Last week, in the middle of the night, a loud noise startled me awake.
For a few seconds, I laid motionless on my bed, trying to understand what had woken me up. Did my neighbors make some noise? Did I have a nightmare?
My theories were interrupted by the buzz of a horn, followed by the ring of a bell. The sound was familiar but much louder than usual. As I looked over to my open window, I realized the Metrolink train had woken me up.
After that night, I thought about the train constantly. I got the feeling that the train got louder and that it was passing through Claremont more often than before.
I knew, though, that it was a deceitful feeling: the volume of the train’s horn and its schedule probably hadn’t changed. Most likely, I had been more aware of the train out of annoyance for being harshly woken up by it.
My awareness was unexpected, as I hadn’t thought about the train since coming to Pomona last year. So I asked myself another question: Why had I stopped noticing this blaring fixture in my life?
When I first moved into my dorm in Pomona’s South Campus, my family and I were surprised by the loud horn of the train. It was at that moment that we learned about the existence of a Metrolink station a mere three blocks away from my dorm.
“It’s a good thing,” my dad told me. “You’ll be able to visit many places.”
My sister, on the other hand, seemed wary.
“It’s so loud,” she kept repeating in awe.
In the beginning, I echoed my sister’s view. When we had the heatwave back in September, I had to keep my fan on and my window open to cope with my AC-less room.
“I knew, though, that it was a deceitful feeling: the volume of the train’s horn and its schedule probably hadn’t changed. Most likely, I had been more aware of the train out of annoyance for being harshly woken up by it.“
Sitting in my unbearably hot dorm, looking out at an orange-colored sky caused by the wildfires, the amplified Metrolink horn sounded like those seven biblical trumpets that precede the apocalypse.
Gradually, as the weather got a little cooler, my sympathy towards the train began to increase. The sound became familiar and no longer seemed to surprise me; it had become a part of my routine.
“The come and go of the train lulls me,” I told my dad in a video call, surprising both of us. “Maybe it’s because repetition relaxes me … I’m not so sure.”
So, as I started to settle down in Claremont and establish a routine, the chaos of novelty seemed to stabilize and subside. Soon, the train became a part of my college life and faded into the monotony of my days.
But while last semester I was so busy just surviving the changes in my life, this semester I could finally breathe and think about the life I was living.
The extra time for reflection, however, made me hyper-aware of the perfect city I was in.
Last week, I was walking to the library, with Big Bridges on my right and Marston Quad on my left. Some people were sitting on the grass, talking, sunbathing and reading. It was a perfect sunny day in California.
But for some reason, I felt weird. When I looked up to the sky, it was completely blue and bright, not a cloud in sight. It felt … artificial.
And so did the mountains up north. Still distant yet so close, those clearly traced mountains felt like a painting. It was like I was in the “The Truman Show”: The scenery was a perfect, well-constructed bubble.
I then heard the leaves fall to the ground and rustle ever so slightly due to a breeze. When was the last time I’d heard the rustle of leaves?
My home city in Brazil is populated by more than 11.45 million people. There were people everywhere, traffic all around; noise followed me wherever I went.
This was fake. Claremont, small and gentrified, was fake. I felt detached from this strange, quiet town. At the same time, I felt trapped in it. Why was everything so perfect and peaceful? How could I get out of here?
Suddenly, I heard it. That piercing, two-toned, high and low blare; a throat singer from the depths of hell. That long horn, followed by a steady and delicate — yet nonetheless somber — “ding-ding-ding.” If a church’s bell invites you in, this one screams at you to scram.
There came the Metrolink train, running over my neurosis in its usual abrasive style. The monotony surrounding me –– which included the train –– was ironically destroyed by the train itself, similar to my abrupt awakening a few nights prior.
Never had I been so relieved to hear that awful noise. The train killed two birds with one stone: it showed me that there is, indeed, imperfection in Claremont, and it reminded me that I can escape this lovely, uncanny town.
While I’ll continue to be annoyed at the Metrolink train — especially when it wakes me up in the middle of the night — I’ll continue to find some comfort in its obnoxious presence. An eternal contradiction, it keeps me on my toes and, at the same time, relaxes me. It makes me feel grounded, yet it can take me away.
The Metrolink train can’t take me back home, but it can still show me new sceneries and perspectives. And finding a home in what’s yet to be known — what a beautiful thing that will be.
Anna Ripper Naigeborin PO ’28 is from São Paulo, Brazil. Whenever she reads a book on the Metrolink, she feels like Celine from the “Before Trilogy” about to be approached by Jesse.
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