Jon22: The Website of Jonathan Dobres

Boston’s subway, known as the T, is in many ways a reflection of Boston itself. It is the oldest subway system in the country, and has its roots in a time when cities were smaller and slower than they are now. I have always found its historical eccentricities charming. The Blue Line is blue because it was the first subway to travel under a major body of water. The Red Line is red because it once terminated at Harvard Square. The more I ride the T, however, the more the shine wears off, especially now that I’ve been commuting for a year.

The T has long suffered from bad management (certain) and corruption (almost certain). The trains, particularly the trolley-based Green Line that I ride, are slow and antiquated. While stations are constantly being improved, the pace of renovation is glacial, and even some of the most heavily trafficked stations still have the look and feel of a boiler room from a textile mill. The train schedules are seemingly determined by dartboard. Let’s not forget that one time, the day after a blizzard, that I was an hour and a half late for work because the train I was riding broke down. The conductor helpfully told us to walk through the slush to Kenmore Square.

Then, of course, you have your fellow passengers. Aside from the standard urban assortment of escaped mental patients and wandering vagrants, there’s a whole class of people who have no right to board a train at rush hour. There’s the hordes of Red Sox fans who inevitably try to ride the only line, of four, that does NOT get you to Fenway Park (which presents a strong case for illiteracy, given the very clear public signs). It could just be human idiocy, though. I once saw a mother and her daughter, who was on crutches, try to pack themselves onto a train that was full even in its stairwells. There are certain times when you should just pony up for a cab, people. I believe that daughter on crutches is one of those times.

Needless to say, regular riders of the T have largely resigned themselves to an experience that is, at best, adequate. Others have a much sharper flavor of hatred for the T (and honestly, if you hate it that much, stop writing your blog and start saving for a car).

Did I mention that we also sometimes get children at rush hour? These would be small, half-grown, often uneducated humans who don’t even know the definition of malaise. In my adult life, I have inadvertantly surrounded myself with friends who begrudge anyone under the age of fifteen his right to exist. I’m less extreme, because I remember that I used to be kid, and a pretty annoying one, too.

On Tuesday afternoon, I boarded my train along with two parents and their troupe of four small, blonde haired children. None of the kids could have been older than ten. The train was nearly empty and the kids proceded to run around my area of the train with reckless abandon, displaying better coordination and balance than I will ever possess. These kids were just so thrilled to be riding the train! Gosh, we’re moving again? This railing? Whoa! And the windows? WINDOWS! Yay!

In what I can only describe as a life changing moment for me, I watched these kids wave goodbye to the people on the platform as we pulled out of each station. For me, nothing in this world could be more mundane and tiring than one’s commute, but these kids looked at it with unrestrained joy and wonder. It’s nice to be reminded that the world can look so new and exciting. So as I elbowed past a confused baseball fan to get off the creaking trolley and onto a train platform from a textile mill, I did the only rational thing a person could do. I looked at the four kids who were smiling and waving at me, their heads peeping puppet show-like out of the window, and I waved right back.