Ever since Dana is bearing our precious baby, I stopped taking the bus. Instead, I drive my family (Dana and the child) to work and then hop on the train. One thing I miss from taking the bus is seeing my commute friend, an African-American woman who gets up every morning and goes to work to put her granddaughter through college. In compensate, I get to hold my lady’s hand for half an hour even though the rock on her hand is a bit bothersome every time its sharpness stabs my palm.
As usual, I picked up the Express and played some music on my headphone for my Metro ride. The Express today is filled with Obama’s victory celebration and Proposition 8 controversies; therefore, I folded the paper and look out the window. The view was gorgeous. The sky was cloudy. The trees had turned yellow and orange. The strong wind knocked off the autumn leaves. The water was clear and calm. On my headphone, Quynh Lan gave a heart-rending rendition of “Cho Nguoi Toi Yeu” accompanied by Nguyen Anh 9’s bittersweet high keys. The entire scene lasted about a minute before the trained moved into the dark tunnel. I was devastated and quickly pulled out a pad and pen to recapture the moment.
As I was writing down the details, I didn’t remember the water in my regular commute. I looked up and realized that I had taken the wrong line. My little dreamy morning had ended when I had to take the malodorous train to Foggy Bottom.