Musical Chairs
When you’ve embarked on a journey often enough, you begin to notice its rhythms.
I've been commuting more than I used to. Spending half my working day on a train. Hence why I decided to write about it. I thought of this idea last week while I sat at a standstill because of the snow.
When you’ve embarked on a journey often enough, you begin to notice its rhythms. They all have one, regardless of whether or not you recognise it. It’s embedded in the details - potholes, an impatient bus driver, the hiss of the doors as they open and close, the swarming crowds on the train station platform, the sway of the train and the click of its wheels rolling over old tracks. Together, all those details combine, and the result is musical. It’s not quite a song, but it comes close.
“Tickets, please.” I recognise the voice, but this conductor isn’t a part of the rhythm. He’s a disturbance. Not here often enough to contribute, but here with regularity that turns your head. “Thank you,” he says, then repeats his script. Every time he comes by, I wonder how many times he’s uttered those four words that day. Am I the first or the hundredth?
The sun creeps over the flat horizon, flooding the carriage with shadows and gold. It's just another detail adding to the mix. Two rows in front, a man reaches for the sunglasses balancing on his head. The windows are dirtier than usual, a result of another gruelling winter. My view outside is tainted with dried bugs and grim. Tainted window aside, the towering turbines are unmissable, greedily hogging the landscape with their spinning blades. Their presents mark a change, coming up reflective fields, glistening under the rising sun. I can't tell you when these square fields flooded - they've been that way since I started travelling this route - but I can say for sure that they appear halfway through.
The next stop is Zwolle. After leaving Amsterdam, the train gets progressively more peaceful. As it passes by the towering turbines and over the silver fields, I'm one of a handful. From what I can see, today I'm one of three. Myself, the sunglasses man and the top of a head I can't work out.
As we pull up, a platform swarming with fresh faces awaits. Most are young, budding students heading a few kilometres up the tracks to university. Others are like me - those already trapped in adulthood. That's what we are, aren't we? Not that it has to be a negative - but there is no escape. The differences are night and day, but like the rhythms of a journey, they rest in the details: the plainness of their clothes, the tiredness in their eyes and the speed of their steps. A pair of students sit across the aisle; one plunges into her phone, the other a floppy textbook.
"Have you got an exam today?" The phone user asks.
"No, but it's at the end of the week, and I'm struggling."
"What with?"
"French. I took it as an extra."
"Why?"
"I thought it would be fun. And I know a bit from my grandma."
"But you never learnt fully, right?"
"She always tried to get me, but I only picked up the basics. This stuff is way harder than that," she says, flicking through her textbook.
"Can you drop it?"
"No, I'm going to Lille next semester for the exchange."
We pull away, and I lose interest. Besides, I need the toilet. I hate to go on the train - the toilets are testing and potent. But after a couple of hours of drinking water and coffee, while swaying left and right, you have no choice.
"Can you watch my stuff?" I ask the girl across the aisle. She looks up from her skimming, disturbed by the intrusion.
"Yeah, sure."
"Merci."
The swaying throws me around as I descend the stairs; I brace myself on the railings. I would be a lousy sailor. The door's locked when I reach it, so I watch the view flashing by as I wait. This window's practically spotless; I wonder how there can be such a difference. Did the cleaning team call it a day after they finished the bottom row? Do the bugs only splatter against the top floor glass? I hear the door open first, then the noise is chased by the smell. It's a mixture of piss and cheap perfume. No, it's not perfume, it's better than that - Lynx Africa.
I take a breath of clean-ish air and step inside. The sways feel even more pronounced here. They are violent as if the train has decided to go off-roading. Perhaps it's the lack of windows and horizon. Whatever it is, I hold the handle to the left of the bowl, steadying myself on its warm, metallic surface. Water trickles out of the tap, hardly enough to wash away the foamy soap. The hand drier doesn't work, and there are no paper towels. I dry my hands on my jeans; I'm lucky I wore the black ones.
The door opens with a thump, and I take another breath. When I was younger, I could hold my breath for three minutes. I'd push my boundaries every Wednesday afternoon in Geography class. Even a minute feels too long now. As I climb the stairs, I can't escape the feeling that something is different. But what? I think, focusing on the details. The sways are the same, gentler now I can see the still, flat fields beyond. I look down the carriage and notice the man with sunglasses. His head seems fuller, but I suppose I could have overlooked it. The further I go, the tighter the feeling grips me. It feels as if I've emerged on a new day, I'm travelling on a different train and listening to a fresh rhythm.
Then I come to my seat and find it empty. But so are the seats next to me. The students have disappeared with my stuff. I'm getting dizzy now. My palms are clammy, and my heart is sprinting. I take another breath and peer out of the window. Outside, the reflecting fields are glowing orange. We're heading the opposite way. The sun is no longer climbing over the horizon, it's abseiling. I've changed place and time as if I'm stuck in a game of musical chairs.
"Tickets, please," the conductor's voice calls from behind. "Thank you," he says gently before launching into another cycle. "Tickets please...” I pat my pockets, wondering if I've lost everything or just what I left on my seat. I pull out a card, my pass.
"Tickets, please." I'm already holding mine out, waiting for him to see it and move on. "Sorry, Sir, this isn't valid for this train." I look up, tilting my head to the right.
"But it's valid for every train?"
"Not this one."
"Sorry, I'm a bit confused. I went to the toilet a few minutes ago. We had just left Zwolle. It was the morning. And now..."
"Sorry to hear that, Sir. I guess you haven't had time to acquire a ticket for this train."
"I guess not. But that's the last thing I need. All my stuff is gone, I left it right here. Two girls were sitting right there! One was learning French."
"Argh, yes. June and Anna. They got a little shaken up, but other than that, they're doing well."
"Shaken up? What are you talking about? Can you just tell me where we're going?"
"Don't worry, sir. Everything will sort itself out. Just relax and enjoy the view. The sunset is very pretty today." he says, already walking down the stairs and out of sight. We're crossing a bridge, an old steel one, painted red. Below a river flows, it's as calm as I've ever seen - not a single ripple spoiling its surface.
Love, Luke
(The inspiration)