The magic of standing still while in motion

On the luxury of waiting, the joy of solo travel, and the power of noticing things

Departure Point: South Station, Boston in the morning light. It was a good day for traveling.

The morning of my departure, the call of an owl offered a rare and somewhat solemn counterpoint to the bright cacophony of the usual dawn chorus. Some travelers might have taken this as an ill omen, but I have never believed the allegations against owls, ravens, or black cats. Instead, I welcome their presence as a sign that I am about to encounter some kind of magic. I’m almost always right.

I was going to be away for a meager two-and-a-half days, but it would be my first time traveling solo since a 2011 trip to San Francisco for a work-related conference. And even though I was meeting friends once I reached New York City, the stress of navigating to my destination alone heightened my usual travel anxiety. I was excited, but also felt distinctly outside my comfort zone.

My journey began on foot with a twenty-minute walk from my house to the local commuter rail station. My progress was awkward because of the bags slung over my shoulder and hanging from the crook of my arm. Despite their unwieldy bulk and not insubstantial weight, I still felt a lightness in my step that put me in mind of Frodo and Sam striking out from the Shire with provisions in their packs and sunshine on their backs. It was a good start.

As I passed the point of no return — the point at which going back would mean missing this first train and causing the entire domino chain of travel plans to collapse in ruins — something in me shifted. I was no longer the frantic organizer whose job it was to plan every detail, cross-check every list (twice), and manage the whole process of getting safely to my destination. I was now the traveler. My job was simply to notice things.

And there was so much to notice.

People say that travel is the best education because it exposes you to other cultures — the sights, sounds, food, customs, and history. This is true. But travel is also an excellent education because of what you bring with you — your attention, your assumptions, and your biases. You can learn as much about yourself as your destination if you give yourself the space to notice what you notice.

It’s easiest to create such space if you are traveling alone and in a way that includes a bit of waiting.

Waiting is, to me, the most luxurious aspect of solo travel.

In my usual day-to-day existence, it is extremely rare that I find myself in a pocket of unallocated time in which there is nothing that needs doing and no external demands on my thoughts. It speaks volumes that I experience a tiny spark of excitement when faced with things I otherwise dread — a computer crash or dentist appointment, for example — simply because they will put me in a circumstance that gives me no choice but to wait.

On this particular trip, I chose to take a train from Boston to Penn Station. The ride was a little under four hours, and was preceded by over an hour of down time waiting at Boston’s South Station.

So much waiting. It was delicious.

I sat outside South Station for a while, watching the traffic, and then went back into the station where I treated myself to a chai latte and chocolate croissant from Starbucks. I also bought a bottle of water and a slice of pumpkin bread for the train ride. I enjoyed my second breakfast perched on a stool at a high-top table from which vantage point I could people watch without being obvious.

The young Asian girl sitting next to me was deep in reverie behind the sound wall created by whatever was playing through her headphones and the physical cocoon created by the folds of a very cozy hoodie. She was looking at something on her phone and making notes with a short pencil in a small, slim notebook. It looked like she was trying to decipher a secret code. An elderly couple sat on my other side, talking quietly to each other to make sure each was comfortable and didn’t need anything. A mother and her four-year-old son stood in the middle of the station gazing up at the schedule board where the young boy was practicing his numbers by searching for their train’s designation amidst the ocean of tiny LED lights. Countless other travelers moved through the station in an ebb and flow reminiscent of schools of fish moving through a reef.

On the train, I noticed the worn patina on the seats and trays, the scratched and smoky veneer on the windows, and the unexpectedly satisfying feeling of the heavy metal foot rest sliding down and out.

Across the aisle, a woman about my age or a little older settled into her seat and placed an enormously heavy book on the little tray table in front of her. I was intrigued by the book, but disappointed when she only used it as a prop to support her phone while she scrolled its tiny screen. When she crossed her legs, I noticed she had an elegant tattoo of a crane in flight just above her ankle.

When my seat mate closed her laptop, I noticed the words “Icelandic Ponies” written on a sticky note that was affixed to the computer’s cover. I couldn’t help my curiosity, and asked her about the note. We had a lovely conversation that introduced us not only to each other, but also introduced me to her friend in Vermont who has a herd of rescued horses and she to my beau’s stone-and-glass sculptures. I look forward to crossing paths again in the digital realm.

I spent part of the train ride reading a book I’d picked up out of a little free library at home. That, in itself, felt like such a treat — time to read with absolutely no guilt and no obligations or responsibilities tugging at my sleeve. The book was an advanced reader copy that had already seen some wear and tear, so I didn’t mind shoving it into my oversized purse … and I don’t think the book minded either. I imagine it was excited to be on the road to a new city.

I also spent plenty of time looking out the window as the world between Boston and New York unfurled like a contemporary tapestry behind that yellowed glass. There were some lovely vistas, especially along the Connecticut coast, but most of the scenery felt like behind-the-scenes footage from a documentary. Train tracks often run through such out-of-sight spaces. I saw a lot of graffiti — a veritable urban gallery’s worth of artworks mounted in defiant display on the backs of buildings, rusting storage containers, and concrete barriers. Somewhere in Connecticut, I looked up from the pages of my book just in time to see four fireman standing atop the flat roof of a brick building that was burning from the inside out.

All this, and I hadn’t even reached my destination yet.

The world really is an amazing place. Even the parts that seem completely mundane are full of stories that are waiting for us just beneath the surface.

And sometimes, when you are waiting with nothing particular to occupy your mind, it’s like someone has pulled back the curtain and you suddenly see not only the infinity of stories, but also the web that connects each to another and so on and so on until we are all a part of the same story.