There's something annoying and yet comforting about a commute. You know where you're headed and there's a set path for where to head once you leave your bed in the morning. Life is a journey and a commute is just a leg of the journey that you happen to repeat over and over and over.
My first commute would probably be the school bus. It's a fairly necessary first commute fraught with dangers. Pitfalls lay at every step, from seat location, denoting social rank, to bumpy bus rides peventing the efforts of last minute homework completion. there's nothing quite like those green, vinyl seats and impossibly difficult windowns.
London is one of my fonder commuting memories. The familiar walk past the school, around the corner, and down the steep escalator of the Kilburn Park tube stop. The Bakerloo line had blue seates with a red pattern that was usually worn and faded in the middle, yet still almost bright at the edges. Each stop was marked by the recording of a crisp female voice announcing the stop and offering the helpful advice, "Mind the gap, please." The Cadbury chocolate vending machine at the Tottenham Court Road stop was always tempting. But stopping was tricky. the rush hour crowd moved you along, down the tiled halls and up the ad-lined escalators. You one allowed choice being to ride up to the top on the right or deviate and walk up on the left. Once on the street, faint, canned Queen music would be playing from the nearby "We Will Rock You" musical. And then we kept walking until we hit the door with the 99.
As far as my commute into New York, I attacked this particular path from different angles. It started as a 2 1/4 hour commute each way. Some people stood at the platform every day for many more days than i had and probably still do. It's a long trip that eats away at you. The long methodical ride takes its toll on the vaguely emotionless faces around you. They dutifully don suties and uncomfortable shoes, sitting in the same car, the same section, and possibly the same seat day after day. They read the Times on the way in and the Post on the way home. Creatures of habit. That's what you become. I didn't always quite fit in, with my backpack, comfy moccassins and pillow. I'd snatch the crossword puzzle from the discarded newspaper bin. Only on Monday and Tuesday. Even though it was illegal to remove anything from there. There was a sign forbidding it. I don't know if I completely go the hard New Yorker shell that the others on the street seemed to have. I did get a bit of the ego, just for being part of what was going on in Manhattan. The concrete itself is crawling with intensity and it's hard not to feel a little self-important for belonging there, no matter how small your part.
There are other commutes I've done, of course, but those are the two that jump to mind. And where s my commute now? Well, it's from my bed to my office down the hall. Or the couch. Or the balcony. It's wherever I decide to work. Every so often, I board an expensive train to back to the island I used to commute to daily. Now home and work sometimes blur. It's nice to have those extra hours back instead of willing them away in commute boredom. It's a new stage and a new beginning and end to every day.
have you ever gone past a bit of an old commute and become nostalgic for a past phase of your life? It brings back past states of being, former surroundings, and friends and coworkers that have slowly drifted out of contact. I don't know, I was just thinking on this and thought I'd share.
