Best of the Transparent Hummingbird
I have taken to train riding of late because I wanted an air-conditioned, well-lit, public place to read, of course. And of course, a stifling 95F day was no one’s ideal for tromping about in the shadeless open. Still, when riding a train to its terminus one feels rather an incurious and unenterprising dolt not to make an inspection of the environs before boarding the return train. I had in fact a small excursion in mind on arrival at Belgrave: to visit the Puffing Billy. Not to ride it, you understand; I just like watching old steam trains pull in and out of stations. (Also, waving at trains from railway embankments: for what else did I spent my years reading The Railway Children?) The urge satisfied, further exploration of the nearby Belgrave village (its directory boasted a used book barn) was abruptly aborted at the door of the ice-cream parlour (burnt caramel swirled through pear sorbet = v.g.): the temperature, we’ve said, was 95 and rising.
(On that note: cafes are overrated for reading in public; trains afford much the same opportunities for observing people and up cafes one with two image-reels of fast-spooling scenery, there is comfortable (and in some cities, lightly-cushioned) seating in a lit, temperature-controlled space. There is the soothing hum of ambient noise from train and track and intermittent whistle, and light rocking motion that lulls one into light sleep, and of course one can doze on trains (no unseemliness there) without the speculation and disapprobation one would attract in a coffee shop — a seat paid for on a train is occupied till journey’s end: a daily fare cap at $8.20 on the Victorian train network (unlimited rides) comes to less than 2 cups of time-extender coffee and avoids hogger’s bad conscience altogether.)