The temperature gauge outside my house read 94 degrees, uncomfortably hot as the noon hour drew closer. It didn’t take long to figure out how I wanted to spend my day, and it would be my beachfront stomping grounds, where sunny skies and cooler temperatures existed. Within minutes, I would leave the desert behind, pack up my camera, and drive down the dusty tree-lined roads to the Upland commuter train station.

The station is in a village, where locals take pride in preserving. And on this day, several downtown streets were blocked off for their annual civic event, the Lemon Festival. I had little time to soak it all in as the train was approaching. It stopped with the traditional whistle warning, and a small handful of waiting passengers walk up to the platform. After one glance back at those enjoying the festival, I hop aboard the train en route for Los Angeles, and the ocean breeze for me would be over an hour away. Upon trying to find a seat, I noticed others had similar ideas of riding the rails to the beach or some other cool spot.

Obviously I cannot blame them. I would eventually find a upper-level window seat, and as I look at my surroundings, my eyes were attracted to two high school-aged young girls across the aisle sharing a laptop, and playing some underground rap for all the other riders in my car to hear as well. Two stops later, a college town named Claremont Village, two female students, tall and lanky, walks up the aisle and takes the seats right in front of where I’m sitting. They would sit in soft-spoken conversation and share an iPod, and my manly eyes would wander from the high school girls across the aisle, to the college ladies in front of me. These two pairs, in my eyes, come from different sides of the tracks; but today, both have the same purpose, which is to spend the day in a cooler climate.

I would enjoy having the train as the narrator, and my window seat would be the canvas, with ever-changing subjects. Along the San Gabriel Valley, single-family homes with backyard swimming pools would become junkyards with crushed cars atop one another. I knew I was approaching L.A. when I saw the numerous housing projects, the graffiti that lines the riverbeds, and the cars that are zooming by.

Los Angeles Union Station. It’s actually going through a renaissance period, but it’ll never be what it once was. Because of the volume of people it handles now, only half of the visually ornate and massive station is used. If I was to take a walk around the other half, it would be taking a walk back in time, when riding on the train was very popular. But it resembles a ghost town now due to progress. Amidst the hustle and bustle, it would be easy, though not right, to ignore its manicured trees, bushes, and lawns that made for excess use of my camera. The thick, leather chairs made of hardwood are the same as it was fifty years ago. Stepping off the train and walking into the main corridor, I see many faces occupy those seats, awaiting long-distance trains. The golden-yellow skies of Downtown jolts my enthusiasm, and it would increase as I catch the express bus the rest of the way, being oblivious to the mass of people who were on the bus, for I know the reward would supersede all else.