I have written about my trips halfway around the world. I have sketched, “the Faces of Indonesia” and various scenic spots around the globe. Through it all, I realize a sense of spiritual insight that comes from connecting to a greater piece of humanity. And yet, right here at home, in the suburb known as Corona, I have discovered an unexplored piece of that same “greater humanity”.

Ok, so I don’t have some great spiritual insight to share. But I thought that this was worth writing about because it just felt right. 

The Metro Link Train

As I pulled into the parking garage, I was pleased to find, though there were levels and levels of full parking spaces, that parking was free. My response to finding out that I could park for free, must have been what prompted Raymond, the train security guard, into asking me if this was my first time to use the train. My affirmation along with my obvious giddy-ness got me a first class escort service of the North Corona Metro-link Station. Raymond coached me through all the “how to and where to-s” Without his assistance and hospitality, I would have been greeted by a row of automated ticketing machines, and an apocalyptically empty train station.

I grabbed my sketch pad and began a quick charcoal sketch of the train tracks as they slipped under the freeway overpass. Right on time the train rolled up. I entered through the automated doors, heard the last bit of a recorded message, and found myself one of three people on this particular car. One person went to the observation deck, one stayed on the bottom level. I found a table to sit at on the second level. Feeling more curious, than creative, I took a few pictures and marveled at having a virtually private train ride.

It seemed like a waste, the many vacant seats. But then I thought, the train, like many other constants in life, continues on schedule with one passenger or many.

Heading back home however, the train station was full. Train veterans validated ten-day passes in automated validation machines. Bikers folded up their bikes for transport. Workers piled out of work vans. A woman assured a co-worker that she wouldn’t let her get lost on the train. My mom was standing by ready to wave me goodbye as if I were going on a long trip. Entering the train, I went up a few flights and back down as there were no seats available on the top two levels. On the second level a passed by a group of people sitting at the table eating from what looked like a tray of hors d’ oeuvres. There was life everywhere. The automated voice message was replaced with a live announcer reminding passengers to keep all personal belongings with them at all times and to report anything “idiosyncratic”. That got a chuckle from several of the train veterans. I sat with my sketch book in hand; an observer. Five people who looked to have nothing in common were standing in a circle at the exit door. They were using a carry-on bag to play cards. I wondered if they knew each other outside this train, or if they somehow formed a sort of card club while commuting. I sketched them, mindful of eyes behind me possibly watching unimpressive quick sketch in ink take shape. Yes, I was an observer, but I was part of it, and it felt right.

When I walked on the train the next time, I entered a lively car where everyone was greeted with a familiar “hello.” First names were thrown around, and a lively game of dominoes was being played at one of the tables. The conductor came over the loudspeaker as before but instead of “idiosyncratic” he threw out an equally impressive new word. I only caught the chuckles the crowded car, but realized that this was a kind of game or personal challenge the conductor had going. I sat next to Rita, who, I found in conversation with her, had been a train commuter for 14 years. I found myself considering possibilities for employment or school that would lend me to take advantage of commuting on the train. I promised myself that before the summer promotion was over, I would take advantage of the trains $10 unlimited weekend pass.

Weekend travel had its own culture. The station filled up with families, carrying picnic baskets, beach towels and boogie boards. Scattered throughout the train were weekend dads and kids hanging out in the aisles.

One little boy entered with his mom. He must have been about four years old. He was very vocal, and full of questions. Obviously, he had been promised a trip to the petting zoo, as periodically during his endless flow of questions and observations, he would interject, “Is this the petting zoo?” I smiled and understood clearly what it meant to live in the present.

I painted this pair, cautious not to be seen as my watercolor sketch revealed itself on the paper. Again, I was an observer, but I was in the present, part of it, and it felt right. –written by Ramona Taylor