Churayn?

"Churayn" is phonetically, "train" according to one of my former eight year old pupils. And phonetically, he was correct. But when I read the rest of his little tale that involved a love of trains, I understood. The little boy went on to become a scientist and I am not sure if his "spelling" has improved or not, but he is, apparently, a successful, train loving, adult I am happy to say. My son, just off on a train voyage from West to East, brings me to feeling sad and nostalgic, that trains are gradually becoming as long travel, a thing of the past. We have our urban trains, be they above or below ground, and they are here to stay as their popularity grows. They increase in scope to serve as  reliable, for the most part, ways better to go to work or school or other destinations, than individual vehicles that require road space and parking. Having traveled recently on Sky Train here in the West, I can laud their convenience and yes, frequency. As to comfort, the fact that we in Canada still admire good manners and consideration, the elderly and disabled may find somewhere to sit rather than hang onto a pole while in transit. The stations are outfitted with washrooms and elevators or escalators to aid those who can't manage stairs. Urban dwellers pay big taxes and complain, but truly, they oughtn't when one thinks of the benefits we access. But getting back to the trains, the kind that run all over continents, they remind me of land-locked whales who carry on their backs hundreds of passengers long distances while allowing them food, drink and accommodation and also, go in relative safety to their destinations. There are people who don't, for one reason or another, want to go by airplane and trains make it possible for them to reach their venue. But there is more to train travel than fear of flying. There are those simply, who love trains. They see them as more than a way of getting  there. When they hear a train whistle, their hearts beat a little faster, their dreams or memories of being on a train, come into their minds; they are in love with them. Getting on a train and settling into your compartment or other paid-for place, you feel "at home".  You feel safe. This small space is yours for as long as you and the great friendly giant that is whizzing you off, are a team. You feel the creature's body swaying and taking the curves, you hear the music of its unique "song", one that you put words to. You respect the servers who greet you, who make up your bed at night and call you to meals in the dining car. The dining car. There you see a menu that is as generous as those on a luxury cruise. Your table has a white cloth, your server is a gentleperson and your china and silver are elegant right down to the creamer and sugar bowl. All, in spite of constant movement. And you are not on the Orient Express with Monsieur Poirot! Down in the lounge car, you meet others with their tales and drinks and oohs and ahhs at the views. Up in the observation car, everyone points out what they see and head turn and friends are made, however temporarily. Trains, the great whales with their human burdens, plying the oceans of great lands, may they continue, always.