Wyoming Stations looks suspiciously like another era, Tired but reserved. A comfortable air of decay. A few weeds here and there. Easy going and a pace that's so slow there almost isn't any pace at all. The posed time table suggests a train in about ten minutes. Would-be passengers gather. A worker easily, effortlessly, lackadaisically sweeps out the station. A bell rings somewhere. At the grade crossing alongside the station the attendant comes out of his little house and brings down the gates, chatting for a moment with a passerby holding up traffic in expectation of the train. The high-strung coursers of the Orange Line see a distant ideal.

The little B & M train wheezes into the station, picks up three or four people, and heads for Boston. Early signs of construction lie along the right-of-way. Junk yards and warehouses an little further off. A solitary boxcar of the Bangor and Aroostook with a full load of potatoes peeking out an open door. The conduct appears, and collects his $.50.

"Isn't the Orange Line coming out here?" he is asked.

"Yeah, Some day."

Conductor disappears down the aisle, Distressing lack of concern for this modern marvel of a competitor.

Boston, at last, inexorably, North Station again. Follow the signs for the orange Line up a long staircase that smells of urine and down a long twisting narrow hallway that leads to as locked door. That's the old orange Line. Old Orange Line no longer in operation.

Wander down to the street, finally find the new station. Descend into the depths of Boston. Orange train arrives, uneventfully. Uneventful trip to Washington Street. Uneventful crush pouring out of Filene's Bargain Basement. But then, at last, a welcome return to the comfortable familiarity of the Red Line and Harvard Square.