The day I got on the wrong train

I took the wrong train one day last week . . . on purpose. The regular homeless were particularly delusional and my train was coming late, so I hopped on a Bayhead train passing the Airport station. When I showed the conductor my Edison ticket he said “you’re on the wrong train, switch at the Airport”
I lied “I was afraid of that” and happily got off.
As I sat in the cool breeze, I thought of other less adventurous commuters waiting in the dark smokey tunnel that is Penn station, the land of crumbling concrete. I was sitting in the sun on a clean bench that must be 50 years newer than those antiques at Penn. There were a few travelers around, but no crazy people (some nuts occasionally turn up, but they are quickly booked for the next flight to California). It was so nice, and even quiet, I thought about coming to study sometime. Then a loud airplane (flaps and wheels down, ready for landing) reminded me where I was. No loss really, because I don’t study anyway; I do like watching low flying airplanes though, so I plan to go back the next time my train is late.