Tuesday, June 3, 2008

One of my more vivid memories of public transportation, courtesy of the Chicago El a few years ago, involved stepping into a car filled with the sickly sour scent of puke. I remember brushing off the odor, plunking down in a seat, and then, as the train lurched forward, watching rivulets of vomit rush into view, corralled into straight lines by the ridges on the floor.

The stream came from a disheveled woman in the back of the car who was hunched over, the last few strands detaching from her lips. Nobody rose to help her–she didn’t appear to be distressed, anyway–and, surprisingly enough, few people left. It was a twisted, tacit agreement, and the selfish takeaway was to follow my nose for future trips on the train, even though “future trips” at the time meant never again.

But this is a different place–a different future, as it were–and the shiny new light rail has yet to be coated in years and expectorate. It strikes me as an absolutely important conduit of stuff to do, an escape hatch from the hypnotic rhythm of the suburbs, and I’m curious to see where it leads me the next few weekends. After scanning the events listings, though, I implore you: if I ever partake in jazzercise or gush over a crafts show, promise you’ll put me under the train.