One place I consistently find a fascinating microcosm of humanity is the Acela Express from Union Station in Washington to Penn Station in New York on any given day of the week. The journey lasts about 3.5 hours, stops at major cities along the way, and otherwise just flashes across the northeast corridor with old America passing by outside. More than what's outside those windows is what's within. Smart, well-dressed people of all ages all doing interesting things, some de-stressed, taking a nap or reading a book, others taking a call or typing away on a computer. It's a superficial assessment for sure, one that doesn't amount to much in the grand scheme of things, but when I get on that train I always feel like I'm where I need to be, in good company. I never am really ready for the trip to be over, but when it is, I love getting off that train in the buzz of Manhattan, or arriving back home in a grand city that has become mine. My earliest memories are filled with a love for trains, hours upon hours spent building elaborate tracks and stations across the floors of my first house. Easy then to follow the thread of life and find a man, now thirty, sitting in his seat, gazing out the window, lulled into a sense of belonging by the steady vibrations of wheels against track, accentuated by an occasional horn let off into the approaching night.
