Whether peppered with raindrops or sparkling through sun rays, the window seat remains unbiased. That is to say, there is no right experience to have from a window seat, and more so that once you take the seat, the seat takes you… of sorts
Through dark tunnels and villages that whizz past with just a flash of blotched vibrance; and rooftops that curve round to wish one last farewell. In the stifling traffic of far-flung destinations where shrill beeps ring loud through the tepid air. And even, perhaps, in the most uninspiring of places, such as on the sweaty mid-afternoon bus to Aldi in search of washing powder and strong gin.
My love affair with the window seat started young, perhaps aboard the quintessential English relic – the double-decker bus – with mum and brother, pretending to drive from the top front window (as is customary, in case you haven’t ever been 5 years old in England.) Then later car rides home from nan’s house on sleepy Sunday afternoons where I dozed in and out of consciousness as the sweet, soothing sounds of Heart FM fell on partly-muted ears, and lights became colourful hazes under weary young eyes.
The true renaissance of my love for the window seat came later, unsurprisingly, at a time of transition and growth. From aeroplane windows I watched home disappear below me: a slow ascent to whispy cream clouds and outspread possibility. Tanqueray and uncertainty coursing through my veins, the window was a portal to the world I had yet to know; yet to experience. And perhaps in its own way took on the entity of escape itself.
Now, as a fully-fledged woman, I am still a firm window-sitter. Although perhaps this is because I still have the luxury of solitude. No doubt one day I will dutifully take the aisle as a fresh set of tiny eyes peer out in wonder. But I like to think that mine will still peer too, from behind them, and that I won’t lose that sense of wonder that the window seat always brought. Never too old to slide idle fingers calmly across damp glass and never too adult to pull the blind.
From windows seasons, landscapes and years idled by, one click-clack of a rhythmic train track at a time. Although friends and lovers came and went, at the window seat, the company stayed true. Just a woman and her window, watching life rearrange itself in motion. Home to see loved ones, far away to exotic lands, to the seaside, and still occasionally off to Aldi for more gin, of course.
