Let me first begin by saying that Washington DC is the closest I’ve ever lived to a living, breathing, Gotham City.
My adventure begins at 8 a.m. every morning, on the Red Line metro. After a hurried breakfast, I’m often seen waddling down the street in an oversized pea coat and snow boots with the other 600,000 people or so that have regular day-jobs. I can barely see my station above the mass of umbrella’s and black bowler hats, but some how I make it in one piece to my stop amidst the jostling that most natives call “Rush Hour.”
Anywhere between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. the sidewalk always looks like a scene straight from the Batman Returns—complete with sirens, police, and plenty of jaywalkers. During these times, the citizens of DC have their “business” faces on. Their hoods are pulled close to their faces to keep the snow out, and their mouths seemed to be pressed into a permanent grimace. I’m often guilty of this face when I’m trying to catch the man selling Krispy Kream donuts and he’s walking too fast for me to follow.
After a ten-minute walk from my dorm, I’ve reached my metro station. I can see it before I even get there. Beneath the street it’s ten degrees warmer, and smoke is billowing out of the dark abyss where the escalator waits to take me down to my train. (No seriously, it’s like—pitch black down there) I’m suddenly hit in the face with a gust of warm air. I won’t tell you what it smells like, because well, that’s where the imagination of this all comes in.
But I can tell you that the underground is a completely different world.
The dim light of metro station illuminates more of Washington DC than many of us would like to admit. In the instances of rush hour, transportation becomes an equalizer—and the metro doesn’t discriminate.
Everyone rides the metro.
That politician with his suit pressed and his shoes shined to perfection sits next to the working mother with three kids in tow. She accidentally coughs on the diplomat visiting from Spain, who more or less curses to the homeless man sitting next to him that this city is to darn fast for its own good. It’s like taking a trip in an RV with all 56 of your second cousins.
The underground also contains a lot of shoving.
The beefier men just elbow their way onto the train, using The Politico as a buffer between themselves and the boisterous salesmen. The women are much subtler about it. They may not push—but the scalding cup of espresso they carry looks threatening, and they aren’t planning to spill it on that Burberry scarf they’re wearing. The interns are my favorite to watch. Each one sits clutching a briefcase like it contains the hope diamond, and are constantly fiddling with their work lanyards. Proudly, I happen to be one of them.
I came here with the Washington DC program’s Spring 2012 class. Since first stepping foot from the grounds of Dulles Airport I’ve noticed that the East Coast will be quite a change from the laid back, California-lifestyle I’ve been living since I was born.
Not bad, just different.
For starters, the perception of time here is completely backwards.
“On time is late, and early is on time” is a phrase that has been permanently tattooed to my brain since the first week of school.
As any tourist can attest, if your walking in the left lane—you’re bound to be run over by a speeding businessman or lawyer on his way to the office. The golden rule when walking in DC has and always will be: “Keep to the right of any sidewalk, escalator, or anywhere else there seems to be movement—or suffer major concrete-burn.”
This is the first of many lessons I expect to learn here in the nation’s capitol.
I ride the Red Line for four stops, and ten minutes exactly everyday, taking caution to keep to the right. As long as the Metro keeps running on time—so does the city. During rush hour the train leaves every five minutes, to ensure this schedule.
The majority of the rides take you through a pitch-black tunnel with nothing to illuminate your journey but the faded, 18-watt bulbs that surge in and out as you travel. You could only imagine my surprise as the Red Line, the busiest line during the weekday, shot out into the sunlight to carry me around the city on an external rail. Just as the sunlight streamed through the veneer of fog coating the windows of my seat, I think to myself: I might just be able to live here for a semester.
After all, the daylight holds spectacular experiences for tourists—and even more for the young, opportunistic college students that seem to keep the city running. We type the memos, we deliver the papers, and most of all make sure everything keeps on running smoothly up there on Capitol Hill. We’re the cogs that keep this crazy political wheel turning.
The City of DC is a two-faced coin, and the other side is still waiting to be discovered. I’m not sure what either the day, or the dark of night will bring—but it’s a riddle that I’m curious to know the answer to. Although riding the metro has become the bane of my existence this semester, (I swear I feel like a penguin on that thing) it’s nothing serious. As for the weather, the freeze I can handle.
Every morning I look forward to that breath of fresh air that cools my face as I get off the metro and onto New York Avenue. Although my cheeks sting, they are flushed with the prospect of new discovery. I’ve mastered the day—now all that’s left is to see what the night will bring. I’m still crossing my fingers that I’ll get to see Batman.
