The news out of Boston that reached me this morning was horrible, but I was dismayed to realize that I wasn't as surprised as I wanted to be.

People had murmured about how the debris and the water might only serve as the first act, as it were. I'd worried that something else would act as Act Two - although I wasn't really expecting a concrete slab - or three.

I don't live in Boston. I can't imagine what Milena Delvalle's family is going through, although I was among the countless others who thought of them today. I don't have first-hand knowledge of how hellish the Tuesday commute was (but believe me when I say that I certainly heard about it). But I drive there regularly enough to know how exasperating it is to have to detour to Congress Street at 1 a.m. because 93S is closed; I've sat in the tunnels in bumper-to-bumper Friday afternoon traffic, and I've checked to see if those water droplets falling onto my windshield are routine or something else.

Driving Storrow Drive is a nightmare, we all know. Weaving through the tunnels shortly before turning onto the roadway? That's supposed to provide the last few moments of relative peace, not a nightmare onto itself.