My husband and I talk a lot about “community.” That’s part of the reason that we moved out of New York City, after all. But as time wore on, it became a way to justify our incredible weekday journey into the city. Once I’d finally admitted to myself how long it really was door-to-door—just under two hours—I decided to wear it as a badge of honor, a testimony to the commitment I’d made to having a lawn to neglect, flower beds, a car, assorted wildlife, neighbors who waved—and sometimes asked for money, property taxes and, yes, our community.
“We love the community,” we’d say. “When our newborn boy was in the hospital, people brought food, called, offered help.”
“We want our son to grow up in a loving, caring community.”
“My husband grew up there, so it’s familiar. Many of his friends’ families or parents’ friends still live in town.”
“We love our church community. It’s so welcoming, so tuned in to everyday living.”
All of this is true. But there’s another, larger truth: We don’t spend enough time in said community for the commute to make any sense at all. Every weekday has become a race to and from the train; after work there’s time for dinner, halfhearted cleaning and an exhausting, ineffective bedtime ritual with our toddler, during which I usually fall asleep before he does. If we make it through all of these intact, we retreat to our solitary pursuits: My husband sinks into the couch for ESPN; I settle down in front of the computer, open junk mail or simply space out. In this way, Monday blurs into Tuesday, then Wednesday, Thursday and Friday: Sleep, shower, repeat.
Where is the community in all this, you ask? Some do the commute like us. But others work in the area or not at all. I’ve noticed there is a lot to do in the middle of a weekday: Mom’s meetings, afternoon teas and other gatherings.
Consider my more constant community: pale-faced, zombie-like commuters vying for a handful of comfortable seats on Metro North, as far away from the bathrooms as possible. Suits bent over their Blackberries, iPhones, laptops. Then, if you miss the early express trains, you ride in with museum- going or Broadway-bound folks who, oblivious to the unspoken rules, engage in animated discussions about their neighbors, kids, play dates.
Even the seasoned commuter has lapses: The slack-jawed sleeper whose head keeps dropping on his seatmate’s shoulder. The coughing, sneezing nose-blower sharing germs with her co-commuters. The stinky-food-eating seatmate.
(Part 2 will be published on Monday, have a great weekend. Ed)
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