In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning


Or at least 6am in Newark Penn Station. In a few hours time the station will become nothing more than a pass-thru for busy commuters rushing to work.

But for now all I hear is the quiet hum of clacking tiles on the train information board, the muffled tones of the Amtrak ticketing agent through the thick glass and the ramblings of a lonely old man, gesticulating wildly to the empty space of air directly in front of him before the announcer punctures the air with the latest track announcements calling out stops along the way: Rahway, Princeton Junction, Trenton.

My spine ergonomically melts into the curved wooden bench as I survey my surroundings. The opulence and grandeur of the train station is abundant. The freshly polished marble floors that gleam, the ornate details that decorate the doorways, ceiling and windows take me back to a stylish time when train travel was the epitome of chic. If I close my eyes I can see Cary Grant dashing in to find his girl Friday.

So here I sit, coffee in hand waiting for the announcement that will pull me out of my daydream and back into traveler mode, the Acela whisking me away to Boston. But for now, I’ll enjoy the quiet and delight in the scenes unfolding before my eyes.


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