The Train Station

Sitting in a train station in the dark mystery of night in a foreign country, I look around me and try to soak in all that I see:

a crazy old man wandering from seat to seat, squawking loudly as he goes; multiple homeless people go from room to room, stopping to sleep for a while before being rousted from their seats by the authorities. The stench of urine reaches my nose as I watch an old, stooped woman slowly shuffle away and I realize that she has emptied her bladder on the chair beside me. People sleep all around me, holding tight to their possessions as others hurry past to reach their train.

As I look around the room of perhaps fifty people clutching cheap bags and duffles, I am almost ashamed to understand that my small, but good quality suitcase cost almost as much, if not more, than most people here make in one month. The two old ladies across from me look at my suitcase, my clothes, and my shoes and mutter about rich foreigners. I sit, quietly aware of my wealth, waiting for my train.