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pasitheaAn unseasonably cold wind screams through the maze of tall buildings and naked gurders. After the light changes, I dash across the street, making my way through the sea of people, out onto the platform, down along the length of the iron giant. As I board, I'm greeted by a blast of dry heat. Thermostat must be malfunctioning. Means the car is almost empty. Besides, the heat suits me fine. A few minutes more at the station, the last wave of passengers cram aboard, filling even this overheated car. Twice the conductor bellows, "All aboard!" then the doors slide closed.
A low rumbling whine shudders through the train as it creaks and groans into motion. My seat is set opposite the direction of travel and at first it seems the empty cars in the bay beside this one have set into motion the opposite direction. It's strange to see a train at this distance, moving along side it. It gives me a true sense of the massiveness of these vehicles, panning slowly along it's metal skin. Gradually we pick up speed, the windows of the waiting cars strobe beside me, all the seats empty, save for the control room. As we roll past, I watch the engineer take a bit of his sandwich and flip a page in his book. His face lit by the cool greens and oranges of the displays around him. A few more minutes and he is out of sight.
A northbound train passed outside my window as we leave the train yard. Through the windows, I can see the passengers just starting to gather their things to disembark. when headed north, the trains run in reverse, the driver concealed in a tiny room in the last car. It seems strange as we roll past the engine cockpit. Its big windows hollow, empty, as if piloted by ghosts.
The train crawls through the decay of the south end of the city. Bridges and underpasses with layer upon layer of graphitti, the ground littered with piles of trans and unidentifiable scraps of old structures. Camps of homeless people hidden away beneath the refuse. Battered blue tarps strung between a fence and the earthen buildup for the train tracks. Darkness engulfs me, then a pressure wave as the train barrels into the close darkness of an old tunnel. A moment or two of light, then into another tunnel. Emerging on the other side, I see the steep hillside and a vacant field. My eyes follow faint lines of abandoned rails in the overgrowth to the shadows of old tunnels hidden behind ivy, overgrowth and trash.
There's an open field whisking past my window now. A couple of bench-styled car seats sit facing the train track. The ground is littered with bottles, cans, and other manner of waste. Further out in the field I can see stripped and broken cars laying like the skeletons of elephants in the sun. Fog is rolling over the distant hills, taking the city into it's cold embrace. Even the tall radio towers of Telegraph hill are but faint ghosts in the haze.
This is how my trip home starts every day. I enjoy it really, even when I get on the slower trains that stop at some of the really dark and nasty stations late at night. This isn't the pretty side of the city that the City Council wants you to see. It's the dirty old industrial town, dying in slow and horrible splendor. The scrap yards, the battered industry shops, with half their windows broken out, though they're still in operation. There's a realness to this part of the world, harsh and alien as the face of Mars. A few minutes more and we'll be passing through pretty little townships with 'revitalized' downtowns festooned with familiar name brand stores and plastic facades. Tidy little houses with bright backyard playhouses for their two point five kids. The fog hasn't come here. The cold wind doesn't blow in the trees. I pass from the eire old weird dead parts of the world to the fake silicon smile of the valley. Home again, home again.
A low rumbling whine shudders through the train as it creaks and groans into motion. My seat is set opposite the direction of travel and at first it seems the empty cars in the bay beside this one have set into motion the opposite direction. It's strange to see a train at this distance, moving along side it. It gives me a true sense of the massiveness of these vehicles, panning slowly along it's metal skin. Gradually we pick up speed, the windows of the waiting cars strobe beside me, all the seats empty, save for the control room. As we roll past, I watch the engineer take a bit of his sandwich and flip a page in his book. His face lit by the cool greens and oranges of the displays around him. A few more minutes and he is out of sight.
A northbound train passed outside my window as we leave the train yard. Through the windows, I can see the passengers just starting to gather their things to disembark. when headed north, the trains run in reverse, the driver concealed in a tiny room in the last car. It seems strange as we roll past the engine cockpit. Its big windows hollow, empty, as if piloted by ghosts.
The train crawls through the decay of the south end of the city. Bridges and underpasses with layer upon layer of graphitti, the ground littered with piles of trans and unidentifiable scraps of old structures. Camps of homeless people hidden away beneath the refuse. Battered blue tarps strung between a fence and the earthen buildup for the train tracks. Darkness engulfs me, then a pressure wave as the train barrels into the close darkness of an old tunnel. A moment or two of light, then into another tunnel. Emerging on the other side, I see the steep hillside and a vacant field. My eyes follow faint lines of abandoned rails in the overgrowth to the shadows of old tunnels hidden behind ivy, overgrowth and trash.
There's an open field whisking past my window now. A couple of bench-styled car seats sit facing the train track. The ground is littered with bottles, cans, and other manner of waste. Further out in the field I can see stripped and broken cars laying like the skeletons of elephants in the sun. Fog is rolling over the distant hills, taking the city into it's cold embrace. Even the tall radio towers of Telegraph hill are but faint ghosts in the haze.
This is how my trip home starts every day. I enjoy it really, even when I get on the slower trains that stop at some of the really dark and nasty stations late at night. This isn't the pretty side of the city that the City Council wants you to see. It's the dirty old industrial town, dying in slow and horrible splendor. The scrap yards, the battered industry shops, with half their windows broken out, though they're still in operation. There's a realness to this part of the world, harsh and alien as the face of Mars. A few minutes more and we'll be passing through pretty little townships with 'revitalized' downtowns festooned with familiar name brand stores and plastic facades. Tidy little houses with bright backyard playhouses for their two point five kids. The fog hasn't come here. The cold wind doesn't blow in the trees. I pass from the eire old weird dead parts of the world to the fake silicon smile of the valley. Home again, home again.
