There is something formidably romantic about trains. Perhaps that is why we feel so drawn to the power of the flying steel at an early age. The scrolling landscape across your viewing window, displaying the backyards, and unpretentious sides of cities and towns you would never see from any road. Rolling fields and forests. Blurry lights. Like a backstage pass to America. Time seems to slow just a little on the train; a throwback technology, carved out of the limestone and granite with sweat and gunpowder by the robber barons. And although their palaces and summer homes rot and the expensive facades crumble, the railway lives on. Arteries on the land. And the older technology beckons you to set aside the newest, and curl up with a good book. Perhaps something a little familiar; but with a good dose of adventure to match the scenes unfolding outside.
But there is something terrifically nostalgic about trains for me personally. How many small train stations I have pulled in to. Small platforms in a tiny, sleepy German village. Missing trains while waiting for the next standing in the bitter cold. Stopping in a field for several hours in a sweltering summer heat, playing cards, laughing, and singing songs. (Yes with all other strangers as well) It brings back the 2 years of my youth, carved out across southwest Germany. A decent piece spent in the cabins of sleek and old trains. Thousands of introductions and conversations. Games. Flirtatious girls.
I took the train from New Jersey to Boston yesterday afternoon. A quick set of meeting in the area. A lot of work accomplished. A little reading. This time I have thrown myself into a familiar friend of a novel, With Fire & Sword, the epic from renown Polish writer Henryk Sienkiewicz. And while we clack across New England, I am lost in both the glacier carved granite, and the wild Steppe (Sietch) of Commonwealth Poland circa 17th Century.
On my return, I stood on a cold, wet platform in Westwood Mass. A stone’s throw from where the first Pond’s settled America, almost 400 years ago. The wind bit into my face, the cold drizzle seemed to take to the air and soak the bones, leaving the shirt dry. And I remembered so many other platforms, thousands of miles and several languages away. Standing waiting for a diesel train. I miss those lost days of my youth. Hard work, but something a little care free when you take to the tracks.
And now I head home. Towards the end of my working year. A good year – a successful year. Lots of growth, and hopefully lucrative bonuses. My performance review was good, and Santa will bring a little more every two weeks to my salary stocking. But I also have a new (or additional) role at my company. I am on temporary assignment as a North American Product Manager, in charge of the business development and launch of a whole new product line and business here. Daunting. Exciting. And hopefully rewarding.
Here’s to a new business year. Here’s to uncharted territory as I trek out to “look for America.” And yes I’ll “Count the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike.”
HRP
But there is something terrifically nostalgic about trains for me personally. How many small train stations I have pulled in to. Small platforms in a tiny, sleepy German village. Missing trains while waiting for the next standing in the bitter cold. Stopping in a field for several hours in a sweltering summer heat, playing cards, laughing, and singing songs. (Yes with all other strangers as well) It brings back the 2 years of my youth, carved out across southwest Germany. A decent piece spent in the cabins of sleek and old trains. Thousands of introductions and conversations. Games. Flirtatious girls.
I took the train from New Jersey to Boston yesterday afternoon. A quick set of meeting in the area. A lot of work accomplished. A little reading. This time I have thrown myself into a familiar friend of a novel, With Fire & Sword, the epic from renown Polish writer Henryk Sienkiewicz. And while we clack across New England, I am lost in both the glacier carved granite, and the wild Steppe (Sietch) of Commonwealth Poland circa 17th Century.
On my return, I stood on a cold, wet platform in Westwood Mass. A stone’s throw from where the first Pond’s settled America, almost 400 years ago. The wind bit into my face, the cold drizzle seemed to take to the air and soak the bones, leaving the shirt dry. And I remembered so many other platforms, thousands of miles and several languages away. Standing waiting for a diesel train. I miss those lost days of my youth. Hard work, but something a little care free when you take to the tracks.
And now I head home. Towards the end of my working year. A good year – a successful year. Lots of growth, and hopefully lucrative bonuses. My performance review was good, and Santa will bring a little more every two weeks to my salary stocking. But I also have a new (or additional) role at my company. I am on temporary assignment as a North American Product Manager, in charge of the business development and launch of a whole new product line and business here. Daunting. Exciting. And hopefully rewarding.
Here’s to a new business year. Here’s to uncharted territory as I trek out to “look for America.” And yes I’ll “Count the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike.”
HRP
1 comment:
I'm a little overwhelmed by all these similies and poetic writing! :) Trains, go watch teh polar express!
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