shimonkey
Entrance
Railway stations are the cathedrals of transportation. Airline terminals are too businesslike; bus depots, too sweaty and tired and desperate. Railway stations—especially those at the terminus of a rail line—have grandeur, they have gravitas, they have romance.
That romance is built into railway stations. Every marble plinth, every column and every arch, every lintel and every corbelled doorway is infused with romance. Part of it comes, I’m convinced, from the acres of air enclosed beneath those large single-span arched roofs. It’s as if all those trapped molecules of oxygen and nitrogen (not to mention the argon and carbon dioxide) become positively and romantically charged by the purposeful movement of the people within that space. People waiting for trains, people rushing to catch trains, people milling around waiting for other people to disembark trains—they all contribute to the romanticization of the railway molecules.
The romance of the station doesn’t always extend to train travel, but while you’re there—while you’re in the station—you can close your eyes for a moment and feel the energy of the multitudes who’ve shared that space, who’ve rubbed up against those charged molecules. You too can become part of the romance.
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