Nirvana: It's About Time

I'm a sentimental gal. Kind of like Zooey Deschanel. I save things like cards and notes and lucky pennies and seashells and... well, you get the idea.

I don't hoard, please don't be mistaken. I just save things that hold memories. Maybe this is because my memory is shit. So, saving the physical reminders of things that have happened helps me to remember the event. Or the person. Or the feeling.

Recently, my sentimentality became overwhelmingly evident because I moved. For me, moving means I have to unpack boxes I've not opened in a while just so I can repack them, eliminating what I don't want and saving what I do want. Or, I just move the box I haven't opened in a while, and then when I get to my destination, I then have to unpack the box and save/eliminate.

Point being - I went through a lot of sentimental boxes.

One in particular held a bottle of water. It's label is purple, and the water is called "Nirvana," and the line for the product is "It's About Time."

Now, I guess that it is about time for some Nirvana.Or nirvana. Or Kurt Cobain.

Anyway. This is just a minor digression - the name is funny in and of itself, but the story behind the water is why when I found that bottle in the box of sentimental stuff, it made the cut to the new apartment.

Last January, I traveled to Pennsylvania on an Amtrak train; I left from Providence and arrived at Penn Station, where I had to switch trains. Now, I am not the savviest of travelers when I'm by myself, and I get pretty nervous when I'm in New York solo. I love New York, but I'm no New Yorker.

So, when I stepped off that Amtrak train that January morning, I made a beeline for the first set of train schedule monitors that I could find - which were on a platform in front of a giant underground tunnel fan blasting hot air like a giant blow-dryer - and I stood there, leaning on my luggage and texting. My train did not leave for 45 minutes, mind you, but I was not about to traverse Penn Station. I was going to stay right there and wait until that monitor told me which platform to go to.

Idiot. 45 minutes!

Anyway, so there I stood, for about five and half seconds, and then, from around the corner, came a man in a long black trench coat with a conductor hat on. (Side note: my iPod just shuffled to Nirvana's "All Apologies." Weird.) As the man approached, I glanced up from the text I was sending - I'm pretty sure said something like, "I'm going to stand in front of these monitors..." and was to my bestie Mary-Beth - and as I glanced up, I made eye contact with Conductor Trench. He smiled. I smiled.That's what people do, right? Well, people maybe, but not New Yorkers. My cover was blown.

"Hello. How are you? What train are you waiting for?" Conductor Trench asked.
"The #43 to Lancaster," I replied.
"That doesn't leave for 45 minutes, why don't you go to the Amtrak lounge?"
"No, that's okay, I'll just wait," says the Idiot On The Platform.
"I'll show you the way," Conductor Trench beckoned.

Now, what happens next I'm not proud of. Like I said... Idiot.

Conductor Trench led me around the corner and into the tiniest elevator I've ever seen; it was just for employees, it was not a public elevator and it barely fit me, my carry-on sized luggage, and Conductor Trench. What I was thinking getting into that elevator, I don't know. (Cue my mother's lecture about following strangers circa 1989; I am age six.)

"This is the only one that goes up," Conductor Trench says, "They change them every day." (I still don't know what this means.)

The elevator ride was brief - only one floor - and when the doors opened, I breathed a sigh of relief. Conductor Trench then led me to the Amtrak lounge, where I sat down and thanked him.

"Do you need anything else?"
"No, thank you," I said sheepishly. Idiot.

Moments later, when I was engrossed in Chuck Klosterman and safely and comfortably waiting for my train not on a platform in front of a giant blow-dryer, Conductor Trench came back.

"I'm leaving you," he said, "but I wanted to tell you that your train is leaving from platform #9 - which is over there - and I brought you a water."

I think I managed to eke out a "thank you" despite my astonishment.

Penn Fucking Station. New York City. Nirvana water.

I didn't drink it, I just saved it, and will continue to do so, 'cause that's some crazy shit right there.