There's something strangely serene about riding on a train. The rolling and ever changing landscapes. The soft, steady rumbling of the rails. The steady movement. The impression that you've set foot on all the places the tracks take you. I have no mp3 player with me, which is a first. But the train has its own soundtrack -- the murmurs of the wheels against the tracks; the hum of the air conditioning overhead; the occasional, subdued shriek of passing trains. Then there are the crinkling of newspaper, the clicking of opening and shutting briefcases, the sniffing of itchy noses, and the breaths of laughter from the few engaged in conversation. And let's not forget the announcer and her always polite, articulate voice.
"The next station is -- Woking -- please remember your belongings."
Then the shuffling of feet of passing and new passengers. A new orchestra is thus formed at every platform. The wheels begin to turn, the train picks up its pace, and the soundtrack resumes.
"The next station is -- Woking -- please remember your belongings."
Then the shuffling of feet of passing and new passengers. A new orchestra is thus formed at every platform. The wheels begin to turn, the train picks up its pace, and the soundtrack resumes.
