Reading on the T

Once or twice a year when I was in college in Boston, I would decide that I wanted to disappear for the day. Always on a Sunday, always in the winter, usually after a bit of dreary weather. I would decide the night before, and wake up earlier than usual for a Sunday, say 9 or 9:30. I always wore the same thing, a pair of worn out jeans with lots of holes and a dark grey form-fitting turtle neck sweater from J.Crew, fuzzy socks in comfy shoes, hair down or in a braid, no makeup, cute hat if I was feeling trendy, no gloves, coat only if the wind chill dictated that it would be foolish to go without one. I didn't have glasses at the time, but if I did I would have worn those, too. In this outfit I thought that I looked cute and comfortable, smart and Bostonian. I would pack my wallet, my journal, a pen and a novel of medium length that I had been meaning to read but hadn't really started, then grab breakfast, head for the BC stop at the end of the Green Line, and get on the train.



On these days there was no set plan, no errands, no real mission except to get away from everyone, enjoy Boston, and read whatever book I had brought along in its entirety. I would ride the T for hours, getting off and switching lines and directions whenever the mood struck me or I knew that I was going to have to pay more if I went any further, getting coffee at the in-station Dunkin' Donuts in the Government Center Station and reading my book. I would get off sometime in the early afternoon when I got hungry and grab food. I remember eating at a bagel place near Park Street, pizza in Harvard Square, at the little cafe in Trident on Newbury. Then I would spend some time in a nearby location that was unbothered by someone who wanted to just sit and read: a coffee shop, the Harvard bookstore, the Barnes & Noble in Brighton, the BPL. When I needed a break from the book I would people-watch or window-shop, just walk around or write in the journal. When I deemed myself near enough to the book's end, I would get back on the train and head to BC, always taking the B line, and always finishing the book at some point on the way back.



All the times that I did this, I think it was 6, I never once ran into anyone I knew. During the whole day, I would hardly talk to anyone, mostly just the people I ordered coffee from, bums asking for money, tourists asking what stop they should get off at for Harvard Square or Boston Common. Nothing that would qualify as a real conversation, say a couple hundred words all day long at the very most. Once I had a cell phone, I suppose that I brought it with me, but it was off or on silent. I spent those days, surrounded by people sure, but really, alone with my book.



This is simply not possible in Cincinnati. For one, obviously, there is no T, no train of any sort, and also, not really much of the same friendly downtown walk around areas, but that is not really the problem. The problem is that the fine people of the mid west are friendly. These people, whether they know you or not, see being in the same place at the same time as the ONLY prerequisite for conversation. They all want to chat.



In the past two weeks, I have not once managed to wait for a bus without a conversation, without learning at least some part of the life story of someone else waiting. I have met a graduate student from Sri Lanka who told me about the parts of America he wanted to visit and asked me to explain how Connecticut was different than Ohio, a pink-hatted woman from India who told me that global warming is making New Delhi both warmer in the summer and colder in the winter, and that homeless people there are freezing to death, a fourth year medical student infuriated with the irregularity of the shuttle, a man who complained that since Cincinnati was a smaller city there were no clubs open long enough to be worth going to when he got off work at midnight, and a woman taking her four year old son (in superhero pajamas just like the ones my brother used to wear) to the doctor to get his strep throat taken care of.



These people are interesting, and I am not saying that I don't enjoy the conversations, but it is nearly impossible to, without being rude, pull off the surrounded by people but still alone thing. People just start conversations. It's fascinating.



Today, my cell phone missing, a productive studying day yesterday, I decided to sort of try the reading in public thing. I did have a couple of errands to run too, and once I got my car from the garage at school, I drove, but I was thinking of those Boston days when I set out. I sat for a while in the bagel shop near my apartment. One of the guys that works there came by cleaning tables and sucked me into a 5 minute conversation about what the Sox should do about Tek. Then, waiting for the bus to go to campus, another woman waiting asked when the next bus was coming, and then chatted until it arrived. The woman waiting next to me for our food at Panera wanted to know what I had ordered, if I liked it, would she like it even if she didn't like spicy food? The checkout lady at Target was pregnant and due in two weeks, the customer in front of me in line started the conversation, and soon she was asking both of us what we thought of her baby names. The clerk in the bookstore noticed what I was reading, asked if I liked it, then if I had read something else slightly related, and talked about books for 10 minutes. These things just don't happen in Boston.



Now, this is something that I like about Cincinnati for the most part, I have enjoyed these little chats and the whole series of people that I have had long talks with but know none of their names. It's charming, most of the time. It sure makes waiting for the bus go faster.



But today... today I really really missed those days alone with my book and all those people providing an interesting, but not terribly interactive background. Today I missed those jeans and that sweater, thrown away because I wore them out a little too much. Today I really, really, really wished that I could have been reading on the T.