Morning Commutes

There is something about morning commutes that make me feel alive. I don't know why, but they do. I have fond memories of morning commutes. Most people dread them, hate them, move closer to their work so that the time is shorter, etc. But they make me happy.

When I was in college and still living in the dorms, I would walk into the bathroom and my friend would be sighing with happy sighs that the day had begun. The walk to the cafeteria was quiet, not everyone was awake, the breakfast bland, but the company enjoyable. I filled up my cup with ice, to chew in class to stay awake, before I would join in the throngs of students sleepily moving towards their classrooms. Professors somehow were always more awake. At least, the ones that taught early classes.

When I lived in Kenya, the feet that traveled the dirt paths alongside the roads of Nairobi, the cars honking, the smell of exhausted filling your nostrils, ultimately making them black, kept me alive. I was so exhausted that I just followed my friend's feet in front of me, one after the other in the cold air. The smell of burning garbage, smoking maize, and dust filled the air. Exhausted, happy, worried, and filled with life that I was part of the morning commute.

When I worked in Minnesota, I would commute with my dad. He would drive in, and I would drive out. Pitch black, with only the headlights to light the way, we would enter the lineup of cars wanting to enter the freeway. By the time we were onto our second highway, I was nodding off, trusting that my dad would get us where we needed to be. But on our way home. Our way home I drove, and we chatted about our days. He would be exhausted, but I would be full of life. Even sitting behind cars of people, I felt content. Part of society.

When I moved to Boston, I walked to "work" aka school. A morning rush and fight over the one single bathroom I shared with my roommates. The making of coffee, splitting the pot with my friend. Feeling like I was a duck, following my friends up the hill to the university. One step, two steps, three steps more. The song, "we are following the leader, the leader" played in my head a lot. I felt alive in the morning, with cool crisp air that filled my lungs. Happy.

When I moved to DC I took the train. I felt empowered. I would park my car in a pre-paid spot, happy that I had scored such a deal. I would walk the few blocks to the train station and swipe my smart pass through the gate, grabbing a newspaper along the way. I would stand on the right side of the escalator for those who were incredibly rushed could run by. I knew where to stand on the track so that the door would open exactly in front of me, allowing me to get the choice seat. I sat and read the paper, listened to music, and people watched. I transfered trains smoothly, knew where to throw my paper into the recycle at the end of my ride. I got mad at tourists, even angrier at the transit committee for trains breaking down, and would compare horror stories with my coworkers about the metro. Buy I was part of the daily commute of people who worked for powerful people. The people who made decisions about the country and the world.

When I lived in Uganda, the sounds I heard as I woke up were what made me feel part of the commute. School kids walking by, talking and gossiping. Boda Boda drivers revving their engines. The sounds of my landlady greeting the staff, jumping her car, running to her next destination. The lorries honking their horns as they narrowly missed the neighborhood goat. The beginning of a new day.

This morning, I was up and out of the house. I spent the morning at a tea shop and got a glimpse of the morning commute. Regulars coming in and ordering their drinks, mothers having tea dates to catch up, school kids running in with their mom's money to buy her a cup of tea. The rhythm of morning life. It gives me joy.

Morning commutes are good. It shows life, the economy, culture, and customs. It makes me feel apart of something.