Catching the train: Sarah Daniell Canvas editorial

Murals decorate hoardings on Fenton St Mt Eden near the new station and CRL development. Also new pedestrian foot bridges between Porters Ave and Wynyard Rd and Fenton and Ngahura St. NZ Herald Photo by Alex Burton 03 May 2023

Timing is everything and I miss it by seconds. Just as I run on to the platform at Morningside, the train slowly pulls away, heading for the city. It’s 20 minutes till the next one, so I hoof it over the railway lines and head for a cafe.

I’ve been loving the train lately. My bike is out of order. It leans against the house, languishing in a state of disrepair. I’d just had it fixed - a broken spoke - but I spoke too soon (pun intended) because another one snaps the very next day. As I hurtle along, it makes a percussive ping as wire hits the turning wheel.

The bike’s on home detention and I’m on the move, on a train.

On the station platform, I can contemplate graffiti art, check the state of my lipstick and take a selfie, read the thing on my phone that I started last night, before the ringing phone interrupted me. We talked for three hours 42 minutes. Some people, said my friend, run marathons in that time. We talked about everything but don’t ask me for specifics. That’s a record, surely, I say, when I text today.

Today the air is still, the sky’s the colour of sheet metal. An industrial blanket swathes the scene. On a concrete wall, someone’s crossed the tracks — scheduling their anarchy to the arrivals and departures — and sprayed “pork” in dolly pink.

I sit and drink my coffee and I wait. It’s the waiting game, which Tom Petty sang was the hardest part, but where or when else do I have the luxury to think, to contemplate. Waiting for a train, riding on a train, is an exercise in meditation. There are even motivational voices, announcing the next one on Platform 2 is for Britomart.

On the journey there are four stations but maybe not Parnell, says the disembodied voice on the loudspeaker. “Ongoing repair work may mean the Parnell exit is not suitable for some passengers and they should consider Newmarket, instead.” The announcer calmly builds the tension, part information, part cautionary tale, a warning fused with excitement. I want to get off at Parnell to find out just how bad it is.

I am a passenger, sang Iggy Pop. I stare out the window, my eyes flickering at each frame of the pan shot of the Otherside. You see a city as it really is on the train - not just the pretty shop-front version. You see the arse-end of buildings, rubbish bins, wire fences, more graffiti; gravel, grime and gauntlets.

The disembodied voice says we are arriving at Britomart. I love this building. I love train stations. You can arrive or leave or you can just sit and wait. You can read, you can stare at nothing and everything. You are going somewhere. Eventually.