I love trains. I love that once I get on them, they whisk me away. I don't have to pay attention to where I'm going. I can just sit and watch the trees flick past like an old slideshow carousel. I love the cracked leather of the seats on the Fitchburg line that takes me from my apartment in Porter Square to my family's home in Lincoln (and that I hear the same train pass by in both places). I love the way the rumbling of the rails announces the trains arrival before it gets to me, as I sit waiting on a bench (more after the jump).
When I go back to my parents' house (is that what I have to call it now? Can it still be my house even if I've moved out? Can Rosie still be my dog even if she doesn't live with me? These are the existential crises of my day to day life) I usually drive. But I recently lost the Jeep for a few days due to some problems known technically as "the check engine light will not turn off," and had to hop on the commuter rail to go get my laundry (I said I moved out, not that I grew up).
As I sat on the worn wooden slats of the bench beside the tracks, I realized that another reason I love trains so much is because of the different textures that surround them. The smoothness of the rails, the gravel beside them, the nubbly yellow plastic that marks the end of the pavement, the gritty grasses and boards that lined the side of the walls, they all make layers and add depths that make me reach for my camera.
So here, in the style of last fall and this spring, are photos of the Porter Square train tracks. Not very glamorous, but I think pretty beautiful. And the title of this post is due to the fact that every time I wait for a train, "Me and Bobby McGee" immediately pops into my head.