Spotting the trains

        Train station in Rotterdam, Netherlands. One after another, yellow aerodynamic-shaped tubes rush into the station accompanied by typical Dutch hoarse wheezing, drawing out of the shielded speakers. Breda, Dordrecht, Vlissingen, Venlo. Spoor 1, 2, 3, all the spots here are dots connected by yellow smudges in the rain. And each of of them carries hundreds of passengers connecting their points of the journey. It’s a matrix of connections that is virtually never put much thought to. Board the train, wait, get off the train. You’re just a short line from point A to point B.
        Train station in Rotterdam, Netherlands. One after another, tall and short, fat and skinny, white and black passengers rush into the station together with distinctive conversations they are in the middle of, their voices pitching in different tones, accents, intonation, languages. Dutch, Polish, German, French. Spoor 1, 2, 3, all the people here are dots connected by grey, ground-embedded station. And each of them carries hundreds of stories, hundreds of directions to go to. A matrix of connections they do not normally think of. Board the train, wait, get off the train. Your attention spans over a short line from point A to point B.
        Get off the train. Airport. This  is the visible culture melting pot, forcing you to notice other people; no longer the meaningless dots. Where, in this moment, is the plane that departures in three hours time? How many people are carried from that place to a point where you are, waiting to exchange seats with them? Who, among those waiting, will go where? Now you have the opportunity to see the couple drinking coffee next to you direct themselves to a gate annotated with a board sign Copenhagen; spot that eccentric-looking guy in a large hoodie sitting under the board informing you, Lisbon; skim through all the faces in a queue for Manchester. Different languages, looks, clothes, shoes, bags are boarding different airlines, airplanes, times, gates.
        While my graphical metaphor of a train station is a line, airports seem to be depicted by convoluted knob of twisted lines, interweaving together as each line asks one another, Where’s Gate 4?, Excuse me, which way should I go for the information desk?, Do you need some help, Would you like some coffee, would you please direct yourself to the baggage reclaim.
        Airports are the knobs of places and stories. You can meet anyone, you can go anywhere. Suddenly, London is not that far away from Berlin. And Warsaw is just 2 hours away from Eindhoven. And the lady who served coffee to the Danish couple is French, as indicated by a placard on her shirt. Presence of ‘the everywhere’ is embedded in everyone around.

Choose a life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers… Choose DSY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit crushing game shows, stucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away in the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself, choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that?”
― Irvine WelshTrainspotting

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