The blonde conductress on the Harlem Line.

Let’s just say it: Bellies protruding over train-tchochke belt buckles, Metro-North conductors are not a toothsome lot. Nor are they particularly female.

Which is fine. They’re professional, usually courteous, and perfectly efficient.

They may not be much to look at, but you, Blonde Conductress, are the exception. You look Nordic, or perhaps Swedish (we apologize if those are the same thing, Blonde Conductress, as we didn’t have time to check them on Wikipedia. We’re behind at work, as the train was late. You understand).

You’ve got straight blonde hair, like the guys from Nelson, and you’re slim, like Steven Perry. As you raised your arm from the platform the other day, signalling “all-clear,” I saw a tattoo on your right bicep, some interwoven tribal design (an homage to the Vikings in your lineage, perhaps?)

Honestly, Blonde Conductress, if I were to see you in some Loisaida lounge, done up in evening wear as opposed to your drab blue uni, I might not even notice you. But doing your thing on the train each day, you’re sunshine lighting up a gray day.

All clear, indeed.

Warm regards,

Trainjotting