Uphill, with my eyes open

An original literary non-fiction-style account of riding a steep hillside railway during a city visit.

I agreed to take the uphill railway because walking would have required admitting how many steps there were. The little carriage waited at an angle which made the seats look improperly fitted. My companion sat beside the window. I chose the place from which I could see the handle on the opposite door, an object with no possible scenic value and considerable personal importance.

We began to climb. The platform dropped away with a neatness I considered unnecessary. Outside, a wall passed close enough for me to count the stones. I counted them. Then the wall ended, and the city opened suddenly beneath the glass: roofs laid over roofs, streets folded between them, a church tower standing at what appeared to be the wrong level for a church tower.

My companion asked whether the view was beautiful. I said that it was certainly extensive. A woman in front of us turned and smiled. She had been sitting with a shopping basket on her knees throughout this supposed expedition. At the next stop, she rose before the carriage had fully settled into silence, thanked the driver and stepped onto the platform as though arriving at a familiar cupboard.

The ordinary size of her errand did not reduce the height outside. It did, however, make my grip on the seat seem rather theatrical. I loosened one hand and looked beyond the handle. At the top, my companion asked whether I wanted to walk down. I said that we should not dismiss the practical advantages of modern transport merely because we had reached our destination.

How does the writer use language to convey anxiety humorously during the journey?