Union Station

Built in a grander age and not much cared for since, Union Station is a vast hall of iron and soot-streaked glass. Pigeons roost in the girders high overhead, and the great arched roof catches every echo, so that announcements, footsteps and the shriek of brakes all blur together into one endless roar. Travellers hurry in every direction, dragging cases and children, while porters weave between them with practised indifference.

A departures board clacks and rattles above the ticket windows, listing trains out to the country towns and back again. Wide steps lead up to the street and on toward Midtown, while a side door by the left-luggage office opens onto the clamour of the Harbour Market.