Green is the new black...and blue
A daily commuter takes refuge in walking to work
By Rachel Eddey
I have never had a love affair with public transportation. Save for one pleasant Greyhound trip during which a chatty dentist from Pennsylvania bought me a muffin at a rest stop (which he then told me I shouldn't eat due to its high sugar content), the rumble-tumble of whatever mode of transport I choose leaves me feeling motion sick, inappropriately touched, or both. When I moved to New York City five years ago, where the allure of a new job in environmental grantmaking one-upped my commuting concerns, I bought a case of Dramamine and hoped for the best.
For two years, on the perma-brink of tears, I nudged my way through rush-hour crowds on the six train while praying for a sliver of pole around which I could curl my hand. Countless bodies suffocated all available space, umbrellas and newspapers tucked into the crevices I, at five feet and 100 pounds, fought to overtake. I guarded any territory I managed to secure first with stares, then elbows. (I reserved pinches only for emergency situations, the commonality of which rose at an alarming rate.) Every day, the drama queen in me came home, often sporting mysterious black and blue bruises from baby carriages and laptop cases, and proclaimed, “That was the worst trip of my life!”
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