Commuting

This is a great essay from the New Yorker about commuting. Having grown up in a family that suffered and benefited from long commutes I find essays on this topic and my reactions to them fascinating. It is my great fear that I will someday slip into a lifestyle that trades too much time away.

This is my hell:

The trip took eighty minutes, with no accidents or extenuating circumstances—just enough time to engender the feeling that we deserved a nap or a big greasy breakfast. He parked his car outside his office: a one-story industrial building overlooking the interstate. He had worked downtown previously and so had come into contact with other people—in the foyer, at lunch, on the way to the garage. “That’s what makes this so damn boring,” he said. “I wouldn’t have moved if I could’ve taken public transportation. I could read a book or talk to somebody.” He slipped in through a side door and into his office; it was a little like going into a motel. There was no one around to greet him or to make small talk.

But what is hellish about this scenario is not just the eighty minute commute, but also the isolation that the fellow finds at work. Ironically, perhaps, I have encountered such dismal isolation when I have spent extended periods of time "working from home."