I’m on the Blue Line heading to a remote stop just south of the airport; “as far as this train goes.” It’s noon and I’m starving. There’s a sandwich in my bag, but I hate eating on the train for a few reasons, the most important being the noxious smells of the subway cars.

I’ve seen people place a Styrofoam container of food on the seat in front of them and procede to dine, hunched over in earnest, or perhaps driven by necessity of getting food into their mouths on a jolting train tide. They tend to eat with their eyes closed. Maybe they are pretending they are somewhere else after all, an outdoor café, a loved one’s kitchen.

The second- hand smell of food coupled with those unmistakable odors we associate with subways and subway cars can be a lethal mix, and I can only assume that most of my fellow commuters agree with me. So, I silently count the stops to that distant suburb, occasionally digging into my bag for a surrepticious handful of trail mix. I tell myself that there are two kinds of people: those who will eat anywhere undaunted and those of us who cling to our dignity by adamantly refusing to chow down on the Pee Train.

Today I am taking a new bus route to Wicker Park, since I’ve only lived in this neighborhood for three months. The trains don’t run on the weekends in this part of town. It’s critical that I get to the bookstore on time because I’m participating in a reading to promote a friend’s zine, Ladyfriend.

This is where my hit- or- miss predictions of the transit system come into play; the bus ride takes only 20 minutes, even though I’ve given myself two hours to get to my destination. This sort of thing happens more often with buses than with trains. Today, at least, I’m in a part of town where there are plenty of things to divert my attention from my growing stage fright.