As often seems to be the case, the morning commute both warmed my heart and drove me nuts. We had a dusting of snow this morning, perhaps a half-inch, which presumably caused the 8:17 to bashfully crawl in at 8:21.

We were rolling along, not exactly making up time, but not making a crummy ride any worse. Then, at 8:47, in that nether region where you don’t know if it’s Westchester or the Bronx, we pulled to a stop.

We were stuck between two concrete walls. Mercifully, we moved before they started closing in on me, and were soon looking out to a massive graveyard that I’d never noticed before.

All told, we pulled in six minutes late. By my calculations, that’s officially tardy.

Ah, but the happy news, you ask. I discovered a new seat. OK, I didn’t actually discover it; thousands–perhaps millions–have sat there before, and I’m sure I even have as well, wrapped in some fugue some past morning.

It’s a 2-seater (actually, a 1-3/4-seater because the leg room is cut off on one side) that’s right outside the conductor’s booth. Sometimes it looks like it’s for official conductor business: control panels are exposed, lights are flashing. This morning, it was wide open, so I grabbed it.

Since it’s a stunted two-seater, you’re almost assured of getting it to yourself (Slippery Rail season notwithstanding). In real estate parlance, it offers two exposures: a window facing north, and one facing west.

Best of all, you can’t see a single other commuter. It reminded me of hitting Europe with a Eur-Rail pass after college, those six-seater compartments you’d get, and your travel-mate Rather Large Greg–the big, scary hippie who didn’t realize hippies were supposed to be nice–would let down his hair and make scary faces every time some poor rider would attempt to enter our compartment.

And not only do you not see your fellow commuters, but you can’t be seen either…unless the conductor is peering at you through the tinted window in their booth.

Quite a find. I just might have to bow to the beckons of early-onset O.Seat.D.