From Issue One of Alternative Webs, releasing soon.
Atlanta
I board the train, first taking in the smells. Old Spice and weed, most likely? It could be worse. A man sits near me, a full rotisserie chicken in-hand. That throws a new smell into the mix. We start moving as a static-garbled voice belts out our final destination.
The train passes over a highway clogged with commuters returning home. I try to calculate how many cars I’m looking at – 300? 500? I wonder whether the people in them drive to work every day. How much time does that eat out of their lives? I don’t have answers, and city planners probably don’t either. They should, though.
Early 2000s hip-hop plays through my headphones as I fly above the asphalt doomscape beneath me, ruminating. All the world’s ills, sittin’ on chrome 24-inch wheels. Numerous podcasts and audiobooks undoubtedly play beneath me, the drivers trying their hardest not to crash.
As the train approaches my station, I gather my belongings, double-checking that I have everything. Phone, wallet, keys – yes, all there. The doors open and I step out as another man steps in, dragging his entire livelihood behind him in a tattered blue IKEA bag.
I watch him disappear down the aisle as I walk away.
Nanjing
Air conditioning blasts throughout the car, fighting a fierce battle against the oppressive heat and humidity outside. As the lush greenery of Xianlin disappears behind me, I arrive at my transfer station. Three minutes until the next train – I’ll need to run. I make it, slipping through the doors with seconds to spare, and take a seat. The train begins hurtling towards the beating heart of the city.
Students returning home laugh and chat. Tired workers scroll on their phones. An older man boards the train halfway through the trip – I stand up to offer my seat, but he smiles and shakes his head.
I spend an hour decompressing, listening to Amy Winehouse and the Big Little Lies soundtrack. Halfway through the journey, Spotify stutters. I check my phone – what’s going on? Ah – VPN crash. I reset it, and the music resumes.
I think of my upcoming trips to Hong Kong and Thailand. Of the long day at work I’ll have tomorrow. Of being thousands of miles away from home.
The speaker chimes: “鼓楼站，到了。”(Now arriving at Gulou Station.)
Maybe I’m not that far from home.
Istanbul
The third iteration of the adhan, Asr, has just begun. The muezzin’s voice echoes across the city, reverberating across two continents and the gray waters between them.
Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.
As the devout pray, I board a tram running through the center of the congested streets, struggling to stand amongst the throngs of people in the packed car. A group of fashionable teenagers in leather jackets and Adidas sneakers are on their way to a concert. They jostle for positions as we begin moving.
Ash-hadu anna Muhammadar-Rasulullah.
Over the heads of those around me, I watch a chilly breeze toss seagulls around the dark, late-afternoon sky. A solitary ray of sunshine breaks through, illuminating a portion of the twinkling sea beneath it.
The tram rolls forward as a man beside me mutters Turkish into his phone. The woman across from me clutches her headscarf. I stare out at the sea.
Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun begins to set. I’m disoriented – is it setting over Asia? Europe? Maybe it doesn’t matter.
The tram continues moving, as do I.
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