Nowhere Girl

The numbing sound of a whistle rings through my ear and brings me back to reality: 34th street in between 7th and 8th avenue, Penn Station. Waiting on the 18:25—delayed—train to Washington D.C. As my vision re-focuses, I slowly make out my girlfriend’s familiar face, with that damn smirk I love so much on it. 

Once again, the whistle invades the train platform, making me turn my attention to the officer.

“Everyone taking the 137 please form a straight line behind me, your train is now departing at 6:35pm from platform 14. The screens are out of service and won’t show the right information but this is where you have to board your train at.”

Since the government shutdown last week, all services have been stopped or delayed. Airports have become waiting rooms. Train stations' chaos feels slightly similar to tourists arriving in New York City for Christmas. (The worst place to find yourself in the city during  the holidays is without a doubt at a train station.)

There are people with bags—and children—running up and down, bumping into each other, and screaming to reunite with their families. Arrival and departures screens are playing their own unique game as well; times keep getting pushed back, platforms are rarely announced, and the understaffed officials have to be constantly hauling the passengers. 

I can feel myself sweating underneath my black, oversized, leather jacket. Terrible day for all the establishments in New York to turn the winter heaters on. I am almost at the beginning of the line. My girlfriend and I kiss goodbye and for just a second I let my mind go blank before returning to the chaos. Her soft hand slips out of mine as I step into the escalator taking me down to platforms 13/14. 

I’m hearing the steps slowly move me down, at least 20 meters underground. I take out my phone and text the family group-chat “Getting on the train rn.” I open my girlfriend's chat and quickly type “i miss you already!” Then I close out of all the apps, hit the ‘Airplane Mode’ button, and put my phone back in my bag. 

I like to apply the ‘Airplane Rules’ to any mean of transportation I take; no phone reception, I have to entertain myself with books, movies, or work; no communication to the outside world: talk to my seat neighbors, look outside the window, or reflect and write in my journals; and I get to have a snack and a black coffee (which normally will get a re-fill) halfway through the trip. 

Means of transportations are my personal moment to refresh. Means of transportation have always been my safe space. Means of transportation are my favourite place. 

There is something about having no connection to the outside world. Being somewhere but nowhere. The possibility of being anywhere. Or nowhere. And being able to go everywhere. For a couple of hours being suspended in time—sometimes even traveling through it. Disconnected in a world of possibilities. Truly as an individual. And a stranger. It is a limbo. It is a limbo where everything is essential and nothing is important.

I hear the train doors open and I am immediately hit with that fresh, purified, air-conditioned fog all these fancy trains seem to include. I make sure I am getting into a couch wagon and I start scattering for a seat. 

I am overwhelmed, sweaty, and tired of carrying my neon-yellow, go-to, backpack—that weighs about twice as much as me. I'm growing desperate to sit down and dissociate from life into my lost-traveler narrative. I walk down the aisle and analyze the available spots—no window spots anymore, so I will have to settle down to find the best companion. 

I pass a typical-looking fratboy and just the thought of it gives me a headache. I keep walking down the aisle. There is a lady eating a chipotle bowl, which my stomach can not fathom putting up with the smell of beans for the next four hours. I keep walking down the aisle. A Hispanic woman in her forties reading a book strikes me as a good option but her hand bag is invading the seat next to her. I keep walking down the aisle. A brunette girl, with glitter in her eyes, and an eccentric outfit—I could definitely see myself wearing—intrigued me as the perfect match, but for some reason I do not get good vibes from her. I keep walking down the aisle. 

I find my place next to a guy that seems to be in his late twenties and takes this commute consistently. He has dread braids in his hair and a clean face. His nose is stuck to the computer screne—considering I am planning on getting some work done, on my personal device, it feels like the appropriate choice.

As I sit down we share a kind smirk—a common understatement that we will not talk or disturb each other during this journey. I pull my sticker-covered laptop out of my backpack, as well as the chocolate chip muffin my girlfriend got me for the trip, and place them on the tiny little table. 

I connect my blue, wire, headphones to my computer and turn my “one day I’ll waltz in Vienna at 12:00am on January first with the love of my life” playlist on—if I need to write I am either listening to classical music or the Harry Potter Movies soundtrack. 

We arrive at the first stop–Newark, New Jersey—and looking out the window I can see the city I get to call home all lit up. I feel that little kick in my chest that arouses tears in my eyes, and that whispers “wow, you’ve really made it” to my brain. I know that I need to hold onto that feeling. That is the inspiration I need to start writing. 

“Clair de lune from Suite bergamasque” rumbles from my ear to my brain. I open my red notebook on the page I left it at yesterday. I scramble tonight's date—October 16th, 2025—and place—THOUGHTS FROM PENN STATION TO UNION STATION, WASHINGTON D.C., TRAIN 137. I title the entry “NOWHERE GIRL.” I fly through pages as I channel my pretentious writer persona, losing touch of reality and of the girl that I was in New York City. None of that matters when I am on the train. 

On a train I get to not have expectations. On the plane I get to talk to my brain. On a boat I get to act according to my primal instinct. On a bike I get to fly in time. On a train I get to write about my life from an outside, magnifying lens. And that's how I know I am at my favourite place. The only thing that could make this better would be a glass of red wine.