The Subway

Florida’s Water Table

Florida has no basements, no tunnels, and no subways.  The water table, the level at which water is present underground, makes these subterranean constructs impossible.  Most office complexes and housing developments include retaining ponds to collect the water that otherwise sits on the property.  The first time Son #1 rode the subway in Washington, DC, he found the process of moving below ground unnerving and unlike any he had experienced.  Eventually, the “bing bing” chiming of the signals as the doors opened and closed brought enough amusement to distract him.

My first solo experience without a rental car, also courtesy of the DC public transportation system, included a bus from Baltimore-Washington Airport, the Green Line into the center of the nation’s capital and then a swap onto the Blue Line under the Potomac into Arlington.  It’s not that I never used public transportation (I used to ride the city bus to and from high school), but combining air travel, shuttle buses, and multi-colored subways without any previous frame of reference seemed gutsy for a suburbanite like me.  In hindsight, the rest of the world calls my adventure “commuting.”  Florida’s water table does not garner any points with the rest of the country’s metropolis populations.

Uniforms and Anthems

So now I feel confident to bust a move in other major cities.  In Chicago Son #2 and I also use the EL to get from Midway to the Loop.  Other than the stairs being a bit of a huff and puff for us with our luggage in tow, we manage to switch through the rainbow of stations that get us across the street from our hotel.  But on each train, we notice a theme: peacoats.  As if the entire city of Chicago has a uniform; everyone wears them, with relatively few trench coats interspersed and virtually no color to be seen.  Clearly my magenta double-breasted ensemble identified me as a tourist even more than my suitcase.  And just to show my comfort level with my public transportation skills, I am less concerned with the stops and more concerned with the attire.  I am easing into this subway flow.

By the time I traverse Boston’s subway system, I ride like a pro.  Before I even get to the subway station at Logan, my fellow shuttle passenger asks for route assistance.  Of course, I don’t find it too difficult to discern that the bus to the subway is not the Blue Line, so consider the source.  Nevertheless, I find myself already on the train while he still navigates the purchase of his fare.  But the final proof of my mastery of the big-city travel comes after the Red Sox loss when thousands of loyal fans cheerfully wait for the three single-lane stalls through which each person must pass.  Singing “Sweet Caroline” in chorus and enjoying their commute as if they were still downing a brew in Fenway, I sing along because DC, Chicago, and Boston help me earn my cross-town commuter stripes.

O'Boisies

Two Northern Towns

My first trip through New England involved two distinct and contrasting views of life in autumn.  The company I joined for the weekend arrived at night so I enjoyed my first glimpse of my surroundings when I awoke.  Outside the borrowed cabin, the tranquil serenity of rural Maine tucked in the mountains standing low in the foreground masked the distance, the nearest town, the distant coast, and the rest of the world.  The same cozy exteriors of West Virginia two decades later reminded me of this scenery in Maine not too far from the Canadian border.  Every year, Rangeley triples in size when the snow melts and returns to its true size when its loyal residents brave the dark, cold winter.

Alternatively, the brief weekend ended with a return flight through Logan airport.  Unlike the peacefulness of my host town, the construction, the population, and the congestion of Boston contrasted the bucolic landscape.  In Beantown, the glass, concrete, brick, and steel structures blocked the view of the harbor scenery in the same way the Maine mountains hid the outside world.  The one quick glimpse out the car window at “Old Ironside” provided all the sightseeing afforded to me in the Massachusetts capital.  On my next voyage to Boston, I saw about the same amount of the historic city.  One of these days I’ll stay for more than a few hours.

Think Smaller

In Franklin County, Maine, the petite grocery store stocks just enough of the most essential items to provide a plethora of consumable options to a snow-bound resident’s pantry, but with just four or five aisles, the shop easily ranks just a step above big city corner market attached to a gas stations.  I purchase bread and condiments to serve as a handful of supplies to prepare breakfasts and lunchesfor the weekend. I know to keep it simple both to avoid wasteful leftovers and to stay within 

my travel budget due to more expensive wares in this more remote location.  The quaint general store offers just enough provisions for the weekend.

Having grown up in the suburbs, and having lived in a time of considerable choice, I rarely shop in bodega-sized stores, but even I know that this town of just over a thousand residents cannot provide every delicacy, brand, or selection.  So while I walk the handful of aisles in this little store in this little town, I forego my favorite peanut butter and I make do with the most simple of breakfast cereals.  And yet a woman three times my age asks the cashier at the store’s single register if the store has O’Boises potato chips – a brand limited to a brief period of time in a smaller segment of the country.  From a woman born before the Great Depression, whose family rationed its food during World War II, and who only knew a generation of excess in her later years, perhaps she should choose another brand of snack in this meager market.  Sorry, they just don’t have Super Wal-Marts in Rangeley; maybe you can pick some up in Boston.