METRO

There is often a large puddle, a breast feeding indigenous women, an antique watch, or a new DVD to bypass at the entrance of the metro.  A woman shrieks to sell her chorros, a deep-fried okra-shaped piece of dough covered in cinnamon and sugar, sometimes tasty but usually dry and hard.  The man next to her sells a generous breakfast pack including a sandwich, yogurt, banana and juice.  He is cool and quiet but offers a good product.  Many in this country could take this lesson to heart and realize that no amount of noise making will sell a product like a good reputation.  But, no doubt, they will continue to try.  

Descending the well worn marble stairs I pat my pockets to make sure the day is in order.  Keys-right.  Money-left.  It is probably a false sense, but I feel very much a local as I swipe the metro card and push through the turnstile.  At least much more so than Amelia, who fumbles to separate a single ticket from the thick bundle buried in her purse.  Were we at a Chuckie Cheese, such a clump would be enough to buy an RC car or a Chicago Bulls beach towel, but as it is, so many tickets can only cause delays.  For all that, my brief smugness is quickly extinguished with the arrival of the train.  During peak hours, the foremost carriages are reserved for women and children, with the remaining going to the vast majority of morning and evening commuters, sweaty men.  As Amelia steps on board and takes a seat, I force myself into the chest of a business man and suck in my stomach to allow the doors to close.  Sometimes the train can remain stationary for minutes as doors open and close, all the while banging on arms, legs, briefcases, and backpacks.  When at last we begin moving, a wave of warmth washes over the passengers, settling on faces and dampening clothes.  It is the collective heat of hundreds of people, it smells like corn and it makes handrails moist and sticky.  After a couple of stops I jostle myself to the back of the crowd, where at least there is a chance of not being washed overboard by the tides of exiting commuters.  From this vantage I can enjoy the metro culture as it unfolds before me. 

As a general rule, the subway serves as a moving marketplace.  Vendors get on and off, each with a 15-second pitch that is honed to a sharp point and seeks it's audience like a tomahawk missile.  The biggest staple of any journey being the music men.  These guys are equipped with a modified backpack consisting of a car battery, amp, speaker, and cd player.  You may not have been searching for music on your way to the office, but when you suddenly find yourself handing over ten pesos for three hundred tracks of electro-dance remixes of classic disco songs- you have most assuredly fallen under the spell of the music man.  The same is true of tissue packets, which seem such an amazing deal that it is not unusual to make multiple purchases on one trip.  Other popular items include candy, preferably covered in chili, learn-English videos, and cure-all salves.  That said, if you wait long enough just about anything will come your way.

Another important aspect of metro culture is people watching.  You can tell who has been on the train longest because they are the ones that are dripping.  The most disturbing sighting, which is unfortunately also one of the most common, is when sweat mixes with an excessive amount of hair gel to produce a sort of wobbly forehead tear.  This bloated drop slowly descends the forehead to settle among the eyebrows.  Under more extreme conditions, the boldest of such drips can even make a break for the tip of the nose.  However, for better or worse, many people are equipped with unibrows, an evolutionary trait developed specifically to filter out such drops of shame

The last carriage is home to some of the more nefarious activity, serving as a location for drug deals and a meeting place for casual encounters. Unlike Kleenex, which is dropped in your lap only to be later retrieved if you will not be buying, sales in this area are far more subtle.  I myself didn't know the rules of the caboose until having a public transport safety discussion with a Mexican friend.  I now operate under the rule that the last coach is best avoided when possible, unless, of course, your are soliciting blow-jobs or anabolic steroids. 

Nevertheless, for all the discomfort, earthy smells, and soft petting, it is the good humor of the people that saves the experience.  Unlike public transport in America, when and where available, discomfort does not lead to aggression.  Even when the train is full to bursting, people will contort and contract to accommodate more passengers.  Under similar conditions I've seen fights break out in NYC subways and, in Philadelphia, you are just as likely to get shot as make it to your destination.  This is the saving grace of Mexico City's subway, that although I dread squeezing under the armpit of a fellow passenger, I know I will be greeted with a smile that says, “we are all in this together.”  Furthermore, I know that if I am robbed, there is no place to run.