Somewhere between the Western Avenue stop and the Rockwell station, the el, the Brown Line, descends from its second story circuit to run on street level. If I am riding the train at the time, I’ll pull my attention away from the youth market targeted advertisements that coat the metal walls (and recently, the ceilings, too) and look out the window. I like to watch the changing angle of the train’s forward progress against the indisputably grid patterned brick buildings along the route and see if I can detect the exact point where we start our descent to street level.

If I am walking anywhere near the train, I will feel compelled to stop whatever I am doing and watch as it pulls into a nearby station, release some passengers and take on others, then close its doors, build up speed and pull away. I guess you could say I am a train spotter. And who doesn’t like trains?

Maybe the concept of trains, as a means of transportation, is excruciatingly old school for some people. Even bullet trains are slow and dense when compared to planes, awkwardly communal when most everything in our society celebrates extreme personalization. Yes, trains make stops that have nothing to do with your destination. But I still think they’re sort of magical, and I don’t think I’m alone in my fascination.

I can hear the el train approaching within about four blocks of the Francisco station, the closest one to my home. Not a deafening roar but an insistent rumble nonetheless. After pulling away from any station, an electronic signal must set off protective alarms at the next intersection the train will pass through. Cars will line up before the wooden crossing arms, sidewalk pedestrians too, and wait until the train has passed and the gates are raised.

If John is with me, he’ll say something like, “Oh look, a choo-choo.” I’ll often look at the faces of passengers on passing trains and make up stories about them. Or, I’ll observe commuters after train doors slide open, filling platforms, pushing their way through turnstiles, and tumbling onto the street. I’ll almost always consider if a rider is going “to” a place or coming home “from” some place. Then I’ll laugh at myself, at the silliness and innocence of this reflex. I think trains make most of us think like children, which, of course, is pretty cool.

But as I listen to the ding-ding-ding warning that sounds when the red lights start blinking and the crossing gates come down, I’ll contemplate another aspect of train spotting.

When train alarms are set in motion, people stop what they’re doing. To a large extent we’ve been conditioned to for safety reasons. But the sounds and sights of a train demand attention simply because they’re loud and bright. They cry out for a front and center position in your consciousness – for a short time. This is part of their power and delight. From the time the gates go down until traffic is flowing again, that train becomes the most important thing in the world, the only thing in the world. It’s so obviously what’s in front of you. It’s a simple distraction that calls you into the present moment. Then, like a thought passing though your awareness, the train goes somewhere else. As a distraction, it only occupies space in your mind for a brief period before allowing you to return to your last preoccupation, or jars you into choosing something else to think about.

People are always looking for distractions, for short vacations, from their habitual thoughts. And opportunities to watch eight-car commuter trains pull in and pull out of neighborhood stops are plentiful, rich in fantasy possibilities, and free – and that’s no small thing.