As a Jersey girl who went to college in the city, commuted from home for a year, and presently makes monthly treks to the old homestead, I’ve spent a lot of time in Penn Station.

The sloppy, too loud oldest brother of New York’s bus and train depots, Penn Station houses three hefty lines – Amtrak, NJ Transit, and the Long Island Railroad – as opposed to just the two out of sleek and pretty younger sister, Grand Central, or just buses like lazy youngest sibling Port Authority, and so as a result sometimes going to Penn Station is pure torture, especially during rush hour on a Friday or before a long weekend.

But I’ve developed a rough affection for the smelly place, taking in its changes and, more often, non-changes over the years.

In the past few years, the Departures sign, which everyone gazes up at like it’s a volcano god awaiting its next sacrifice, has been updated. The old sign was smaller and you could hear the panels flip-flip-flipping as the trains departed and the rows moved up one by one. Now it’s big and shiny and all electronic, but I kinda miss that flip-flipping sound.

One thing about Penn Station is that for some reason tracks aren’t posted till 5 or 10 minutes before departure – unlike in Grand Central where trains can sit around for up to half an hour before it’s time to leave – which means a mad rush to the track once it’s finally posted or announced, something I’ve always found extremely stressful. I can only guess it’s because there are more trains than tracks and tunnels, so that they can only come in at the last minute.

You *can* always count on the announcements though, which are usually superclear. For years – at least ever since I was in college, so we’re looking at 16 years – a woman with a lovely Irish accent has been the main announcer.

When other voices come on, I tune out, knowing they’re just calling for a red cap or a clean up or trying to locate some schmo who got separated from his party. But when Lovely Irish Brogue Lady comes on, I know a train, maybe not mine but some train, has arrived.

Another change is that there are fewer homeless people in Penn Station than there were in the early ’90s. Part of me says this is a good thing. I and people I know have been harrassed for money while waiting for our trains. Once a friend was cornered by a homeless man and yelled at for several minutes while no one did a thing; another time another friend and I witnessed some guy jerking off to the back of some lady in a fur coat. But part of me wonders where all the homeless went and if they’re all right, if still around at all.

The waiting area has also been “improved,” which means there’s now an opaque plexiglass wall enclosing it. Inside the wall the area seems to be mostly the same. I’m not sure what purpose the wall serves. To block out that unsightly Hudson News? To try and make people forget they’re waiting for their possibly delayed train and that they’re actually waiting for, say, a million dollars to be rolled out to them on a cart?

While you’re waiting you might just get hungry. Well, there are lots of places to eat, none of which has changed over the years. For example, here is Greasy Row:

You walk even near the place and you’re instantly covered in a layer of hot dog/french fry/fried chicken parts grease. But sometimes it all smells so good, you just can’t help yourself. Or maybe that’s just me.

Then there’s always Auntie Annie’s pretzels.

The smell greets you as you emerge, blinking like an NYU student after a weekend of herbology, from the train tunnel, and you know what smell I’m talking about: that buttery, sugary, cinnamon-ny smell that will make starving, low-blood sugar you engorge five of them before even getting on the subway. Again, maybe just me.

I don’t know what other improvements are under way for Penn Station. They keep saying it’s going to be moved into the old Post Office on 8th Avenue, but I haven’t heard anything lately and wondering if these plans have gone the way of the 2nd Avenue subway.

I’m sure I’d be happy if they did eventually revamp the station, but a part of me would ache for that greasy, smelly place, where you can eat an Auntie Annie’s cinnamon-sugar pretzel while watching a derelict give himself a handjob to the back of some unknowing frosty-haired, sable-coated lady on her way to the mall.