The Kindness of Strangers

During the last few months I've gotten to know a man named Pat, who is blind. I met him on the Metro. Our schedules are similar; we get on at the same stop and get off two stops apart. More to the point, we both change trains at Metro Center. This is no big deal for me, but quite a big deal for Pat, who must navigate the walk along the narrow platform, find and ascend the escalator (if it's working), then get to the right spot on the platform to catch the Red Line train to his final destination.

While he can do this on his own with a cane, it's much easier if someone helps him. And often someone does. More than most of us, Pat is dependent on the kindness of strangers. "I've met some wonderful people," he told me this morning. "And some who aren't so nice."

Perhaps because he can't see, he's closely attuned to sounds. "Twenty years ago people used to talk on Metro," he said. "They laughed and told stories and exchanged business cards. Now it's quiet." We talked about the reasons for this: Blackberries and iPhones, iPods and laptops.

The lack of chatter makes it harder for Pat to know where he's going, but the lack of camaraderie isn't good for any of us. It's a still and stilted world we travel in — and I'm as much to blame as anyone, my nose in a book or my journal. But sometimes, when I'm lucky, I run into Pat. When I ride with him and we chat, the Metro seems a warmer, friendlier place.

Don't we all depend on the kindness of strangers?