Over the weekend I was in the Bay Area. Being full fledged tourist destinations and home to rowdy college students, San Francisco and Berkeley no doubt have their fair share of ambient background noise. While on the Berkeley campus I heard drums, glasses clinking, people cheering (it was a game day,) and also much quieter noises like wind through the eucalyptus trees, the sound of feet crunching on fresh grass and the quiet still noise of being away from the main road at night.
But there is one group of noises that is unique to the Bay Area, my favorite noises: the sounds of an operating BART train. To some, an approaching train is just another day off to work, but for me, the sounds of the train embody anticipation, delight and a slight sense of fear. Every time I visit the Bay Area, the BART is my soundtrack.
First is the sound of the ticket machine. Money for fares is sucked up in the familiar “vending machine” sound but the buttons on the screen produce a sound similar to slot machines in Las Vegas. Ding ding, $2 is subtracted from your ticket. Your change falls below, in a soft pling pling pling pling, (also very similar to winning a very small prize on a slot machine). Then you have your ticket, this paper thing that magically opens gates and gets spit back out of the machine when you’re done with it. The sound of footsteps on the hard floor is the signal to hurry up.
The sound of the approaching train is the sound of anticipation. You can hear it about 10 seconds before it enters the station. The people on the platform eagerly move closer to the edge because the train is so near. The sound is similar to a wave building up momentum and as the train gets nearer the sound grows exponentially. The soon-to-be passengers edge a little closer to the black squares where the doors will soon be. You see the lights of the train coming through the tunnel and then at the height of the noise, when you can hear nothing but the noise itself, the train rushes by and then appears before you.
The doors open with a sucking sound, like opening something that’s been vacuumed sealed for too long. You can faintly hear the footsteps of people entering and exiting the train, and the almost unheard noise of the tweed seats scratching against your clothes. The conductor says something over the loud speaker, but you can never understand him. This only heightens the experience. It allows that slight sense of the unknown to fester in the tourist-traveler, bringing an almost overwhelming sense of doubt to each stop because each time you have to ask, “Is this where I get off?”
When the train begins to move again it makes a loud hum followed by a high pitched buzz. It’s the same sound that I imagine the aero cars in the Jetson’s would make. The hum invades the seating area, muting other sounds in a deafening blur. As the train moves along the tracks, each bump is played out with its own sound. Dun dun da dun dun dun da dun. The anticipation of waiting for the train fades away as the sounds of the track become a monotonous lullaby.
The train stops, the humming decreases, the doors open with the same sucking sound, and the symphony of noises plays out once again.
