An Ode to the Morning Commute
There’s a strange intimacy in being surrounded by others just as absorbed in their own goings-on. Yet sitting shoulder to shoulder there couldn't be more distance.
I never gave much thought to my morning commute until I stopped having one. In the scaffold of routines, my daily train ride downtown had become automatic then ambient in its motions. That is, until the coronavirus pandemic blurred the lines between home and office and just as suddenly, the motions were all I had left to remember.
The train is a fluorescent hum of kitchen table, bed, office, and shared personal space. Each morning I find myself in different company. Each rail car a mystery in motion. When the doors hiss open I make a beeline for my favourite nook. In this early bird spot, I lean contentedly for the next half hour, cornered by the plexiglass divider advertising cheap phone plans and the windows of the opposite sliding doors, which offers the widest view of the outside world hurtling past.
Inside is a soundscape of tin foil peeled back from a bagel, tinny bass escaping from a stray earbud, and loud silence peppered with quiet conversation as passengers cling onto a few more minutes of sleep.
More often than not, the train is already packed and a hesitant opening is made for newcomers to shuffle into the aisles. A metal frame runs up from the seatbacks and along the ceiling, dangling tacky rubber handles for passengers to hold onto. We lean and sway in unchoreographed unison as the train lurches forward and around bends. In my landlocked city, sometimes I imagine this is what surfing must feel like.
There’s a strange intimacy in being surrounded by others just as absorbed in their own goings-on. Yet, sitting shoulder to shoulder, there couldn’t be more distance. We’ve grown skilled at pretending not to see each other that it becomes effortless to feign interest in the wall or earnestly read the emergency exit instructions. When the occasion to connect with another person presents itself, we choose instead to turn to a decal or device. But at least there is the possibility of choosing. In this current state of lockdown, I miss seeing the people I’ll never meet.
By now I have the stops memorized. Bordered by a stone wall, Belgravia Station is where the residential streets are canopied by treetops, casting lacework shadows on homes and sidewalks. I recognize the subtleties of University Station that have greeted me in various states of time and day over the past years. Relieved to no longer be among the wave of students going up the labyrinth of escalators to ground level.
Within seconds, concrete gives way to foliage, and the tracks narrow to reveal the North Saskatchewan River shifting from murky brown to green several feet below. Come January, shards of ice are strewn across the river, as if an interloper had darted across at night, disturbing the frozen surface.
The train continues forward, oblivious to the internal shift that has taken place. Emerging from the tunnel, the morning sun arrives before we have and waits impatiently. A streak of sunlight flits between the seats before catching itself on the edge of the window latch, spilling into the train. For a brief moment, everyone pauses and looks out the closest window, quietly taking in the scene. The preview of the downtown skyline nestled in the trees. Early morning joggers alongside cars on the roads below. And then it is over. Another dark tunnel.
For some people, a commute is the only time they have to spend with themselves. I can see why. As the city plays out through the windows like a film reel fast forwarded and the tracks seem to guide the train as much as the train pulls the tracks, this commute carves out a transitory space between departure and arrival. For now, regardless of when we got on, where we’re headed, or how long we’re stalled by the construction up ahead, all we have in common is this commute.
Until the New Year,
Christina