Five Senses: One Worcester

Walking towards the entrance of Union Station, I turn my back on the argument between screeching car wheels and blaring horns. The heavy doors that guard the entrance slowly squeal as they close, sealing off the peaceful train station from the external noise.

A handful of weary travelers stand around the front of lobby waiting for their next form of transportation to continue on their journeys. I try to listen in on their mumbled conversations but the low drone of the heater on the back wall drowns out their voices along with the repeated taps formed by a consistent flow of fingertips pressed upon smartphones. The monotone sound created by its expulsion of warm air is calming.

The main doors cry as they open; they seem to experience pain with even the slightest push. Every sharp shriek is followed by the quickest click, click of shoes across the marble floor. Each time the door opens, the roar of the outside world briefly pierces the shroud of silence covering Union Station. Five seconds later, the doors shut; the entrance is once again protected and the internal calm restored.

The sharp howl of a whistle and the breaking of wheels signal the arrival of a new train.

A clumsily loud stomping of feet grabs the attention of the half dozen people remaining near the front doors. A hustling passenger draws the cool and damp into the station. With a repetitious shuffle of her feet and a heavy exhale, that shushes the room, the woman tries to rid herself of the miserable weather.

I pass into the hollow main room of the station, my footsteps echo throughout the space, bouncing off the walls, floor, and stained glass ceiling. Eventually, the faint bodies of noise dissipate gently into the ornate walls.

Moving up to the train platform, an anxious passenger rummages through her belongings in search of some unknown item. She begins searching through her light blue backpack. The woman frantically unzips each pocket but does not find what she is looking for. She moves onto her yellow handbag. With one accidental jerk of her hand, the lady catapults a box through the air. The wooden exterior claps sharply onto the hard floor, catching everyone’s attention similar to when a single person applauds at the wrong time. Fortunately, she soon sighs, as she locates the trinket in her coat pocket.

Outside the train roars to life, reminiscent of a lion awakening, or what I believe a lion awakening would sound like. Over the loudspeaker a series of mumbled directions, intelligible to only the experienced traveler, are uttered by the conductor. Passengers shuffle on board.

I descend the stairs from the platform the train yells goodbye with a trifecta of short toots.

Although my travel was light, involving only a brief drive around Worcester, Union Station provided a refreshing rest. The building offered shelter for my ears from the shrill of wheels, blast of horns, and grumpy snarls of frustrated travelers. Silent thought is available to all passengers in Union Station, temporarily immobile until their next train, car, or bus arrives.