Unless you live in a major metro area, it’s hard to understand the love-hate relationship a straphanger has with the underground rail systems. Most mornings, I board the NRQ trains headed in either direction depending on my schedule. And every morning, there is some odd occurrence that has me wishing I’d never boarded: a homeless man with odorous feet only inches from my seat, the little girl who’s nursing what appears to be the bubonic plague, and – most dreaded of all – the frequent and far-too-loud mariachi bands that seem to appear from thin air.
I roll my eyes and make an audible scoff but when I’ve arrived at my stop and climb my way back to reality, I sort of miss the amusement of being a part of an underground moving circus. Like an endless cycle, I’m at it again.