Let's be honest: when someone says "relaxation," nobody pictures a packed subway car at rush hour. The Chicago El rattling over downtown, the New York MTA grinding through tunnels—these are not spa experiences. They're loud, crowded, sometimes smelly, and almost always in motion. And yet. There's a particular kind of lampin' that only happens on urban transit. You just have to know how to access it.
The Unlikely Case for Transit Lampin'
Here's the thing about the El or the subway: everyone's ignoring everyone else. It's the unwritten rule of urban transit. Eyes down, headphones in, mind elsewhere. In most social situations, this would be rude. On the train, it's expected.
This creates a strange pocket of privacy in public. You're surrounded by people, but no one is looking at you. No one expects conversation. No one needs anything from you. For the duration of your ride, you're alone in a crowd—which is actually one of the most peaceful states a city person can achieve.
The subway is the only place in New York where being completely antisocial is not just accepted but required.
Chicago El: Lampin' Above the City
The El has something most transit systems don't: elevation. You're not underground, buried in tunnels. You're above the streets, looking down at the city like a slow-moving observation deck.
The Loop views. Riding the Brown Line or Pink Line through downtown, you pass close enough to office buildings to see inside. Conference rooms, cubicles, people at desks who don't know you're watching. It's voyeuristic in the most innocent way—just glimpses of other lives, framed by train windows.
The backyard tour. Outside downtown, the El runs through neighborhoods at second-story height. You see the backs of buildings—the parts not meant for public viewing. Porches, fire escapes, rooftop gardens, graffiti that only train riders ever see. It's the real city, unfiltered.
The winter window. Chicago winters are brutal, but the El becomes a warm moving box with a view of the frozen city. Steam rising from vents, people bundled against the wind, snow on rooftops. You're cozy inside watching the cold outside. That contrast is its own kind of peace.
The Brown Line through Lincoln Park and Ravenswood offers tree-lined views and a generally calmer crowd. The Blue Line to O'Hare goes from underground to elevated to ground level—three different experiences in one ride. Avoid the Red Line at rush hour unless you enjoy being compressed.
New York Subway: Lampin' Below the Streets
The MTA is a different beast. Mostly underground, often crowded, sometimes chaotic. But it has its own lampin' potential—you just have to find it.
The tunnel trance. When the train is moving through dark tunnels, the windows become mirrors. You can't see out, so you see in—reflections of passengers, yourself, the lit interior of the car floating through blackness. It's disorienting in a way that quiets the mind.
The express run. When an express train hits a long stretch without stops—say, the A train from 125th to 59th—there's a rhythm that develops. The rocking of the car, the white noise of speed, the knowledge that you're covering serious distance underground. It's meditative if you let it be.
The late night car. After 10pm, the subway transforms. Fewer people, longer waits, stranger energy. A half-empty car at midnight has a particular atmosphere—tired workers, night owls, the occasional character who makes things interesting. It's not always peaceful, but it's always real.
The subway doesn't care about your schedule, your stress, or your important meeting. It runs when it runs. Learning to accept this is halfway to enlightenment.
The Shared Experience
One thing both systems have in common: delayed trains. Trains that stop between stations for no announced reason. Trains that skip your stop because of "train traffic ahead."
This is frustrating if you're trying to get somewhere. But if you've already accepted that you're not in control—if you've committed to the lampin' mindset—delays become extra lampin' time. Bonus stillness. The universe giving you more minutes to sit and exist.
The collective sigh. When a train stops unexpectedly, there's often a moment where the whole car sighs together. Strangers sharing frustration without speaking. It's a tiny community forming and dissolving in seconds. Notice it next time.
The nothing-you-can-do moment. You're stuck underground, no cell service, no way to notify anyone, no way to speed things up. This is either maddening or freeing, depending on your perspective. Choose freeing. You literally cannot do anything except sit there. So sit there.
"We are being held momentarily by the train dispatcher." This is transit code for "something's happening and we're not telling you what." Instead of spiraling into frustration, treat it as a meditation bell. The announcement is your cue to breathe, look around, and accept the pause.
The People Factor
Urban transit puts you close to strangers in a way that almost nothing else does. This is either uncomfortable or fascinating, depending on your relationship with humanity.
The character study. Every car is a random sample of the city. Business suits and construction boots. Teenagers and grandmothers. People heading to jobs they love, jobs they hate, or no job at all. You don't know their stories, but you can imagine. People-watching on transit is people-watching at its purest.
The performance. Both Chicago and New York have buskers who board trains—musicians, dancers, comedians. Some are good, some are not, but all of them change the energy of the car. For two minutes, strangers become an audience together. That's something.
The helping moments. Someone gives up a seat for an elderly person. Someone helps a parent with a stroller. Someone points out that a tourist is going the wrong direction. These small kindnesses happen constantly on transit, and witnessing them is quietly affirming. People are mostly okay.
The subway contains the full spectrum of human experience compressed into a moving box. Pay attention and you'll see everything—struggle, joy, exhaustion, connection, solitude—all in a twenty-minute ride.
Finding Your Spot
Not all positions on a train are equal for lampin' purposes.
The end seat. Corner spots where you only have one neighbor instead of two. Your back is protected, you can see the whole car, and you have a wall to lean against. Premium real estate.
The window lean. On elevated sections or above-ground portions, standing by the window and leaning against the wall gives you the best view and the most personal space. You're oriented outward, toward the passing city, instead of inward toward the crowd.
The door spot. Controversial. Standing by the doors means you're in people's way at every stop. But between stops, you have the most room and the best airflow. For short rides, it works.
Avoid the middle. The center of a crowded car is the worst spot for lampin'. You're surrounded on all sides, jostled from every direction, with no view and no stability. If this is your only option, close your eyes and go internal.
Daily riders know which car stops closest to their exit stairs. But they also know which cars are typically emptier, which doors open to the platform, and which sections have working AC in summer. Observe the regulars. They've optimized their rides through years of experience.
The Above vs. Below
Chicago's El and New York's subway offer fundamentally different experiences because of where they run.
Above ground (El): You're part of the city while moving through it. Natural light, weather awareness, visual connection to the streets. It feels more like travel, less like being transported. The downside: noise from the tracks, temperature swings, occasional delays from weather.
Below ground (Subway): You're removed from the city, in a separate world with its own rules. Climate controlled (sort of), protected from weather, faster in many cases. The downside: no views, stale air, the vague existential unease of being underground in a metal tube.
Both have lampin' potential. The El is for lampin' with your eyes open—watching, observing, taking in the city. The subway is for lampin' with your eyes closed (or half-closed)—going internal, using the rumble and rhythm as a backdrop for thought.
The Commute Reframe
If you ride transit every day, it's easy to see your commute as dead time. Time stolen from your life, spent waiting and traveling when you could be doing something "productive."
But what if you reframed it?
Built-in lampin'. Your commute is 30 minutes, 45 minutes, an hour of time where you can't do much except sit and exist. Instead of fighting this, use it. This is your daily lampin' session, delivered automatically, no scheduling required.
The transition zone. The commute separates work from home. It's a buffer, a decompression chamber. Use it to mentally leave one space before entering the other. By the time you get home, work is behind you—not because you solved anything, but because you gave yourself time to let it go.
The only quiet. For some people, the commute is the only time all day when no one needs them. Kids, partners, bosses, coworkers—none of them can reach you on a subway between stations. That's not dead time. That's rare and precious solitude.
The commute isn't stealing your time. It's the only time that's actually yours—time when you're between obligations, answerable to no one, free to just be.
Practical Tips for Transit Lampin'
Off-peak when possible. Mid-morning, mid-afternoon, late evening. The difference between a packed car and a half-empty one is the difference between survival and actual relaxation.
Headphones as shield. Even if you're not listening to anything, headphones signal that you're not available for conversation. They create a social force field. Use them.
Something for your hands. A book, a coffee, a bag strap—something to hold that isn't your phone. This prevents the automatic scroll reflex and gives your hands something to do while your mind wanders.
Know your line. Learn the rhythm of your route. Which stations have long stops, which have quick ones. When the car empties, when it fills. The more familiar the ride, the more you can settle into it.
Accept the chaos. Transit is unpredictable. Delays happen, crowds happen, weird smells happen. Fighting this ruins the experience. Accepting it opens the door to actually enjoying the ride.
Try one commute without looking at your phone at all. Just ride. Watch people, watch the city, watch nothing. It will feel uncomfortable at first—your hand will reach for your pocket automatically. Resist. See what you notice when the screen isn't an option.
The Poetry of It
There's a reason so many songs mention the subway, so many movies use the El as backdrop. Transit systems are poetic spaces—places where strangers share intimate proximity, where the city reveals itself in motion, where time feels different than it does above ground or behind the wheel.
The screech of brakes at a platform. The recorded voice announcing stops. The doors closing with their warning chime. These sounds are the soundtrack of urban life, and if you tune into them instead of tuning them out, they become strangely comforting.
You're part of something bigger when you ride transit. Part of a system that moves millions of people every day, has for decades, will continue long after you're gone. There's a humility in being one of many, anonymous in the crowd, carried along by infrastructure you didn't build and couldn't control.
That humility is lampin'. Surrendering to the ride, trusting the system, letting yourself be transported. Not fighting for control, not demanding efficiency, just accepting the journey as it unfolds.
The El rattles above. The subway rumbles below. Neither is quiet, neither is comfortable, neither was designed for relaxation. But lampin' isn't about perfect conditions—it's about finding stillness wherever you are. And there's a strange stillness available on urban transit, if you're willing to stop resisting the chaos and start riding with it. Next time you swipe your card or tap your pass, remember: you're not just getting from A to B. You're entering a moving meditation, a people-watching gallery, a transition zone between the lives you live at either end of the line. Use it.