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Category: commuting

In Transit

In Transit

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No matter how crummy the commute — and I’ve had some doozies — the time I spend in transit is usually always interesting.

Take today, for instance. It wasn’t one of the better trips I’ve had from home to office, but it was perfect for people watching, for noticing. It was the usual jumble of humans and locomotion that I’m convinced become embedded in me somehow and pop out in my writing or thinking.

In the parking lot, a man in a Nationals cap and a flowered shirt searched his trunk (full of bags and boxes) before walking to the station.  On the train, I sat next to a man reading a book … a book! And on the way out of the train, I heard one of my favorite buskers, an accomplished violinist, tripping through the fourth movement from Schubert’s Trout Quintet. I gave him a dollar.

Walking from the station to the office, a fellow commuter and pacesetter dropped something tiny. It wasn’t money, but he took pains to chase it down and pick it up. Was it a tiny ticket? An important phone number scribbled on a piece of napkin? No, it was a shred of wrapper from the granola bar he was nibbling (tidily, it seems) on the way to work. It was, in short, a human moment, just one of thousands that occur … in transit.

Look to the Rainbow

Look to the Rainbow

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I knew what it was before I saw it. I knew it from the jaded commuters standing slack-jawed outside the Metro station, then grabbing their phones and snapping away. I knew that on this October Tuesday, our gray day of rain was being rewarded with a rainbow. And not just any rainbow — but a complete arch that spanned all of Route 66.

The rainbow was spotted in other parts of the region, too. I have a reliable rainbow-sighting report from Reagan National Airport, though no pots of gold were found.

The longer I looked at the rainbow the more the colors revealed themselves. At one point there was even a double bow.

What heartened me most were the rainbow-spotters themselves. Not much will slow commuters from reaching home in the evening, but the rainbow was doing just that. I snapped half a dozen shots of the heavens on my way to the car … and I wasn’t the only one.

Exploring the Underground

Exploring the Underground

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The other day, on the way back from an office at the other end of my work neighborhood, I found myself once again wandering the warren of paths, shops and eateries known as the Crystal City Underground.

There are subterranean walkways in many cities — Montreal, Toronto and Chicago, to name a few — usually built for safety or warmth. In our case, mostly safety, since Crystal City has military origins.


It was about noon when I was passing through, marching directly behind a soldier in camouflage. I followed him for several minutes, thinking from his purposeful stride that he knew where he was going. By the time he peeled off into a restaurant, there were signs I could follow to find my way. 

The bustling new section I discovered has a pharmacy, a chocolate shop and a Halloween store, of all things, something I doubt it will have much longer. There were plenty of restaurants with delicious aromas. Most of all, there were people milling about, checking phones, meeting friends. It was a lively little break in the middle of a busy day — and a heartening adventure, to discover a new place so close at hand. 
Flow Commute

Flow Commute

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Yesterday I left the office at the usual time, but instead of walking to the bus stop, riding to Rosslyn, metro-ing to Vienna then poking home on often-clogged local thoroughfares, I simply strolled to the garage, paid the fee and zipped home, mostly on highways.

The total elapsed time in my typical evening commute is 80 to 90 minutes. Last night it was about half of that!

You might wonder why I don’t drive to the office every day. That would be because the main road I take requires that there be two people in the car or that I pay a toll that can run as high as $40 or $50 for the privilege of bumping along nine miles of poorly maintained pavement.

Yesterday I had a reprieve for the federal holiday, so I enjoyed a flow commute and almost an hour more leisure time when I arrived home.

The whole situation is absurd, I know … which is why I like to write it down every so often, just to remind myself.

Seek Discomfort

Seek Discomfort

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This morning I boarded the inbound Metro at the last minute, finding a full train for the second time this week. Though I often don’t get a seat on the way home from the office, I usually do get one on the way there, since I start at the end of the line.

But today, no way. So I set down my bag, pulled out my newspaper and settled in for the duration. It’s not a long ride, and I could use the standing time. Which is not to say I didn’t fantasize about someone popping up and offering me a seat. I wasn’t even sure that I would take it, but I wanted it to be offered. (Perverse, but true.)

That’s when I noticed the teenager in the yellow sweatshirt. He was sitting in one of the side-facing seats and was, like most riders, totally absorbed in his phone. His sweatshirt read “Seek Discomfort.” How ironic, I thought. Apparently, this did not extend to the discomfort of giving up his seat to a middle-aged woman.

But then, as if he read my mind, he looked up, caught my eye and smiled.  It was such a sweet smile. He must have been all of 15. “Would you like this seat?” he said.

“Oh, no,” I replied. “I’m fine. But thank you.”

He had sought discomfort. And so had I.

Farewell, Express

Farewell, Express

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Yesterday I picked up the Express newspaper offered to me by our Vienna hawker Bobbie. I don’t always get this abbreviated, tabloid giveaway version of the Washington Post. But when I don’t have the parent paper or something else to read, I pick it up. And I always take it if Bobbie offers it to me. He’s a kind soul whose feelings might be hurt if I did not.

But sometimes when I do have the parent paper and Bobbie holds out the Express, I pick it up … then gently place it on top of the trash can at the entrance to Metro. I don’t throw it away — no one has read it yet! — but I do put it up for adoption.

That’s what I did yesterday, not even glancing at the headline. Then, on the way home, I saw a copy of Express someone had left behind on the bus. “Hope you enjoy your stinking’ phones” said the headline, which caught my eye, then below, the small print: “Add Express to the list of print publications done in by mobile technology. Sadly, this is our final edition.”

As you can tell, I’m not an everyday Express reader, but I’m a common-enough one to mourn its passing. There was an irreverence about it, and it was informative, too. Now, another print publication bites the dust, 20 journalists lose their jobs, and a community culture goes away (because Express hawkers drew commuters together).

I’ll let Express have the last word here. This is from a small item on its inside front cover:

Nation Shocked! Shocked!
Traditional print news product abruptly goes out of business
In news that scandalized a nation, The Washington Post Express abruptly shut down Thursday, citing falling readership and insufficient revenue. Apparently, everyone riding the D.C. Metro now looks at their phones instead of reading print newspapers. Express editors will miss the newspaper and its readers very much. It has been a pleasure and an honor to provide commuters with this daily dose of this odd news.

Their Own Season

Their Own Season

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Late afternoons have become their own season here, as the day becomes too much for itself and collapses under the weight of its own humidity.

First there is the darkening sky. The cumulonimbus loom large and black.The wind whips up and makes eddying noises as it blows in open windows, lifting up the light curtains. Even these many years later, I remember the earliest storms, rushing out to pull clothes off the line.

The smell comes next. It’s ozone, I learn. A pungent odor shot from lightning and brought to earth by downdrafts. Then the thunder, crashing and booming.

And finally the rain itself, a relief on the hottest days, a nuisance on others. Great rolling sheets of it, sometimes more than an inch an hour. Rain that bloats streams and sends them spilling over their banks, that sends me scurrying home along alternate routes.

Because the storms arrive just as I make my trek westward, into the thick of it. And last night, back to a dark, warm house. No power for three hours. And the only sound: the loud hum of the neighbor’s generator, installed just weeks ago. How did they know?

Walking to Metro

Walking to Metro

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I hadn’t done this in a while, had forgotten how exhilarating it can be to park at the high school and walk to the Metro station.  But when I saw the open parking spot, I impulsively pulled in, covered my window with a sun shield, locked the car and took off.

The pace set my mind spinning and the rhythm of footfall turned an ordinary commute into a tiny adventure. Yes, tiny. I don’t want to over-dramatize this. But when the conditions are right, parking and walking not only saves $5, but also provides a jump-start on the day.

Like all walks, this one has segments: crossing at the corner, trudging up the hill, turning into the neighborhood, walking through the “tunnel” (which is not really a tunnel but a passageway under an overpass) and then passing alongside the garage on the way to the station and train.

There’s only one problem now: This afternoon, I’ll have to walk back.

Chaotic Sidewalks

Chaotic Sidewalks

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It’s not just road construction, which this morning changed the bus route at both ends of my commute. It’s not just the demolition of buildings in Crystal City, which makes the walk to my office a jingling, jangling, high-decibel adventure every day.

It’s the darned motorized scooters, too, which seem to be standing or lying everywhere I try to walk. On a quick lunch-break stroll, the scooters are there. On my way in every morning and home every night, they’re cluttering up the bus stop and turning the sidewalks into an obstacle course.

I know I sound like a curmudgeon, and I can appreciate the freedom they promise. But the dangers of these devices are being realized as their riders land in doctor’s offices and emergency rooms. And that’s for the people who sign up for them.

What about those of us who don’t?

Good Things Coming?

Good Things Coming?

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My punctual and reliable Arlington bus must now make a time-consuming detour to avoid construction in my work neighborhood. You can’t walk a block without hearing jack-hammers or the truck back-up sound. Amazon’s HQ2 is already making its presence known in the dusty streets, the demolition, even the scaffolding.

Having lived for five years in New York City, I consider myself a scaffolding expert. Not in the sense of knowing how to construct it, but in the sense of knowing how to walk beneath it, which used to be… gingerly.

With all due respect to Big Apple scaffolding, the Crystal City version is cleaner, sturdier — and kinder on the eyes and the feet.

In New York, I felt as if I was taking my life in my own hands to walk in a dark tunnel beneath a contraption of wood and metal. But the pedestrian walkway I take now is open and bright. It even has motivational phrases on the walls: Good Things Coming, it says.

Let’s hope.