Going up to Syracuse, New York every year is one of the most memorable memories I have from my childhood. Every time we went to Syracuse, we would go to Green Train bridge, a metal bridge which spans over a train track. At this bridge, there were ramps on both side of the bridge starting from the rocky and grainy parking lot connecting and leading up to one another that is separated from the actual tracks. The bridge is surrounded by a fence that has rust taking over. As you walk up the ramps, you get higher and higher from the ground. Then once you get to the top, the bridge goes over the whole width of the old, dirty train tracks. As time goes by, we would just wait for the big, deathly machine to go underneath the green, old bridge. As they go underneath, the wind hits you in the face with a strong force that seems like you are in the middle of a hurricane. When we went this past winter, we looked out over the snowy tracks, holding onto the old, rusty pole. When the train goes underneath you, you feel like you are invisible, because you would never think that you would be taller than this huge engine, transporter. The only thing you hear is the big, deathly wheels riding against the rails. This is where my love for trains came from.