I had resolved to go to the coin show in Baltimore on Thursday while we were staying hear in nearby DC. When I googled it to look up the opening time it was a good thing I looked at the fine print, or the trip might have been for naught. The first day of the coin show was for dealers only, so instead of going on Thursday and returning to Columbia on Friday like we thought we were going to do, we delayed our return by a day, so that I could go to the show on Friday. This proved to be providential.
I left in my parents' condo in the morning, and made it to Union Station 10-15 minutes before the train I wanted to take was to leave. I purchased a ticket to Baltimore's Penn Station at an electronic ticket kiosk. The ticket price was more than I thought it would be, and the departure time was 10 minutes off, but I was in a hurry and grabbed the ticket from the printer.
I got on the train, and after it departed the station, the attendant came through the car to collect the tickets. When he took mine he raised his eyebrows. I asked if I was on the wrong car, and he told me that my ticket was an Amtrak ticket and I was on a MARC train. "Well, you're here now," he said, and continued through the car. The discrepancies of price and departure time now explained, I shrugged my shoulders, wrote off the $8 difference, and contemplated how the two transit systems resolved such passenger errors between them.
Penn Station is about two miles from the Baltimore Conference Center, but I had a map from MSN directions, and I walked the distance, taking pictures along the way...
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At quarter till 6pm, I was extremely weary and ready to go home. I consulted the train schedule, and realized that the last train out of Baltimore to DC was leaving Camden Station at 6:10pm. Thankfully, Camden station was less than two blocks away, and not only did I purchase the correct kind of ticket, but I also got on the train. During the 70-80 minute train ride, I read my escapist summer vacation reading, contemplated my recent purchases, and wondered with small twinges of regret if the coins I had traded away were worth more than I sold them for. Somewhere along the line, the train slowed down and stopped, and a freight train whizzed by going in the opposite direction. The conductor came on the PA system and told us all that the commuter train had to wait for the freight train to pass before it could continue, I assume for safety reasons. I silently lamented the delay, because I really wanted to get back and rest, but even this happened for a reason.
I disembarked from the MARC line, and smiled to myself when the car attendant said "Have a good weekend", because I had been on vacation all week and had forgotten that it was Friday. I bought a Metro pass, and got on the escalator to go down into the subway station.
For the past few months, I have consciously and unconsciously been missing the friends that I made in College quite terribly. This may be because I never got to properly say goodbye to any of them at graduation. The last I physically heard from any of them was their shouts of approval from the audience as I was handed my diploma. The year after that, I occasionally received an e-mail from one or two of them, but those naturally petered out. Since I've been out of school, I've had a recurring dream of a reunion with the old posse about once or twice a year. Since i determined around the beginning of this year to go to my 5th Homecoming at Grove City College, the dreams have been coming more and more frequently, increasing from once a month to once or twice a week. The internal conflict made worse by my inclination to think that none of them would actually be there at homecoming, and the temptation to try the old e-mail addresses, always hesitating for fear of being disappointed by bounced e-mail messages.
So when I picked a face out of the crowd waited for the Metro train...
...my first inclination was to think that the nostalgia had become so strong that I was now hallucinating. My second feeling was that old sensation familiar to military kids the world over that my mind was force-fitting the face of a complete stranger to that of one that I knew from a memory long past. But hopefully, the last name sprang from my lips unbidden, louder than intended: "Sawka!" Some young black kids on the steps in front of me laughed at me as if they thought I was crazy, but I persisted: "Andy!" The face didn't respond, but persisted in reading his book, standing on the platform. Well, if it's not him, he'll indicate as much eventually, I thought, so walked toward him, repeatedly calling his first name. I walked right up to him and said, "Andy." The face looked up from his book and broke into a smile of recognition.
We were taking the same train for a certain stretch, so we caught up with ourselves and our mutual friends. He mentioned hanging out recently with Mike, Bobo & Lingle. Prairie Home Companion came up (which Mike and Bobo and I would listen to on Saturday nights in school), and then they were wondering what had become of me. There had been quite a few marriages since graduation, and we are all over the eastern half of the country (Kentucky, South Carolina, D.C., Philadelphia), doing all sorts of things (Selling Insurance, TV Producer, Mechanical Engineer, Ph.D. candidates). He gave me his card, and Mike's cell phone number (who also lives in D.C.), to further restore contact. We shook hands, I got off at my stop, tired but no longer weary.
