The metro escalator groaned its usual Monday morning complaint as I descended into the station, but something was different today. Instead of the typical crush of commuters, the platform was nearly empty—some holiday I'd forgotten about, probably. I took the opportunity to walk the long way through the underground passage, the one with the old tile mosaics that everyone usually rushes past.
There's a particular mosaic panel near the east exit that's always caught my eye: a stylized map of the city from 1973, all optimistic arrows and geometric shapes. Today I actually stopped to read the little brass plaque beneath it. Turns out the artist died before finishing it, and his students completed the last section. You can see it if you look closely—the eastern district has slightly different colors, a warmer palette. I'd walked past this thing hundreds of times and never noticed.
Above ground, I decided to take the river path instead of my usual route. The cherry trees aren't blooming yet, but there were these tiny green buds on every branch, packed tight like they're just waiting for permission. An older man was doing tai chi near the bridge, moving so slowly it looked like he was underwater. I tried to match his pace for about ten steps—failed spectacularly. Apparently, moving that deliberately requires more control than moving quickly. Who knew?