Taking the SkyTrain. A little bit cozy, a little bit smelly, a lot faster than driving.

Every morning, Monday to Friday, I spring up the escalator (really, I do!) past the heavy-eyed elevator-standers leaning on the right-hand rail, and past the transit worker trying his best to look authoritative. I may step in some gum, I may step in some vomit, I may even side-step around someone drunkenly weaving across the platform. But I will invariably take my spot beside the garbage can to await my chariot.

It's occasionally gleaming, usually white, and politely speeds me along to my destination with my fellow charioteers. Those charioteers, for the most part, are a quiet bunch. They blink sleepily, fiddle with their phones, and listen to their MP3 players. Of course, there's always the occasional irritant among them: the guy talking loudly into his phone, the girl with the music blaring out of her headphones. But these people only serve to highlight the genteel nature of the rest.

Aboard the train, I read my book, nestled into my seat and my neighbour. Said neighbour and I ignore each other in equal measure. Occasionally, said neighbour smells like pancakes and syrup, but most days he or she either doesn't smell at all, or has coffee breath.

I H.A.T.E. hate coffee breath. It's almost as bad as wine breath. And when I smell it, I wanna jump off the train and into my climate-controlled, breath-stench-free car. But I don't.

Instead, I stand up and move to another part of the train. I try to take a seat beside someone who looks alert, like me (oddly, the coffee-drinkers are usually the ones slumped over, sleeping with their mouths open. This appears to aid in the spread of the coffee-breath stink). I do this because I remember what my commute would be like in a car. For one, I wouldn't be zipping through East Van already. I'd probably be fighting to get on the highway in Burnaby somewhere. Some jerk would be giving me the finger. Commercials would be blaring in my ears from the radio (except when it's the traffic announcer announcing an accident 2 cars ahead of me). My car would be circulating the exhaust from the junker truck in front of me. And I would probably be fifteen minutes late for work already.

So, I sit beside perky passenger number two, and find my place in my book. In five more minutes, I'm getting off and springing up the escalator to walk the three blocks to my office. Any vestiges of bad breath-scent are washed away by the breeze off False Creek. I may have to use my umbrella, I may not. But I sure as hell don't have to find a parking spot.