Becky Casey rises early on Mondays to get to the office. She has to. Her commute — one she makes nearly every week — is more than 700 miles.
Andy Manis, for USA TODAY Keith and Stacey Symonds greet each other on Stacey's arrival at their Madison, Wis., home after her commute from Chicago.
Casey leaves her home in the Chicago suburb of Glenview at 4:30 a.m. CT for a 6 a.m. flight out of O'Hare. At 9 a.m. ET, the plane touches down at New York's LaGuardia. Most weeks, this is her commuting life.
We read these stories with sympathy, sometimes even admiration. Surely, no currently employed person dare judge. Just as surely, a few of those who do it don't mind it. But why is it a slice of American life, while taking a half-hour to sit down in a sidewalk cafe to enjoy a coffee and dessert--especially when alone--considered unusual or odd? Why do all the people outside at Bayshore Town Center or Alterra's lakefront location speak a language other than English? I bristle at a three-hour "commute" to visit my girlfriend in Madison each weekend, but I should consider myself one of the lucky few. In my opinion, we should read these stories and feel the noose being tightened around our necks as a society.
