The train station had its heyday back in the fifties with the sharp, "modern" decor. Rivetted metal sheets surround the stationmaster.

Unlike the other stations I'm fond of, back in Texas the station I took to get out of there was quiet in the way that those that never succeed are. It knew its place in the grand scheme of things and it's place was to sit there and wave off the travellers who just wanted to get the Hell out of Texas. I'd had to take a bus to get out of there, waiting on hard plastic chairs, one of which collapsed under my big ass while the train ran six hours behind schedule. I was supposed to arrive in Chicago in the middle of the afternoon. I arrived at nine in the evening. Despite that, I love traveling by train. It's like being rocked to sleep for the entire trip, though that could be blamed on the fact that I tend not to sleep before I travel, putting myself at risk for sleeping right through my stop.

While I write this, the man that's supposed to announce who's coming where isn't saying much of anything. He's on the phone, ignoring his tasks. A snow flurry rages outside and many of the people in here will not be joining me on the next leg of the trip.

When I travelled cross country, from Houston, Texas to Chicago, Illinois, the weather had been hot and damp. In that heat, I created friendships with fellow travellers, whether it was giving them a taste of my sarcasm or me a taste of theirs or listening to their complaints about the Longview stationmaster. I had liked the man, but there's no accounting for taste.

But I'm not in Texas anymore and I'm not in Chicago, quickly becoming inundated with the overload of sensation that is the Windy City.