I always thought living in proximity to a train track sounded romantic. I once had a house out in the country. At night, when the wind was just right, I could hear the far away call on the train whistle. Its lonesome call in the middle of the night evoked a call to iindividualisticwandering on a Jack Kerouac scale of fiction. No matter how stressful my life was, I could sit in my bed late at night and escape to a dream like world as the drifting call of a train whistle mixed with the late-night breeze. Blowing the sheers. Calming my busy brain.
When the roommate and I were looking for new place to rent, I was excited to see an opening in a building within walking distance to a train stop. Just two blocks down, and we could be on a train platform that would whisk us to either Denver’s city center, or Denver’s Airport. I was also secretly excited that my train, the one from my late night visits would be back.
The first night in the new place I drifted off to sleep with the window open.
HHHHOOOOONNNNKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!
I startled awake! The frickin’ train sounded as if it were running through the driveway. Why would moving next to the stupid train tracks be a smart move? All night a train horn blared every fifteen minutes. All night every night. Since this Jack Kerouac nightmare started in June, I have now become accustom to the late night train whistle. I drift off to my dream like world as train cars full of passengers make their way to and from the airport. Horns ablazing.
This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.
