Because sometimes it just needs to be said.
By Leanne Schaeken
Most everyone has a preferred mode of travel, whether it is the classic autobahn, airplane, or boat. The train-without hesitation or doubt-is my favourite. Last Friday evening, as I settled in on train 79 from Toronto to Windsor, and the downtown lights blurred past, my fondness for trains, with their steadiness and gentle chug past countrysides, came back to me. A train will hardly ever lead you toward a great adventure. Perhaps it will take you to the next city or the next province, to your school or to your home. It does not have the excitement of a plane or the banality of a bus. A train ride is, simply, a delight.
I can distinctly remember my first train ride. Shockingly, I was fifteen. It was an early Sunday morning in March. The sun had begun to rise, streaking snow-dusted fields with its orange-golden rays. After a skirt around town, my father parked our van alongside a train shed that had the word “Glencoe” scratched along its side. We trudged my baggage to the front of the shed and waited for the sound of a whistle to break the cold, dense air. As we were waiting, I desperately ran through the helpful hints my sister had given me. For instance, she told me not to sit down in one of the quad seats because spending an eight-hour trip staring at another person is just plain awkward. As the train slowed to a stop, I made my way to the opened door with trepidation. It was my first step, and admittedly it was a step that was well overdue, out and away from home. Read the rest of this entry »