BY HURDY GURDY

 

Precisely on schedule, the train squealed and quivered to a stop at the city’s Central Station, the one referred to by locals as the “rail cathedral.”  The airy expansiveness of the grand hall, its glass roof panels allowing a glimpse of overcast skies, retained some of the stillness of a house of prayer.  In the baroque elaboration of the floor’s tilework and the grand staircase crowned by an ornate clock, it rather resembled a palace, he thought.  The other passengers from his car milled around him, not pausing to take in the sumptuousness of their surroundings.

He exited at the main doorway and walked through cold drizzle for several minutes.  The first moments in a city are essential, he thought, in grasping some awareness of its particular character. The muted quality of light suffused by the clouds, the scents of urban activity, the prominence of gardens between cast iron fencing and façades. He passed very few people and failed to reach a thoroughfare he’d expected from his map, now lodged deep in his bags.  Finally, realizing that he had not gathered his bearings as he’d departed, he returned to the station and found his way down to the information booth.

The young man behind the counter glanced up with a sardonic expression and waited for him to speak. After considering whether to use the scant phrases of the local language he’d prepared during his journey, he fell back to English.  “Direct me to Friday Market Square, please.”