Quiet

The long-distance Metrolink trains that travel throughout sprawling Los Angeles County and surrounding areas include a designated "Quiet Car," allowing passengers the choice of riding in peace and quiet to their destination.

I have mixed feelings about the policy. If I take an early morning from Santa Clarita to downtown Los Angeles, I'm climbing aboard a train that's more than an our into its journey. Some passengers already on board are completely covered with blankets and/or sleeping masks, while others are bleary eyed and still struggling to wake up for the day ahead.

Even in the non-quiet cars, conversation is light at this hour, but I suppose I can understand the desire of drowsy passengers to have a reasonable environment in which to travel.

On the afternoon train, the conversation is much more energetic. People are happy to be done with their day, and some meet up with their friends and celebrate. Loudly. I've sat down at a table like the one in this blog, only to be joined by a mom and her children, and their chicken dinner. Awkward, to say the least.

So, I can also understand the desire of afternoon riders to simply ride home peacefully, and perhaps catch a little rest.

The concept seems odd, but sadly symbolic of a time in which conscientiousness has to be given a special, separate place all its own.  There are even sheriffs and security personnel who occasionally wonder the Quiet Cars and police the rule. Talk loudly on your cell phone, and you can be banished to the Loud Car. Come on board the Quiet Car with a child, and be banished as well. Play a game on your tablet without muting the volume, and get a stern lecture.

I guess you could say that they're the Polite Police...

The Dark Truth About the Platform People

Though I take the train only occasionally, I generally travel on the same morning train into Los Angeles. I buy my ticket from the automated kiosk and join the closest line. Without fail, I'm preceded in that line by the same group of regulars; individuals that have shared their place on the platform for years. They've become great friends. They share family adventures, discuss their favorite television programs, and even engage in playful teasing. They'll observe other lines up and down the platform, speculating on the lives of their fellow travelers. On rare occasions, their association has reached beyond the platform to birthdays and other family events. 

There appears to a curious limit to their friendship, however.

One of them, though clearly a part of the group, retreats to her favorite, albeit less social, queue  a few minutes before the train arrives.

For those who remain at their traditional platform position, their association appears limited to the station.  Once they climb aboard the train, they say their goodbyes and go their separate ways. They don't appear to have independent onboard social groups. The car they choose to board each morning is the "quiet car," designed to discourage the sometimes raucous conversation they typically enjoy together.

It almost seems as if they need the independent time to cool down from their free, true selves, to their more repressed professional personas. There's no greater symbol of that transition than their enforced route as they step off the train, then walk down a crowded ramp and into a narrow concrete tunnel. Fellow passengers shuffle slowly through the passage, anonymous cogs in a mindless machine.

Those last few moments on the platform in Santa Clarita, perhaps, offer them a desperate last gasp of humanity before darkness descends. 

That's my theory, anyway.

I could be wrong.

Train Writing

One of my most productive writing environments is on a Metrolink train on the hour-long trip from my home in the Santa Clarita Valley to downtown Los Angeles.  I don't think it's because of the the lack of wi-fi, however. I suspect it's the inevitable journey's end that creates an urgent, immovable deadline. At either end, I might not have the time or energy to find the quality time to create—it’s now or never.  On the train, particularly in the enforced silence of the "quiet car," I can't be disturbed. I can’t talk on the phone or with other passengers. I wrote a good portion of the my first book during these commutes, and I'm writing this blog on the way home at end of a long day.

Though I'm sometimes fascinated with the passing scenery, it also can prove somewhat hypnotic, allowing me the opportunity to concentrate on my work without the chance of getting distracted too long by a passing curiosity. 

I've played with the idea of taking a longer trip, perhaps cross-country on Amtrak, to discover what I might create with that opportunity. I actually have in mind the perfect concept–another thriller—to accompany me on the journey...

...but that's for another blog!