Recently I’ve started an internship in Salt Lake, which has
been perfectly lovely, but that’s another story for another day. As part of
this internship, I commute from Provo to Salt Lake. Rather than drive and get
road rage every day, I take the train.
When I was on my mission there was a train I would ride to
get into Lisbon. At one point it goes over their version of the Golden Gate
Bridge (Ponto 25 de Abril) across the river (Rio Tejo). On one end you could
see all of Lisbon unfold before you, cruise ships chilling in the river, the
red tile roof standing out against the grimy, old buildings. On the other side
was this magnificent, green cliff. Though I loved seeing Lisbon, that cliff was
my favorite view of the whole train ride. I would look for it both ways.
I love the train.
Riding the train is peaceful and perfectly pleasant. Yes, it
makes for a longer day. But it’s fine by me. I catch the 6:50 a.m. train and
that gives me my most productive time of the day to work on my ominous thesis.
It’s quiet (unless there’s a random dude sitting across from me playing back
football highlights on his phone sans headphones) and I get to sit by a window
and work.
(I’ve recently
discovered how important sitting by windows is to me. I will get as close as possible
to a window whenever I need to be productive. As in, I moved away from one of
my coworkers on the train just now and sat somewhere right by the window. A bit
rude? Perhaps. Healthy for my soul? Absolutely.)
The ride home I work and hope the Internet will cooperate
with me. It’s a craps shoot every time.
But without fail riding the train feels like breathing a
sigh of relief. The mountains stand ever majestic. The clouds toy with them.
The lake glistens in the rising and setting of the sun. I listen to music and
bask in the beauty that surrounds me.
And I am healed. Every time.
