The news shows a pic of a burning carriage, and it’s part of the train I used to travel in – every day for a decade. One of my best reading, writing and people-watching places in CT. Laughed and struggled with commuters all along that line – through stoppages, storms, delays, holidays, Mondays, summer Fridays and icy winter dawns.
Listened to the fabulous buskers, bought chips and bottled water from the vendors, bumped into friends (and the odd adversary) by surprise – it’s the train that rocked me home through elections, to Blue Bird Friday market for fresh samoosas and to Fishhoek on payday Saturdays for breakfast and to pay bills.
It’s where a door jammed shut on my bag as the train started moving and a man flew down the carriage to wrest it open to save me.
This is the train I was on, alone with one other girl during a security guard strike when she was attacked for her bag (he tried to stab her in the leg and missed by .5 of a millimetre) – it’s where I saw him 4 days later on that now crowded train, acting normal, until I sat down beside him on purpose: he was not going to take that train from us. Except, now he has.
I am still a witness.
Just some evidence in memoriam: