So he chooses to use my phone as a jumping off point for a 30 minute dull conversation about Google v. Apple, Verizon v. AT&T, Ohio v. DC. I thought I was making it clear that I did not care to continue to talk with him. I answered politely but curtly, but short of saying “please stop talking to me,” what was I supposed to do?

He was one of the more normal, nicer strangers I’ve spoken to on the metro, so I continued politely, curtly answering his questions until he asked my name as his stop approached and handed me his business card. There was a gold embossed seal above the classically stamped “Department of State” which he proceeded to tell me was 24k gold. No no, he’s just kidding.

He shook my hand and told me to have a good Monday, and a good week at that probably because he wasn’t sure he’d see me again this week… go figure.

Must go to the library soon for a new book and resume habitual use of the stranger-blocking ipod.

A Washington Post article today says “63 to 69 as of this week, depending on the day, or about 11 percent of the total of 588″ escalators are experiencing outages and general chronic failure.

Please, read on.

Truth be told I’m having a hard time calling this one a mishap for a variety of reasons, none of which I can manage to verbalize at this time. I’ll call it just another metro-related unfortunate event that nearly sent me flying to my death.

Okay that was a bit of an exaggeration.

I was jogging up the escalator at the Dupont metro Tuesday morning at my new, increased, nearly heart-stopping pace when I looked up to see the top in close sight and felt a twinge of relief and accomplishment. Almost as soon as I completed that thought, the metro gods chuckled and decided to spite me.

By screeching the escalator to a grinding halt.

Thankfully I’ve begun making the wise decision to keep one hand free for handrail grasping, because that was my first successful survival move. Then, I had lurched forward mid-step with enough momentum that I was able to skip a step and land safely above the one that was threatening to trip me mercilessly. That was success number two. Then I looked back down at the vast stretch of escalator below me to make sure that everyone else was still upright, which they were, though they looked frazzled and perterbed to now be stranded in the middle of a giant, immobile escalator. But I made it off the dying beast with little further injury, and I count this as a third success.

Oh, and it only stopped, it didn’t rapid reverse (thank you for showing some restraint metro gods) so I count that as a fourth success of the morning. I have to take what I can get, alright?

I count this post as part one in a three-part series in the hopes that a cliff hanger will encourage me to come back to post again soon. In the name of keeping a 2010 resolution, stay tuned.

I just encountered a nice person. In the morning. On the metro platform.

I know you’re thinking that breed doesn’t exist and that crowded rush hour metro stations tend to be an every man for himself situation.

Well

I was standing close to the edge of the platform waiting for the next train while a crowd gathered behind, around and far too close to me. After a few minutes I looked up from my Thomson Reuters app to find that the crowd had shifted to the other side of the platform and that a train was arriving there rather than right in front of me.

I resigned to the fact that I would not be getting my ideal seat (it’s the perfect one for reading or sleeping) and made my way to the back of the eager, impatient crowd on the other side of the platform.

Then the man in front of me turned around and offered me the space in front of him, just on the edge of the platform. I briefly wondered if I’d inadvertently stepped on him or cut him off or did something to make him want to push me on the tracks. Then he said:

You were in the front before… if you’d like to move up. It’s dog eat dog out here, you gotta be on your game sometimes!

What a nice man. I declined politely, stating in jest that he earned his spot and he should enjoy it. But the whole thing just made me happy.

The sunshine and need to take off my jacket was also a huge bonus.

And I still got my favorite seat, which it turns out is good for reading, sleeping, and blogging.

Happy Thursday

Many times I have witnessed something so enjoyable during my metro travel that I wished I could share it right that minute. I blame the time lapse between my commute and my computer accessibility for my lack of posts lately… really, I swear it’s not laziness.

Well I’m happy to say that thanks to my recent discovery of the wordpress for android app I will be able to liveblog my random moments of excitement as they happen. I know you’re excited too.

Maybe it will also help me get better at typing on this phone…

Phoenix, Arizona is the best place — perhaps besides a tropical destination — to go to escape a snow dump like we had last week. That is, if you can get a flight out. We flew out of Dulles around 5:30 p.m. last Thursday – the runway was still largely covered in packed snow and ice and still being plowed. It was intense.

Well my return to work yesterday was treacherous and it was a rude awakening from the 75 degrees and sunny dream I’d been living for a few days. Thankfully I didn’t do my usual metro ride, so I eased back into the grind slowly. Instead I hitched a ride up the beltway to Bethesda and took a short metro ride from there to work. I don’t necessarily fault DC for not clearing sidewalks since there really is no place for all the snow to go, and you can only dump so much under the Wilson Bridge. But I really felt like I could have used some ice climbing shoes when I was walking from the metro.

I almost started to envy those people that drive to work. At least you get to see the outside world on your way to work instead of traveling under ground in an unheated train wondering if at any moment you might leave the track. And, I don’t know how far away from work you park, but you probably don’t have to hike many sidewalk glaciers. Yes, getting to work is dangerous.

But the good news is that I’ve been watching a lot of winter Olympics. I’ve been picking up tips on surviving winter sports (such as sidewalk walking), like:

• Wear neon spandex, a helmet and goggles — that metrobus headed for the sidewalk may not hit you if you look like a traffic cone. And if it does hit you, at least you have skull and eye protection.
• Grow your red curly hair long for warmth (note: this can also help the traffic cone effort).
• Ski poles are good for traction and for angrily poking that annoying person who’s on your heels.
• The Olympic fanfare (composed by John Williams!) is very catchy.

The Olympic fanfare is so catchy and I enjoy it so much, in fact, that it has been stuck in my head for days. It comes in really handy when it’s on repeat in my head as I finally approach work after surviving the adventures of icy sidewalks.

I feel like a champion.

But I resist the urge to throw my hands in the air in triumph.

[read here]

I would just like to say thank you to the Metro board for choosing fare hikes over service cuts. If there were going to be fewer trains with fewer cars running less frequently than there are right now, I would start seriously investigating teleportation as a means of travel.

Because a decreased budget deficit for Metro is not worth the spike in insanity claims among Metro patrons that would result from having to stand on even more crowded platforms and squish into sweatier armpits on even more crowded trains.

And 10 cents for four months is just pocket change.

And no, I don’t want to think ahead to when fares undoubtedly go up again in July.

It’s likely I’ll also consider that pocket change.

Anyway the point is that there is a distinct method to the madness of my micromanaged commute. (And that is alliteration). Oh, you didn’t know it was micromanaged? And mad? Allow me to enlighten:

• I must ride either the 7:20 a.m. or 7:45 a.m. bus from my apartment to the metro. 7:20 on good days, 7:45 on late days. Okay, lately it’s been 7:45 every day.
• I must stand at the same spot on the platform at West Falls Church to await the train.
• I must get all the way into the middle of either half of the car, equidistant from the center doors and the back of the car.
• I must walk up every escalator, and I must walk briskly.
• I must get on the same car of the red line train I take from Metro Center in the mornings, and I prefer to stand by the doors.
• Again, I must walk briskly and I must walk up every escalator.
• I leave my desk 55 minutes before the departure time of the bus I plan to catch back to the apartment from West Falls Church.
• And I absolutely have to catch either the 5:40 or 6:40 bus in the evenings. I will work late before I will catch the 6:10.

That is the madness. Don’t be afraid, I told you there is a method. And yes, I know I may be somewhat obsessive compulsive. But if you just understand the method…

For a time over the summer I took the 6:55 a.m. bus to the metro. I really enjoyed getting to work by 7:45, but I was not willing to continue putting up with my one happiness obstacle — the creepster. Anecdote:

The Creepster

“Hey… Do I know you from somewhere?” he said after he’d secretly followed behind me from the shuttle bus to my usual spot on the metro platform.

“Um I don’t think I know you … should I?” I’m sufficiently creeped out.

“You look really familiar. Where did you go to school?” he asked in his kind of soft-spoken stalker-in-the-closet-esque voice.

“I went to Virginia Tech. Which is a big school…” I answered skeptically while trying to convey that I was annoyed and would rather be left alone at 7 a.m. on a Monday.

“Oh I went to Radford. Maybe that’s how I’ve seen you before.”

I wonder if he’s been stalking me since college, I kept thinking while his droning conversation continued toward me as the train arrived, as I eagerly headed for my usual spot, as we traveled all the way to McPherson Square. When he finally got off the metro I resolved to start putting my iPod earbuds in before I walked out of my apartment in the morning. I figured this would serve as a respectable barrier between me and any creepster who tried to converse with me.

Not a chance. I should know creepsters don’t respect boundaries. That’s half the reason they’re called creepsters. It got to the point where I wasn’t just seeing him on the bus in the morning — all of a sudden he was on the same bus as me every evening, and he’d follow me to the mail room and wait around while I purposefully took a ridiculously long time opening the mailbox and retrieving invisible mail. Then he’d wait at the elevators for me, and continue awkward conversation up to the sixth floor. This continued for days, possibly weeks, until one evening on the bus he asked if I’d like to play pool with him some night. I politely made excuses for my fictionally busy schedule which clearly didn’t work because once he managed to get on the same elevator as me despite my best efforts, he asked the most awkward question of all:

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Ugh. Really, creepster? Are you really asking me such a thing while we’re in an elevator together? Could you try to be a little more awkward? I replied with a very frustrated “Yes” as we slowly approached the sixth floor. He stepped off the elevator after a painful pause and said, “Well, thought I’d ask.”

From that moment on I vowed to never take the 6:55 shuttle in the morning, and try my best not to be on the 6:10 in the evenings. This is the main cause of many of my commuting idiosyncrasies that involve timing, and it aggravates my OCD when he randomly shows up on my shuttles again after I’ve taken great pains to avoid him. When this happens, which it has with increasing frequency lately, I generally make an unnecessary phone call or text very intently until he’s out of sight.

I think we all have particular spots where we stand, cars we prefer to get on, places we prefer to position ourselves once on the train. I know many people who won’t ride in the first or last cars ever since the June 2009 metro collision. I understand that. I also understand that if you really need or want a seat, you’re almost always guaranteed one in the first or last cars. I stand where I do so I can hold on to the handles on the backs of seats because I’m too short to hold on to the overhead railings. And I get the least hassled by people trying to get on or off in a hurry.

I walk fast and I walk up escalators because I don’t enjoy being under ground where there is no natural light. It’s also crucial to my health when it’s cold out because if I walk fast and hustle up the giant escalator, I’m usually warm by the time I get outside. And I hate being cold.

So you see, it all makes sense. To my coworkers who read this and who judge me for running frantically out of my cube at a particular time, I hope you understand now.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t

It’s happened a lot recently — sometimes it’s the guy whose armpit I’m standing in on my way home in the evening. He reeks so badly of B.O. that I’m just crossing my fingers that he just walked out of the gym. Bless his coworkers if he sat in his cubicle all day with that stench on him.

I get even more upset when the perpetrator is the person sitting next to me. I was sitting next to a man once who smelled so strongly of smoke that I was convinced he was either smoking an invisible cigarette or had some sort of cigarette IV — bypass the mouth, straight into the lungs sort of contraption.

Maybe it resembled Iron Man’s lite-brite power source.

Brainstorming this concept is how I kept from gagging or asking him whether he could smell himself. I realize he must have been a life-long smoker and so probably didn’t even notice the smell. In fact he probably liked it. I wonder if he were to create a cologne, would that be a pleasing scent that he would just have to include? Eau de cheminée.

I can get over smells usually. The problem with overwhelming stenches on the train on the way to work is that then I worry if I’m going to retain that smell all day. What if I come in smelling like the three-week-old onions + garlic + curry + sautéed veggies combination the guy in front of me was wearing? Or worse – the chain smoker? Or the b.o.??

And then after all this concentration on the subject of smells, I begin to wonder if I am one of those smelly people. Do my clothes smell dirty?? (I mean, I’m pretty sure they came out of the clean pile…) Am I carrying around a smell from stepping in dog poo? Is my hairspray funky?

I sincerely hope I smell like roses and candy and goodness. If you see smell me on the metro, please feel free to be honest with me.

It turns out I’ve been bottling up all my metro hate and metro-driven funny for the past few months. And I’ve finally burst.

As with all of my urges to write a new post, this one started with a very distinct moment of inspiration. On Wednesday, December 30, 2009, my last metro ride to work of the year, I got one of those signs that you just can’t ignore when it slaps you in the face.

Ahem.

I was sitting on the metro, bundled up like the kids in A Christmas Story, when a familiar sound came from the seats behind me. People started to snicker as they realized that it was a song, not a sound, and that it was a full song, not a ringtone.

It was none other than the Bee Gees’ Stayin’ Alive, a la Saturday Night Fever.

I pictured John Travolta. I pictured feathered hair and Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake’s SNL spoof “The Barry Gibb Talk Show” and the Gibbs’ comical overbites. I pictured the metro passenger who was the source of the tunes jamming to the idea that “You can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.”

And I thought to myself, Lauren, this song is for you. You may think it was just a catchy disco song and the soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, but for some reason that morning it carried a message to me.

This is funny, I thought, and if you were still blogging you would write about it later this morning. And people might laugh with you about it. But you haven’t written since September.

And the song sang to me (over and over):

Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother,
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Feel the city breaking and everybody shaking
And we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

Well I’m neither a brother nor a mother, but I decided to take this as a hint that I should keep this blog alive. Keep the blog alive, keep the funny in commuting, keep the happy in my days. Save the cheerleader, save the world. That school of thought.

So here it is, my attempt to return to blogging and my desperate plea that you (my sweet friends) keep me aware of my shortcomings if when I start to slack off.

And let it be known that if it had been any other song, the rest of the people on that train would have revolted. But I think they all kind of liked it the way I did. You can’t argue the joy that a little ’70′s throwback can bring you in the middle of the week.