A Walker in the Suburbs

This ought to be an issue more than it is — accepting a Metro seat, that is. The truth is, very few are offered to me.

There are many ways to look at this. On one hand, you could say that people are selfish louts who seldom look up from their phone screens. Chivalry is not only dead, it’s frowned upon.

But the fact is, people are reluctant to give up seats not only because they enjoy sitting in them, but also because they’re unsure of the etiquette. Will a “woman of a certain age” be offended if said seat is offered? Will she take it as insult or generosity? So there’s the ambiguity issue.

But beyond that, there is, I was thinking yesterday, the acceptance issue. I often refuse the few seats offered to me. “I’ve been sitting all day,” I say. Or, “I don’t have many stops to go …” (in actuality, I get off at the end of the line).

Yesterday, however, I gratefully accepted the seat. I’d been sitting all day, so I didn’t need it. But I was glad to mute the Metro experience by sticking my nose in a book. I accepted the seat the young man (and he was a young man, with a neat haircut and wireless ear buds) generously offered. And I accepted it without hesitation. Graceful acceptance: sometimes it’s pressed upon us.

(Grabbing a seat no problem in this empty train!)

My morning commute involves driving to the Metro station, riding the train seven stops, hopping off, trudging up the escalator to an express bus that takes me to Crystal City, then walking to the office. Four segments, three types of transport, but it works. It’s a routine, something I could negotiate in my sleep — and often feel like I do.

When it’s very cold or rainy, I vary this slightly, stay on the train one more stop, then switch to another train, which also goes to Crystal City, where I can walk to within a few hundred feet of my office without going outside. This is the longer option, and it lacks the escalator walk (which has become part of my fitness routine), so I seldom take it.

This morning, though, I debated, because for once I dressed for afternoon warmth and not morning chill. When the train pulled closer to my stop, I deliberated. If I just missed a bus, I would have to wait and be cold. If I stayed on I would stay warm. What should I do? I really couldn’t decide.

At the last second, I stuffed the newspaper in my bag and jumped off the train. I’ll probably just miss the bus, I thought. But no, the bus was there. I stayed warm and got to my destination, where the time I’ve saved I’m now spending on this post.

Decisions, decisions.

There are quick pecks, long hugs and brief chats. There’s that final rummaging in bags for keys or other items that must be exchanged. I see all of this and more as I wait for the Arlington (ART) 43 bus each morning on Clarendon Boulevard.

Without an official “Kiss and Ride” lane, as there are at suburban Metro stations throughout the system, commuters must make do. So, there are last-minute maneuverings, swerves to the curb, double parking in the bus lanes.

But there is always that moment when passenger and driver turn to each other for a word or an embrace before heading off into their separate days. It’s a ritual I never tire of watching, the human element of the commuting drama: kiss … and ride.

We file out in khaki and denim, in summer cottons and linens. Battalions of commuters on the march, back from our first day after long weekends and festive 4ths. Back to the artificial chill of the D.C. cubicle. Back to the train and the bus, to waiting in the swelter.

Leaving Vienna yesterday, I spot a happy Metro employee. He’s wearing short sleeves, bounces when he walks. The trashcan he pushes has wheels and makes a sound on the tile floor not unlike a train clacking on its rails. He walks against a sea of commuters.

We are the tired ones, worn out from our office jobs, from moving the mouse, from having the meeting. He looks fit and happy and ready to go.

I hear his clickety-clack as I move out of the station, into the early evening, and my car. I want to compare our lives but I have no way to do so. He is moving one way, we are moving the other. That’s the story.

At first I didn’t know what was happening to one of my main commuting routes to Metro. There were big trucks and construction crews and the beeping and honking and disruption that comes with them.

There were detours, too, new ones each week, it seemed like. One day we would all be driving on the left side of the road; the next week we’d all be driving on the right.

At some point, though, the point of this became clear. There was no repaving in the works, no new road or ramp. Instead, there was a traffic calming island — a roundabout to nowhere — being installed. This was all about slowing us down, “calming” us.

I noticed today that the little roundabout is even being landscaped. There’s a baby tree and some plantings to make us even calmer as we add a few more minutes to our lengthy commutes, as we slow down enough to navigate the thing, then immediately speed up as we pass it.

The traffic may be calmer (though I doubt it), but the drivers (at least this one) are not!

The commute as blank canvas, painting as I go. That’s what I’m after. Some days, it works. Today was one of them.