Ahhh, Farragut North.
I will admit, it's convenient to work and there is adequate seating for gimps like me. But the surface elevator is a constant swirl of urine and B.O. (no, seriously), and most of the commuters would rather have bamboo shivs run through their eye sockets that interact with the rest of the humans littering the platform.
I wait through lines of sardine-tinned six-car trains, hoping to win a seat in the eight-car lottery. I usually end up planting myself on a Shady Grove-bound train under a panel dripping some H1N1/West Nile-ish substance. Gee, no wonder no one else claimed this spot! The reluctance of many to sit in the last car on the train can grant some peace at the end of the day. If you're willing to spin the Big Wheel of Metro Safety, that is.
While I wait for a ride that isn't packed like a Tokyo commuter special, I sit and observe the patterns. Not the human ones. They have no order at the end of a long day. When there is Human Habitrail chaos around you, and the air is thick and sweaty enough to be a tangible miasma, there is a measure of calm in the geometry of the concrete. Cool and orderly.
And even a little photogenic.