My commute to work takes an hour and twenty minutes, one way. Downhill walk, a train ride, a bus ride, and finally, a short walk into the campus. Crazy, I know. But I don’t hate it, which is even crazier.
Surely, I have better things to do rather than stand in a crowded train, sit in a slow-moving bus. But I like the solitariness it offers. It’s my time to read. My time to ruminate. Work out a story idea. Figure out what to make for supper. Fix my posture, file my nails. Commute is for people of modest means but it’s also a luxury. A person staring into space cannot be accused of being useless if she’s heading to work.
Maybe because I had tougher commutes, particularly in my college years. Back home, I lived in Valenzuela and was journeying, come hell or high water, to and from UST. This four-year period ingrained the forbearance, along with the Manilan habit of coiling the straps of my handbag around my wrists before dozing off. Years later, I still have the deepest naps during my commutes. It’s always a source of fascination, how I can’t get a wink during flights that take hours but could easily drift off during a 30-minute bus ride, neck bent at an awkward angle. When I resurface it takes a second or two to figure out where I’m headed.
The responsible adult in me nags about driving practice. Not having a car used to be an excuse, but it’s gotten feeble in this era of car-sharing. I’ve not operated a vehicle since moving out. My driving skill is sufficient in an event of, say, a zombie apocalypse, but it would not do for day-to-day traffic.
Driving your own wheels is freedom. At the moment though, I cherish the freedom of getting to places with my head in the clouds.