Thoughts on Travel, Part V
Posted by: Archimedes on Oct 12, 2008 - 05:26 PM
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Finally having reached Chicago four hours late, not that it mattered greatly since we were still two hours before our next train rolled and it was pleasant in our little cabin despite the fact that the outlet didn’t work, we now find ourselves having trekked across Iowa, Illinois and Ohio, and now New York and on into Massachusetts, the final leg of our journey.
Where the leaves in Maine are probably already gone by, many blown off by Hurricane Kyle, the foliage through upstate New York is blazing in reds and oranges. However, my senses seem dulled. Where things had been so clear before, like looking through a brand new set of perfectly prescribed glasses, everything crisp and clear, each detail jumping out at you, now things seem to run together again, a blur as my energy starts being depleted and even more so as the change of attitudes from West to East becomes palpable. You can feel it. No longer does it seem to be the friendly environment that we first experienced. While the majority of the people on the train are still quite amiable, you can now see scowls of those less friendly in their ranks, those who have a dour look on humanity and people as a whole.
It’s sad in a way. All this way, the experience has been exhilarating, breath-taking, incomparable to so many other trips I’ve taken. The people, the scenery, the feeling that washes over you as new lands, both the beautiful and the ugly unfold in front of you and around your train car outside your window. But now that image is tainted. A small bit of poison runs through the veins of the people here. It creeps among us as we travel East, graying our vision, clouding our thoughts, clogging our minds and sinking into the pits of our stomachs, injected into us by others, a small portion of us here on the train that wish no part of happiness and wonder.
Until we reached Syracuse, the trip had been wonderful, the people friendly, outgoing, worth talking to. Even the smokers in the throes of their nicotine withdrawals, even when faced with delay after delay all the way to Chicago, had been amiable and outgoing. Once in New York, it was as though we crossed an invisible line. I could feel it. Like a storm cloud gathering overhead. Like a telltale warm breeze that brought ill tidings. A veil that lowered over us all, obscuring all of that which was once beautiful and crisp and new again.
Per our usual routine, the smokers lined up, cigarette in hand, lighter in the other, pack in their pocket ready to fire up another if time allowed. As we approached Syracuse, we hadn’t even stopped yet when a pleasant, if rough around the edges gentlemen behind me noted with a smile, “You can tell who the real smokers are…they’re already lined up to go outside”. Just in front of me an old woman with jet black dyed hair scowled and retorted, “I never smoked a day in my life – I’m just going out to get a breath of fresh air”…and then continued to mutter to her seatmate about what a disgusting habit smoking was, etc., etc., ad nauseum.
It was surprising how quickly the clouds formed over my vision again and I felt myself slipping back into character of a rough around the edges Mainer and smoker, more often than not living up to my moniker of “The Evil Bunneh”. I could feel the bile rising in the back of my throat as I wanted to say to her, “you cretinous, old b*itch – it wasn’t like the comment was directed at you personally. Why don’t you go and change your depends and while you’re at it, eat that shit that you have in your pants, you old cow!” I wanted to. I did. But I still felt in the back of my mind the peace and serenity and friendship that had been instilled in me across my trip. It didn’t seem right that I should continue and spread the poison that she’d taken the opportunity to inject into the small and friendly community.
It’s kind of a disappointment. I still see things for their beauty. I look out at the fiery reds and yellows and oranges that fly by as we roll through the upstate New York mountains and I think to myself that it’s STILL the most civilized way to travel…even if some people aren’t. As if as a reward for my having held my tongue and deciding to dwell instead on the brighter things, when we came into Albany and crossed over to board our next and final train, the train going from Albany to Boston which would take us one leg of our journey closer to home, I was pleasantly surprised when the conductor guided us onto a business class car instead of coach, allowing for a little more comfortable seat with two outlets instead of one which gave both my wife and I an opportunity to use both notebooks if we so chose, although Stacey preferred to look out the window as the brilliantly colored forests passed by in a blur. I keep an eye out the window as well, watching the dark greens of the firs, the lighter greens of the pines and the brilliant yellows, oranges and reds of the maple, beech and oak trees fly by blurred together like paints on an artists palette. I suppose my single biggest issue with travel is the lack of smoke breaks. But even during my fits, such irritability as I might have was/is largely overridden by the beauty of the world around us and the genuine friendliness and openness of the people that share our journey…with rare exception.
I’m kind of sad that my journey is coming to a close. I wish I’d had time to do more, see more, experience more. But home and duties at home call me. My responsibilities beckon me…unfinished business, always unfinished business never ending. Still, I’m looking forward to being home again, to wash the layer of dust off of me collected in my travels, to bask in the warmth of my home, a place perhaps a little worn around the edges, a little ragged, but familiar and comfortable like an old t-shirt that has long passed its useful state and is relegated to acting as outerwear on warm fishing days and days at the beach or something old and comfortable to lounge around in around the house.
My eyes are heavy, my heart is both uplifted and feeling a pang of regret at the same time as we close in on home. It’s not that I don’t love Maine. It’s not that I don’t miss her when I’m gone. But there are wondrous things to see and experience in this country. And home is home, familiar and beautiful in its own right, but full of the doldrums that come with it. It’s an old coin, polished to gleaming from wear in your pocket. It’s an old t-shirt that comforts you and fits you just right, all the holes in all the right places. It’s that old pair of shoes that you just won’t give up despite how worn they are. It’s home. It’s part of who you are, part of how you identify yourself. When you’re away from it, you miss it. And when you’re there, you are thinking of those wondrous things you’ve seen and experienced along your journey. But much like a man with a wife but yet has a roving eye, it’s still the woman you come back to at the end of the day because your love for her is complete and never ending and she completes you.
While I will always look back and think fondly of the beauty and grace of those things I’ve seen, that Stacey and I have seen together, I now look back to home and look forward to her warm embrace once again.
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