On Saturday, for lack of anything better to do, whatsoever, your humble scribe, his reluctant wife and Boxcar Cian took to the rails and made that lonesome journey on the southbound train from Muroran down to Toya. Felt like I was in a Bruce Springsteen song, circa 'Nebraska', 1982. Outside there was lots of cold, windblown, winter scenery; the steel mills shining dully in the brittle light, the endlessly smoking towers of the cement factory; the bare, brown fields lined with skeletal trees. Inside the train people crouched in their seats, their lives hard worn, their luck, what little they have, hard won.
Actually, I don't know what their lives or luck were like. I was on a descriptive roll and I thought I'd just go with it. In truth, there was actually a rather boisterous group of pensioners, out for a day trip down to the hot springs in Toya. They spent the journey sharing a naggin of whiskey, so by the time they reached the station they were in fine form. And I met three of my students from the nursing school I teach in, who spent most of the journey embarrassing Cian with their constant squeals of just how "sooooo cute" he is.
Excitable student nurses aside, Boxcar Cian loved it all - two hours riding the rails, excitedly pointing out the various express and freight trains that sped past as we made our leisurely way through the badlands of west Iburi.
No comments:
Post a Comment