Commute
I’d like to take a minute (or ten) to share a commuting story. So many of us commute to work on buses and trains and in our own cars. For many of us the commute is the worst part of the day. My most harrowing memories of commuting are definitely the commutes into Boston from the southern suburbs. Route 24 between Brockton and the split is the most congested piece of highway in the country, I’ll bet, and the red line into the city from the Quincy or Braintree is its own kind of nightmare.
I have had some memorable commutes, like the ride into the city of Jeddah on the school’s commuter bus from the compound by the Red Sea. I never had to drive and it was only about twenty-five minutes. Often, though, the sun would be just squeezing out the crescent moon and the off-kilter constellations, and the driver would be bantering in Amharic with my blonde blue-eyed American friend. You could smell the baking unleavened bread through the open windows and in the shadows cars driven by women in abayats looked as if they were remote controlled.
From my grand hovel in Haeundae I had a short, brisk walk to the institute in the morning. Korea is called the Land of the Morning Calm for good reason. One gets the feeling that life in Korea on a typical day starts as it should. When I reached the tangent of the hill that rounded the corner to the institute I had a great view of the hill commanding the panoramic sweep of the beach below. There was always a moment or two to stand quietly and watch the street come to life.
In Ghana there was the walk from my house in Sukum up to the bustling center of Besoro to meet the workmen and find some sustenance before beginning whichever endeavor commanded our attention that day. I will always remember the bleary eyed children wrapped in cloth with chewing sticks protruding from their mouths, staring, stunned, as if someone had just clubbed them. I know they were battling their residual exhaustion in the same way I always did when I had to wake up for school as a child. In their case, though, the exhaustion was caused by improper sleeping quarters and pestilential insects. They were juxtaposed against the older people already in full motion before the world was entirely lit.
My most beautiful commute by far was the ride from Ano’i Rd in Kaneohe to Makawao St in Kailua. I had my own car, which was an 86 Sentra wagon, three speed. I loved that car, even though it picked the most inopportune moments to express its disdain for the world of men. I learned to shift and drink blistering hot coffee at the same time, while keeping my eyes on the road for as little time as possible so I could take in as much of the view as possible. I would leave the mountainside and catch the warm tropical breeze coming off the ocean as I passed some very quaint, country looking shops. There is (or was) a piece of Kaneohe that reminded me very much of northern Vermont, and I loved buzzing through there. I would have hated the fact that I was going to work, except that I knew the best of the ride was yet to come, and I loved my job too. Kaneohe Bay is picture postcard perfect for views. I have seen it on many postcards. When I was commuting it there was almost always a three masted sailing ship docked and waiting to carry its crew back into the days when Kamehameha ruled the island. The Bay is bounded by hills on both sides. The rising sun over that beautiful scene wraps you up in it. No matter how angry or frustrated or depressed you are, you could always count on being happy for that few minutes. Then you go through Kailua which has almost no traffic coming into it; all the cars are headed for the big city and the skyscrapers there. On that last stretch down Makawao St you can see the ocean at the end at Kailua Beach Park. The final part of the commute, and maybe the best part, in my opinion is right after the pledge of allegiance when everyone has his or her head bowed in silence contemplating the prayer. You could clearly hear the soothing respiration of the waves, shared in the company of those with whom you would spend the rest of the day.
I have had some memorable commutes, like the ride into the city of Jeddah on the school’s commuter bus from the compound by the Red Sea. I never had to drive and it was only about twenty-five minutes. Often, though, the sun would be just squeezing out the crescent moon and the off-kilter constellations, and the driver would be bantering in Amharic with my blonde blue-eyed American friend. You could smell the baking unleavened bread through the open windows and in the shadows cars driven by women in abayats looked as if they were remote controlled.
From my grand hovel in Haeundae I had a short, brisk walk to the institute in the morning. Korea is called the Land of the Morning Calm for good reason. One gets the feeling that life in Korea on a typical day starts as it should. When I reached the tangent of the hill that rounded the corner to the institute I had a great view of the hill commanding the panoramic sweep of the beach below. There was always a moment or two to stand quietly and watch the street come to life.
In Ghana there was the walk from my house in Sukum up to the bustling center of Besoro to meet the workmen and find some sustenance before beginning whichever endeavor commanded our attention that day. I will always remember the bleary eyed children wrapped in cloth with chewing sticks protruding from their mouths, staring, stunned, as if someone had just clubbed them. I know they were battling their residual exhaustion in the same way I always did when I had to wake up for school as a child. In their case, though, the exhaustion was caused by improper sleeping quarters and pestilential insects. They were juxtaposed against the older people already in full motion before the world was entirely lit.
My most beautiful commute by far was the ride from Ano’i Rd in Kaneohe to Makawao St in Kailua. I had my own car, which was an 86 Sentra wagon, three speed. I loved that car, even though it picked the most inopportune moments to express its disdain for the world of men. I learned to shift and drink blistering hot coffee at the same time, while keeping my eyes on the road for as little time as possible so I could take in as much of the view as possible. I would leave the mountainside and catch the warm tropical breeze coming off the ocean as I passed some very quaint, country looking shops. There is (or was) a piece of Kaneohe that reminded me very much of northern Vermont, and I loved buzzing through there. I would have hated the fact that I was going to work, except that I knew the best of the ride was yet to come, and I loved my job too. Kaneohe Bay is picture postcard perfect for views. I have seen it on many postcards. When I was commuting it there was almost always a three masted sailing ship docked and waiting to carry its crew back into the days when Kamehameha ruled the island. The Bay is bounded by hills on both sides. The rising sun over that beautiful scene wraps you up in it. No matter how angry or frustrated or depressed you are, you could always count on being happy for that few minutes. Then you go through Kailua which has almost no traffic coming into it; all the cars are headed for the big city and the skyscrapers there. On that last stretch down Makawao St you can see the ocean at the end at Kailua Beach Park. The final part of the commute, and maybe the best part, in my opinion is right after the pledge of allegiance when everyone has his or her head bowed in silence contemplating the prayer. You could clearly hear the soothing respiration of the waves, shared in the company of those with whom you would spend the rest of the day.
posted by Traveler at 10:20 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home