Illustration by Ellie Shim
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
The train rattles on, through flat brown countryside, past industrial yards and factories. The journey, from Toronto’s Union Station to Montreal’s Gare Centrale, is interrupted by stops in suburban cities with their modern concrete stations and slow crawls through small towns, their old brick stations shuttered or dark.
At one point in the trip – about the length of a few deep breaths – the train seems to suddenly lift off and fly along the stony shores of Lake Ontario. Passengers turn to watch the vast stillness of the lake as the noise of the world is swallowed by its wild grey blues.
I’ve ridden the Via Rail train between these two stations six times over the last year for my job. Whenever I’m on a train alone, I am content as can be. Even when the Wi-Fi doesn’t always work. Or the fabric seats in the old cars sometimes give off a smell. And once, when I forgot my headphones, when I was seated next to a woman who loudly Facetimed her situationship for roughly two and a half hours.
First Person: Here’s why I am not looking for quiet in public spaces
Still, suspended between destinations, between two worlds with all their demands, structures and stimulations, the train car feels like no place at all. It grants silence, anonymity and time to just be.
Sometimes, ideas and thoughts that need to surface find me on the pages of my notebook when I’m on the train. Sometimes, I chat with my seatmate, and more often than not, they say something I won’t forget — or something I needed to hear. But mostly, I do nothing, maybe read a little, listen to music or drift in and out of sleep. I always relish this time, not because I don’t want to return to the real world but because separation from its churning is essential to me. I often wish to stay on the train far longer than my ticket allows.
First Person: At 75, I moved to Spain with my family. When they left, I stayed
In Italy once, I wished a little too hard for an extended ride. I was on a high-speed train between Rome and Milan in the middle of June when it screeched to a halt because fires had broken out on the tracks ahead. The electricity died, taking the air conditioning with it. There were no snacks or water bottles, and for the next seven hours, all the passengers just sat there, waiting.
At some point, a robust Nonna cried out, to no one in particular, “E i bambini?” motioning toward a few red-faced, disgruntled-looking kids who were looking as fried as the rest of us felt. I watched the chaos ebb and flow. I restarted the book I’d finished. I tried speaking French to the teenager next to me, in hopes we had a shared language after English and Italian had been ruled out and when that didn’t work, I gratefully accepted a sip of water and a single cracker from the little bag she passed around the car. Eventually, another train arrived and carried us through the remaining hours of the journey. At midnight, we all stumbled onto the platform of Stazione Centrale, the kids asleep and hoisted firefighter-style over the shoulders of their parents.
Outside the station, I finally saw the bright, familiar face of the friend who had been waiting for me. It was like catching the tail end of a shooting star. But still, I cannot compare the final arrival to the adventure of that ride. Each, in my memory, are aglow.
When I take the train, I trust that I will reach my destination, even when there are delays or disruptions. I simply wait, without a fight. I look for novelty in the situation, I pay attention to details that might amuse me, or I rest, knowing we’ll get there when we get there.
Yet, in other times of transition, I am far more attached to the arrival time. I grip the ticket or stare at the clock. I forget to look up and around.
I forget that I must first pass through shifting landscapes and towns I didn’t know were on the map; through stations I thought would be open, and others I thought would be closed. I forget that maybe, I must first meet the person sitting next to me, whose own journey of transition overlaps with my own.
I forget about the serenity that arrives when the train car shoots along a fresh shore or halts in dry, blowing fields. Slower moments on the journey hold all that I seek: flickers of adventure and quiet peace.
Kailey DeBoer lives in Toronto.