I walked down the narrow aisle of the Amtrak car. The leather armchairs, the rug, and the passengers were all gray. At least the Subway has character and a sense of excitement. The car was full of weary commuters heading to New Jersey. My plan was to stay with my aunt before my trip out West. It was good that I was finally visiting her; I always had an excuse not to go, mostly because I would rather not visit Jersey.
I walked down the aisle, calculating: who should I sit next to? There was an open seat next to a woman who was dressed elegantly, quietly looking out the window, and I sat next to her. In her lap there was a journal, and once the train started moving she snapped out of her reverie and continued her journal entry. I notice she wrote in French. I couldn't help but ask,
“Excusez-moi, vous êtes française?”
“Oui, je fais un voyage partout les États Unis.”
I asked her what she thought about New York. She loved the city, the drugstores, the New Yorker, the jazz in Harlem. She had seen more of the city that I had seen in the past year. I was happy to be sitting next to someone who also felt the loss of leaving this city. We looked out the window together in silence for a few moments.
She then asked me about my trip. I told her I was also on a journey across America. It sounded more real once I said it.
“Good. You must live an authentic life, a life of your own choosing. Americans don’t realize the evil in being complacent with their ways.” She seemed surprised herself that these words came out of her mouth. I’m glad she was honest though—I needed to know that I was making the right choice.
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