I am always amused by the looks on the faces of morning riders of the N, from Carl & Cole on in to Van Ness as the cars approach capacity. The doors open and there is a hesitant moment of calculation: how has that diet been working out? How long can I hold my breath? Is this the day I finally succumb to a claustrophobic freakout? This morning, with my face pressed against the glass and a small child wedged between my backpack and the adult next to me, I could observe people waiting at the Duboce park stop, anticipating boarding the incoming train with pained expressions, as if they had just swallowed a large flying insect, or stepped in something squishy and unsanitary.

In a strange way, that made me want to laugh, though in doing so I likely would have injured myself, as someone’s knee was already crushing my ribs.