On the Metro

Josh and I spent most of Saturday at Baltimore's Inner Harbor. We'd planned to go last weekend, but Hurricane Irene and her potential threat to the harbor convinced us to reschedule. Halfway through the week we discovered that our new plans coincided with the first Baltimore Grand Prix, an Indy car race where the streets are closed, grandstands are installed, and the city is transformed into a racetrack. Reluctant to rearrange our childcare and dinner reservations again, we carried on anyway and ended up enjoying a perfect day of shopping for books, walking around the harbor, having dinner, and seeing the Grand Prix. While I don't completely understand the appeal of watching people drive endlessly in circles, I will admit that standing mere feet from the track as the cars flashed by was an astounding experience; the speed and volume is undeniably impressive.

In order to avoid over-charged and under-available parking, we opted to take the metro into the city. The metro ride is always less than comfortable; a dedicated germaphobe, I ride the metro perched on my seat, allowing my body to touch only as much as physics requires to prevent me from tumbling off it. In its favor, the metro is quick, convenient, and cheap. It also offers an unmatched opportunity for people watching.

Several stops into our trip, a man and his preschool-aged daughter boarded and sat directly in front of us. The little girl was darling, all smiley and sweet. She spent the ride with her face pressed up to the window, pretending the passing trees were full of apples that she was gobbling up. At one point, her imaginings became so realistic that she was compelled to lick the window. Her father chuckled at this antic; I was stunned that she didn't immediately succumb to the plague.

A few seats away, a father asked his son where he had gotten the hand sanitizer he had just pulled from his pocket. The boy triumphantly replied that he had found it on the ground. The father gave a bewildered laugh-sigh at the irony of this, while the boy proceeded to coat his hands with the contents of the tube. A minute later, the father grabbed it from the boy's hand, yelling that it was not hand sanitizer, but rather toothpaste. The boy was overjoyed at this revelation, repeatedly shoving his hands towards his brother's nose so that he could appreciate their minty fresh scent.

Moments later, the slightly drunk man across from the father and his sons began vomiting into a plastic bag that had a hole in the bottom. Along with the other nearby passengers, we promptly repositioned ourselves at the opposite end of the train car. Our new seats placed us behind a woman wearing only a layered set of two hospital gowns, as if possibly both she and the gowns had left the hospital without the proper clearance to do so.

At one point, a pair of girls, one an older teenager and the other about ten, got onto the train and sat diagonally from us, settling themselves into the seats reserved for the disabled and elderly. Their faces were invariably listless; they appeared perpetually annoyed. The younger girl particularly caught my attention. She seemed young to look so hardened. I glanced at her periodically. She continued to focus her gaze straight ahead. The train neared the city, its windows growing dark as the track descended. This was my favorite part of riding the metro as a kid; zooming along underground was exceptionally thrilling. I glimpsed at the girl again, then began watching her intently as she uncrossed her arms and sat upright. She had cracked for one significant instant, her smiling face aglow with delight as she turned her head from window to window, fascinated by the train's path through the dark. A moment later, she assumed her previous posture and expression as if neither had ever changed.

I hope she will always keep her soul open to little wonders.