Every journey must end.

Or be continued  after the end of a phase.

The second leg of my journey is on a train with  no reserved seats. I place luggage on the rack and sit in adjacent seats thankful for a smooth journey thus far.

The train stops in Leeds.

Throngs of people mill onto the train in  a steady stream. On this hot day some are wearing football scarves. Others wear football shirts over their tops. The smell of bodies and sweat rises from the mostly male passengers.

Easy camaraderie between men. The brotherhood is fascinating to watch. They discuss the game.

Then just as the train conductor blows into his whistle, a family of three charge onto the coach, clutching brown bags of McDonald’s. The stench of  meat and onions  is almost nauseating in the close heat of the car and the windows barely even open. To my growing disgust, they find no place to sit and hoist their bodies onto the wide luggage rack by my belongings.

The girl unwraps her Big Mac and proceeeds to dig in. I cast cursory glances at her concerned about the pieces of onions and hamburger sauce dripping onto my luggage. To make matters worse, I worry when I see the young man not only leaning against my other bag  but also wrapping his arm around it, in a possessive manner and I think his sweaty armpits might stain it.

I struggle to refrain from offering them tissues. The young man is constantly using his t-shirt sleeve to wipe his nose. The girl licks her fingers. It is a nightmare and I wonder if I will every enjoy McDonald;s again after that onslaught.

I keep my cool and soon they find seats and run off, leaving their trash near my bags.

The East European mother of two leaves the first class coach.

The train conductor ushers in a Canadian family to sit in the seats, four and two on either side. Their children are quiet teenagers occupied with a variety of gadgets from iPods to laptops. The father is a chunky man with ruddy complexion. He sports a goatee and his delightfully rounded belly sits emphatically upon the top of his shorts. He wears a tshirt with something touristy on it.

Look! he alerts the kids: A church.

He is curious about the scenery. I can’t tell about his wife whose back is to me.

Soon we are passing strange looking structures that I believe are silos. He is curious and as a rail employee passes, he asks the young man about them. A discussion ensues in which the Canadian explains the reason for the family trip.  His father had immigrated from Britain to Canada and settled there. Now he has brought his family to see where their ancestors came from.

Another North American man traveling alone, perked up and leaned over to take a look at the Canadian family. Before him on the table, he had a ripe yellow banana. He was engrossed in reading a magazine, only interrupting his reading to order some wine and then to call his lodgings at his destination where he was confirming his arrival later that evening. He seems very organized. Even down to his sturdy walking shoes.

I look out the train window at the endless green expanses flying by and think how easy it is to misconstrue. If I had not heard the Canadian man say they were from Canada, I would have continued to think that they were American for that is the first impression that I got.

One must not misconstrue by judging too hastily.

Her hair is a deep red.

She sits cross legged on the platform, her back leaning against the metal fence, oblivious to the rest of the world, deeply engrossed in her book.

As the train moves slowly along, I  lean against my window and look to see the title of the book : Ball of Fire.

The voices of young children suddenly erupt on our uncrowded coach. One child wails repeatedly.

The children are severely censured in high pitched loud admonishments.

I lean over to see who is sitting there.

She’s pretty.

Young. Slim. Dark short hair and creamy skin. Eastern European.

With two young children: Mama! Mama!

The incessant wails drive the woman to strike out with some vigorous flailing of her arm in the direction of one child, scolding in a voice that says: I’m fed up.

Mama! Mama!  A little voice pleads.

The bespecaled railway conductor with the sandy coloured hair asks to see the mother’s ticket.

He checks it and says:

If you want to sit here, you can upgrade by paying £20. Otherwise, please move back to the standard class coach.

She protests: My luggage.

He reassures her: It will be alright here.

She makes the necessary motions to leave the first class coach but when he is gone, she returns to the same seat with children in tow.

But this is England. The train conductor returns and repeats in a stricter tone: I’m sorry. I  am going to have to ask you to move now.

Behind him are a large family waiting to occupy the seats.

The woman takes her children and sits in the area between coaches, directly in front of the tiny toilet where her son’s toy car slides in as someone exits the cubicle.