Snow turns to rain before it even hits the pavement. I stride across the plaza, over paving stones wet and glossy, and my eyes can’t focus properly on the reflected buildings that appear beneath my feet. I want to avoid other pedestrians, so I slip through the passageway between the cathedral and the back of the Mitre Hotel. A couple are taking photographs ahead of me in the rain, dressed as though they are going up a mountain. His camera looks old, with some kind of bellows body, but I might be imagining it. I try to walk quickly, so much so that I feel I am going backwards. Inside the station, I wait to buy my ticket from a window in the dark wooden façade of the old ticket office. Only one window is open at first, but then another one opens up and the man ahead of me in line tries to jump the queue. He is thwarted, though, by the girl who is next in line and beats him to the window. She needs to buy a rail pass. It takes long enough for me to buy my ticket and be gone before he is even served.