I stepped on the train and sat down, pulled the paperback out of my coat pocket, and began to read. The shuffle of people was soon lost to me, an extraneous backdrop to the much more real events of my novel. Ah, yes, I remembered where I was, Roark had been threatened and I would turn the page to find his response. I read on. I don’t know when the young woman sat next to me, but it came to my attention that I had attracted her notice as I stretched my neck and she turned away too quickly. She had been reading over my shoulder. The fact did not bother me, but brought an amused smile to my face. I watched her eyes land on another passenger and resumed my reading.

In the days of stage coaches, travel from destination to destination was an investment. One would ride for hours or even days, often sharing the coach with a stranger or two. The duration of the trip encouraged conversation and friend-making, and benches were placed opposite each other, both for economy of space and to accommodate this social need. The practice carried over into the design of early train cars without too much thought, but it soon became apparent that with the reduced travel times and the advent of the commuting worker, the obligation to meet and greet ones traveling companions had changed from an effective way to pass time to an awkward, stressful, an unnecessary social convention.

Enter William Henry Smith.

Smith decided to sell newspapers and books to commuter travelers, providing an entertainment which excused all obligations of social interaction. He opened a store in the Euston train station which would become W H Smith, the modern day English equivalent of America’s Borders or Barnes & Noble.

Amazingly, 150 years later, the effects of the railway/book boom are still evident in the New York subway system. And while the mode of entertainment has moved towards digital alternatives like the Kindle, iPod, and Nintendo DS, the old fashioned book still holds its own. 45 minutes at a time, I’ve had more time to pleasure-read than I have at any time since the middle school read-a-thon in which I logged upwards of 100 hours over a summer. It’s amazing. At the same time, social interactions on the subways are scarce and transient. Most of the time they involve crazies, beggars, or entertainers. A genuine connection beyond these bounds is a rarity, sacred and deserving of special notice.

As the train emerged from the underground, large fat flakes of snow caught the lights outside the window and drew my head up. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I exhaled, only then realizing that I had been holding my breath. “Yes,” the woman offered. We sat in silence. As the train doors closed I turned back. “That’s a large book,” she said. “Yes, do you know it?” She smiled “I love it. It…” Her accent trailed off as she reached for the word, her eyes lighting up as she grasped it “…provokes.. thought.”

Before she left she gave me a gift, “If you like it you should read Paulo Coehlo. c-o-e-h-l-o.” “Thank you,” I replied. “Goodnight.” “Goodnight.”

Her name was Dana. I remember her voice, but not her face.