Rather nice - gilded deco exterior on 16th impresses, hints at the former grandeur of the Pennsylvania Railroad (and perhaps Pennsylvania itself)
Inside is very clean for Philadelphia, seems newly remodeled - lots of TV screens - R THIS/that line schedules, system maps, kiosks pushing unhealthy choices, etc
Dreamy and eager to use pub transport when feasible - (overfed me loves it when convenient) - I hoped to catch the initial public offering (426AM to Trentown - and NYC)
Parked under city hall. Shadowy, empty. I couldn't make out a path into the station, so it was back to the cold street.
405 AM Philly rests from hardscrapple existenz - 1M+ people aren't doing much milling downtown at that hour - and any signs on the ground to proper station entry were nigh impossible to locate.
The fancy bronze doors were locked, heavily. One sign taped up there seemed proud: "Doors close at 1 AM".
After a few zigzags of the region, near a bluish flame sculpture, facing 7-11, I heard - at last - good news. Those doors, the ones reflecting the bluish flame, get opened at 4 AM (danke schoen, 7-11 guard king).
The warm air felt much better.
Down & inside, fifty or more people were sleeping, shaking, talking, laughing, mumbling, drooling, quivering, frozen, jagged, extended, compacted, open faced, turned over, mummies, unwrapped.
Waiting.
How nice for citizens to own a warm place for the night. Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa peace settled among broken glass bottles and plastic shards.
Now my 426: I had 15 minutes spare, plenty for a quick DD raid and maybe an extravagance (NY POST or similar). Time also for a circuit on the promenade. A lookie around.
then! such profound sadness, dismay.
When betrayal drops upon you, how hurtful it also feels.
Cruel contemptuous Septaaah - of wicked, corrupt, shameless, putrid disgrace you are !
TVs rastered departures of 630, 700, 730.
Ticket windows bolted shut.
Kiosks bound by thick metal gates.
Track monitors filled in error message hodgepodge
Responsible authorities unfindable.
Spinning within, I then heard the hum of a far-off cabrio golf cart. A nice chap eased by - managing coherence I asked him about the 426 while walking asunder. He glanced at the R5 screen and repeated what I, too, saw - next train is at 630.
I grabbed a very accessible schedule, and proved via natural reason that a train ought to arrive soon.
He agreed. We both lamented my misfortune. His idea was to gather the station master.. upon the knowledgeable one's return from, frommmm...
The amicable guard puttered on and a few yards away went about his new business of prodding & waking up bench sleepers.
I thought it better to immediately rip myself together and regain a little self-control. I descended to Track 4, the stated usual home of R5's - deviant logic had always served me dutifully in past third world, communist or Floridian situations - so why not here as well?
well - shortly then on Track 5, Track 6, and 7, three trains rolled and rocked inward. No fanfare greeted them. They sat together for a few moments. Breathing. Exhaling their powerful brakes. Pneumatic
Nothing heralded their status - one could think the first arrivals of the day deserved some sort of proper introduction - yet.... The cool info CRT's remained colorfully rich in deep error modes.
I raced over to those tracks to figure out where those trains were headed - in a bold bid for human comfort, I ran entire lengths along platform 5, 6, 7 - desperate for social contact.
No compassion. not one soul. Doors didn't open - and therefore none would would have to close. Each train barely peeped as it sheepishly continued on its secret route.
445 AM: I ran as quickly as obesity allowed, past the risen mobs, over urea, springing near metal waste, thru a bright rotunda... up a dark, concrete stairwell - and back onto the deserted streets.
Loss of $7 was unfortunate - but bully for the PPA.
Gasoline. Dollars for OPEC, or Alaska.
Pollution. Wear & tear on our roads, cars, hearts, lungs, fellow creatures small & unseen & not yet born
I drove fast, for me, along I-95. The Jersey connection forced the foot. I was relieved that the State Police hadn't contributed too much manpower to Philly's highway patrol (as was repeatedly & proudly reported).
Speeding, raging, near the Cornwell Heights Park und Ride, I caught up to, then roared past, the very 426 R5 I had yearned for only a short time earlier.
Gleeful, one last ghastly thought occurred: Perhaps Suburban Station isn't meant to be a paean to the tired teeming hordes who brave in & out of the city every day. Maybe it's just an advertisement - product placement - for that hideous monster, gas guzzling, stink-belching iconic GM SUV of similar name.
Without warning, a headlight in my Honda passed - sans moonlight, wildly diverged from the path of SEPTA, I could barely make out the road I was traveling on. read more