than air-bound ones, allowing one to really delve into a project; all while being surrounded by breathtaking and thought-provoking views, regardless of cloud cover.
I am also enamored with the train stations themselves. Train stations contain a wealth of potential energy. Travelers and business folk eager to get on their way, preparing for the adventures and challenges that await them, fill the waiting area with moments of anticipation, expectation, and boredom.
Xiamen North Train Station. July 2018
Having had the good fortune to have sat, waiting on trains in a variety of countries, I find myself drawing comparisons of how people function in these spaces. From my current seat, I am surrounded by weekend travelers, handfuls of children, and many floppy sun hats. Cell phones in hand to provide distraction and conversation with loved ones not making the journey. Few in the waiting area are eating, with consumption confined to the noodle shops and classed-up KFC restaurants lining the perimeter. The population in most places I have visited in China has been consistently conscientious about eating on public transit or public buildings. Despite the lack of (visible) prohibition in this particular space, the deference seems to have carried over.
My mind wanders back to the train station in La Paz, Bolivia. While Xiamen's station reminds me of a large industrial hanger, the station in La Paz felt more like a rural marketplace, complete with merchants lining the walls and packaging strewn around the floor. Food was an integral part of the Bolivian station, with most passengers - and merchants - snacking as they sat, walked and hawked. The smell of sugary tea and buttered bread filled the station, clinging to the sweat of the travelers. The station felt less like a taking off point and more like a gathering place.
I remember being nervous that night. I was about to start a portion of my graduate fieldwork. Although this was my third such trip in Latin America, and my fourth week in Bolivia, it was the first night I would be traveling alone and my first trip in a country where I did not speak the dominant language. In the La Paz train station, few spoke the elite Spanish tongue. The people around me were probably communicating in Aymaran - but I wouldn't have known the difference. I remember getting onto the train from La Paz to Postosi and having an old Aymaran woman climb into the seat next to me. She began covering herself in a variety of scarves, getting herself comfortable for the ride ahead. She was thoroughly lovely, with the type of voice that bounces and elicited a laugh despite my total lack of understanding regarding what she was saying. The woman must have known this - but she kept talking to me anyway.
Above: La Paz Train Station. This is not my photo. I foolishly did not take any photos of the La Paz station - but this photo made me feel an emotion that matched my memories. Here is where I found it.
Unfortunately, not all my memories of train stations are pleasant. One night I found myself stranded in Grand Central after returning from a study abroad in Rome. My luggage had been delayed from my flight back to the States and I had missed my train from New York to Pennsylvania. I had rescheduled a train for the next day.
Between the airport and Grand Central I had managed to secure and subsequently leave a perfectly good hotel, to make a rather predictable scene with a few old college friends in New Jersey, only to find myself heading back into the city on the light rail, wondering what it was I would do for the next 10 hours until my train departed.
I spent that night in the Amtrack waiting room, surrounded by three large suitcases containing most of my possessions. I was one of a dozen people waiting there that night, including a handful of presumably homeless folks sleeping against the walls. I was too nervous to sleep much. I bought a small notebook from one of the open vendors and began to make a list of all the ways I wanted to better myself. As I saw it, my current predicament was the result of thorough personal failings. I was going to be more practical. I was going to choose better friends, make better decisions, stay away from intoxicating substances....etc. etc.
I can think of that moment today and smile, despite the fact that my current predicament is also the result of impractical decision making. I am not proud that I am still so absorbed with abstraction, contemplation, and reflection that I overlook important details. I am, however, proud that I can see this and not return to that place of self-doubt and deprecation which presumes some dramatic internal failing. I think this is mostly to do with the people around me.
Myself as an undergraduate was full of self-loathing and convinced of my own inferiority. Graduate research required - or, so I thought at the time, either a facade of impenetrability or admission of inadequacy. My fear in the Bolivia station was largely the result of my own repression of what it was I was actually capable of for the sake of blind ambition. Thinking about this now brings out audible laughter to mix in with the buzz of Xiamen North.
How far I have come. How far I have left to go. Train stations are indeed buzzing with potential energy.