It’s what forces us out of bed an hour earlier than we wanted. It’s what makes us obsessively check for Service Alerts like MTA fanboys. It stands between us and the deep exhale, shoes off, bags down, feel good sensation of being home. The NYC commute.

Many commute alone. Among the nearly one million others around them each day, most commuters travel in isolation. Each moves through the steps of their journey within an invisible, self-made capsule — one that they hope is impenetrable enough that day.

Within this protective, self-imposed bubble lies the opportunity to rest. To learn. To eat. To dream. To pray.

In a world where even the word “commuting” sucks the joy out of a room, is there a place for us to embrace it? Or at the very least, remember it fondly?