I'm at King's Cross early on a cold fall morning. When I left the house to catch the tube, it was still dark. Now, standing on the near end of the platform, I can see dawn peek into the great hall of the station, letting the first light of the day slip underneath the arch at the far end.
People around me have largely failed to make the transition from night to day. They sleep standing, motionless hands locked to coffee cups that slowly dissipate their warmth. White earplugs disconnect dormant brains from the outside world in momentary autarky.
Suddenly, as if a switch were flicked, a ripple goes through the human pegs that stud the station floor. Heads turn, bodies are shaken awake. Approaching lights outshine the rising sun, and soon a dark blue train comes to a halt on platform 1. Door open silently but to tumultuous effect. Hundreds of commuters spill from their confines and bounce energetically towards the exit or down to the tube station. This train was packed.
Thousands migrate into London in the morning and back at night, spending an hour or more each way packed like sardines in a can in return for affordable homes and the clean air of the countryside. In the opposite direction, traffic is much lighter. There is not much reason to leave London during the day, and there are not many people around me eager to get on the train that I'm about to board.
I'm going to Cambridge for a day of seminars, a software workshop with most of the developers present, an opportunity to meet people I know only from mailing lists and ask them questions that have been bugging me in my work. Soon after settling into a seat and getting some papers out to wake up my brain, I see the station move and then the northern towns of London. Emirates Stadium, home of Arsenal, flies by and then Alexandra Palace. Beyond that, the land is flat and featureless.
The talks are good, though too numerous. Sandwiches at lunch and coffee and cookies during the breaks keep me going, but when all is over, I'm glad it's over. A bus takes me from the university to the town center where I meet a friend for dinner. I've been to Cambridge only once before, and my memory is sketchy.
While I find my way around and arrive at the right place at the right time, I'm shocked at how dark and quiet this town is, looking deserted at 6:30. All stores are closed, even the big chains, and so are the coffee shops. It seems as if someone had turned the street lights down. The few people in the streets hurry by as if they were aware they shouldn't be out at this time. Restaurants and pubs are open and plentiful, but only some afford a glimpse of what Cambridge is famous for – vibrant student life. To repeat it, I am shocked.
After dinner, my friend takes me back to the station where my train has just arrived from London. Much like twelve hours earlier, it spills thousands of commuters onto the narrow platform. Some jostle for position in the race for the bus while others, clearly at the end of a long day, float passively like corks in the stream of people. Once the crowd has cleared, I get on the train that will take me back home. I don't know about the others that sparsely populate the navy-blue seats, but I'm happy that I call London home.
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