Dear Fellow Commuters
It’s 7 am, my eyes pop open to the sharp, grating tone of my alarm. I’m groggy, it’s cold outside, and I could use another hour of sleep.
And looming over me is the fact that once I step out my front door, I will spend the next hour and a half riding on a train or bus plus a subway to my office in New York City.
That’s three hours each day, 30 hours each week spent in transit. My traverse over (or rather under) the Hudson River each day from my home in New Jersey is always an adventure.
If it’s not a delay, it’s the two women sitting across from me bragging a bit too loudly about little Timmy, or a sudden downpour that I wasn’t prepared for or worse, a missed connection. And no, I’m not talking about a cute story of start-crossed lovers. I’m talking about the 10 minutes or so I have to make my connecting train at Secaucus Junction, taking me into that last and final stop, New York Penn Station.
Each morning I find the same thoughts going through my mind. I’m creating absurd backstories for the well-dressed men and women sitting around me or staring out at the swampy meadowlands trying to find the “beauty” in all of it. I gaze at the commuting veterans armed with their newspapers and magazines. Their every last hair is perfectly in place.
On a good day, I’ll read through a few pages of my Ruth Bader Ginsberg memoir. On a bad day, I’ll waste those coveted Spotify skips far too early in my commute. (I’ll know I’ve made it big when a premium account no longer feels like a luxury)
But the real fun doesn’t happen until I’m off the train running like a madman, backpack flopping behind me, sweat dripping down my back, trying to catch a subway and get into the office at a respectable hour.
I’m 100% going to hell for accidentally bumping into the elderly. On more than one occasion, I’ve almost knocked a frail woman down to the ground. I’m really struggling to find a balance between “in a rush” and straight up “rude.”
If the commute to work is like an annual dental cleaning then the commute home is like a tooth extraction. I couldn’t think of a better way to end a stressful day than walking through a grungy subway station amongst hoards of tired, irritated people. Anyone who has ever traveled into the city via The Port Authority Bus Terminal will know about that horrid avenue-long underground tunnel, where passing gas is sure to create more of a breeze than an actual gust of fresh air ever could.
It’s in this very corridor that single suitcase, rolling briefcase or idle canvasser become major roadblocks.
You’ve reached the Holy Grail when you find individuals over 6 feet tall smoothly weaving in and out of the crowd. When you see a towering head moving quickly, you better do your damn best to follow it. It is the light that will lead you home.
For such a god-forsaken place, Port Authority is oddly abuzz with spirituality. There’s the devoted group of Hare Krishna chanting just outside the 1,2, 3 subway line. And there are the Christian missionaries preaching the holy word to passersby, an audience largely indifferent to anything going on around them.
God works in a funny way, wouldn’t ya say?
While the wifi at Port Authority, Penn and any subway station is spotty, the homeless man at Gate 224 is a sure bet. The cracked skin on his feet, his unsteady sway and blearily eyes leave a mark on my conscience each evening as I pass by.
Perhaps tomorrow, the very least I could do is nod hello and acknowledge that despite my miserable hour and a half commute, I am fortunate to have a place I call home.
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