Penn Station, NYC. There are places to sit. There are places to plug in. Electricity, wifi, running water, flush toilets. The bathrooms are clean. The floors, too. There are ample opportunities to purchase food, drink, souvenirs, paperbacks, hardcovers, newspapers, magazines, antacids, candy, bottled water, toys, pens, Advil, Tylenol, articles of clothing. Information is available from Amtrak and Metro North employees as well as the constantly updated signage. Loudspeaker announcements are resonant, frequent, and static-free. Delays are inevitable. Frustration or forbearance, optional. Security is clear and present with a slightly edgy air but generally polite and helpful. Maintenance crews work hard. Some of us, we who are traveling, look lost, some talk too loudly to each other or into their phones, some look tired, some resigned, some obviously up for the challenge. Eye contact, optional. Sense of humor, optional. Acknowledging the wonder and absurdity of all this motion, mood-dependent. Some carry almost nothing, some just a backpack, some tote most of their worldly possessions. Many use devices with wheels. It really is a user-friendly place, one that could easily meet most if not all of our needs. Still, this is a place of transition, like a bridge or tunnel. We arrive. We depart. No one wants to stay there. Imagine how quiet Penn Station would be if we all left at once. How peaceful. What a relief from this constant assault on the senses. What kindness, to let it have its privacy, its moment. In the end, deprived of purpose, would it miss us?
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