Serendipity

I board a train; I have no destination. The station of departure is not entirely at random, only best fit for the criteria. Within walking distance, with weekend departures, and a destination outside of Greater London. I choose the 14:29 train to Bishops Stortford, arriving at Hackney Downs with a minute to spare.

I have never been to Bishops Stortford nor have any idea of what such a place might be like or where it might be.

Trains are a novelty to me. I spent childhood, adolescence and the early years of adulthood bound to travel by car. The great passenger railroads of America are centuries gone. I first traveled by train in Europe. The great appeal, I think, is the passive nature of train travel. A midway between points; a subdued and introspective void. A vessel of windows looking to a world of gliding landscapes and industrial ruin. Suspension of control: a time to drift and dream, to question.

The drudgery of commuter travel aside, train journeys hold a glimmer of ancient romance.

It is less an impulse to escape boredom than a track for serendipity. A mundane and arbitrary act to encourage the accidental discovery of something novel or useful — a search for provocation that might lead to insight or direction. At its least noble, a way to promote a sense of satisfaction (however false) that I accomplish something simply by doing. With no agenda or known destination and no knowledge of the route, the journey becomes the plot. While the seemingly unexpected defiance is, in truth, limited and predictable, the thrill of the new provides stimulation. The peaks of churches straining over the platforms of stations with unlikely names, the interactions and conversations of other passengers; everything takes a special meaning because it operates under a veneer that insists upon it.

I stay on the train until it terminates at Bishops Stortford. I imagine wandering into town, walking down unfamiliar streets past shop fronts, perhaps even coming upon a green space or waterfront.

I am unable to leave the station.

I am traveling on an Oyster card: a payment system that vanishes outside of London’s borders. The attendant explains this to me. Broxbourne is the last station with card readers. He asks if I have money. I need to find the ticket counter and purchase a ticket for the journey from London. I walk downstairs, but hesitate after seeing a map of the train routes. Two stops back to Broxbourne, and the next train is ready to depart.

Outside the gates at Broxbourne, the nearest building of any significance is six miles away.

The now familiar stations and names slide past the train window, blurring with the rain.