The days are beginning to get colder, the mornings especially which leads to the problem of wearing a heavy coat and jeans as you make your way out into the brisk air only to be confronted by 20+ degree temperatures come midday. However, the weather only plays a small part in this tale. An embarrassing incident which befell me during the past week as I made my daily commute on Santiago’s efficient and always interesting Metro line.
I set off into the cold morning, wrapped up against the cold in the air and that which I have had for the past week. I blame the fluctuating temperatures and a lack of orange juice, a vindictive combo. My commute usually takes about half an hour, it requires that I take two trains, changing from the blue to the green line in order to reach my destination in the south of the city.
The first train I take is generally very quiet, few people head south on the blue line in the mornings. The jungle of offices and other commercial buildings lies to the north and centre of the sprawling metropolis. This results in the large and usually sardine can-like carriages being relatively empty. I take my seat and catch up on some reading, tunnel gusts cause scraps of paper to meander their way down through the carriages, all very artistic. The indy movie feel is interrupted by the reggeaton blaring youth across from me.
I arrive at Vicente Valdes, where blue meets green. Here I must make the grueling crossing from one line to the other, this time I will be heading north. Estación Vicente Valdes is where green line trains are born, they appear from that mysterious place where metro trains go when not in use. Despite myself I always seem to get jolt of excitement in seeing the lights appear in the blackness of the tunnel with the noise of the engines growing as the hulk rolls into its berth.
Today however was different, as I’m making my way amongst the zombie like hordes I see that there is a train already waiting on the platform, doors open and with people inside. It has to be said that in the mornings the trains depart every 5 minutes or so, so it is never a complete disaster in seeing one pull off as you approach. The problem is that somewhere along the human evolutionary trajectory we developed the innate desire to run towards any train that is waiting in a metro station. It is impossible to simply stroll up and take your seat, the fear of having the doors close in your face is too strong. Oh the horror.
Taking this basic survival instinct into account I immediately began to hurry towards the gaping doors, hop skipping down the stairs with headphones and backpack flailing before careening across the 10 feet of platform and into the unwelcome warmth of the carriage. Its all bustle as I squeeze in, out of breath and perspiring. It is now that I begin to notice the lack of movement in the carriage doors and indeed in the train in general. The next stationary 5 minutes only clarified the fact. The train obviously held up for some reason, rendering my Usain Bolt impression useless. My coat and jeans were now my worst enemies, their heat combining with the aforementioned sardines in a can-like nature of these trains. The fact that everyone else had seen my Olympic dash didn’t help things. Obviously I went for the best course of action in these situations; the fake phone call. One imaginary conversation later (‘Haha yes I made the train!’) and all was forgotten. The fact that my phone didn’t ring during this little piece of Shakespeare was, obviously, a bonus.