Reflections on the Metro

The population of the Metro car is sparse at eleven in the morning; people talk. The mother with her baby and young son, talking to her friend or sister or cousin sitting down. The young man and woman speaking exuberant Chinese, a language like a song. The group of students in floral dresses and Converse that my mom says look European because of their scarves. They're rapidly spewing French in the way teenagers do, only I've only ever heard it in English. It's comfortable, each of us with our companions, more like a restaurant or a museum.



But at five thirty, at L'Enfant Plaza, when people are going home from work in their button-downs and suits and briefcases and iPods and tired eyes, it's different. Holding on to the silver bar above my head, I feel like I'm standing over the woman in scrubs holding her iPhone; I'm right by the doors they say not to lean on; it's crowded. And now everyone is silent, as if by proximity others can tell what they're thinking, and it's all they can do not to reveal their personal stories to these people they probably will never see again. Their eyes stare into some unknown distance, they're back at work, they're already home. Who knows what those earbuds are saying to them? We clutch the metal bars and shift our weight like surfers on the waves of the Metro rails. It's like meditation, concentrating on the task of staying upright and reflecting on the small sample of humanity in this swiftly moving compartment.