zucchini ribbons with lemon, butter, and basil
I’ve been riding the commuter rail to work for almost a year and a half. When I talk about it, I know I’m complaining. I hate to whine, I’m afraid to whine. In a nutshell, I wake up earlier than most and make it via commuter rail and subway to work in a very roundabout way. What gets lost is the bright side of my morning commute. It’s easier to be negative. But everyday on that train is an intimate lesson in sociology that I appreciate. I’ve memorized the faces, the expressions, the voices of those I see everyday from stop, to ride, to dash. We ride together. We speak, we don’t speak. It’s a grand disguise; in that 1 ½ hour leg of our daily journey, we are nameless, jobless, lifeless, hobby-less. No one wants to be defined here. Instead, we have a special connection that eschews who we really are. We are only commuters. Age, sex, race, orientation melt away. We’re stripped bare. We are only our first impressions. And there’s something very special about that.