the beloved METRO

AKA the Bane of Your/My/Our Existence

PRO

by Lindsey 

via

It’s faster than walking. By the time I walk my allotted eight-tenths of a mile to the Metro station in the morning, I’m done. FINITO. You cannot make me walk any farther … unless you leave a trail of cupcakes for me to follow; one can only assume a domino effect of cupcakes will lead to a giant funfetti cottage in the Forbidden Forest aka Anacostia.

It’s faster than biking. I will sweat just as much biking as I will walking … especially because it would be like a DMX bike show with all the hilly terrain one must forge in order to reach the finish line aka the workplace. Also, as an AC-guzzling, selfish human being, I refuse to be a part of the green movement. The ozone is fine. The polar bears are alive and well. We all exhale carbon dioxide anyways, so what’s the point of trying to reduce my carbon footprint? All right, I’ll admit … I do recycle my Trader Joe’s Indian packaging—as well as my empty Craisin plastic pouches—on rare occasion … but only because the holier-than-thou souls in my building pull the guilt trip on me with their reusable water bottles, hemp bags, and co-op purchases. Smh.

It’s cheaper than driving one’s own car. If one HAS a car to drive in the first place. Which I don’t. I do not have the shitty-albeit-useful ’99 four-door that somehow my sister managed to purloin from me to use for cruising around her college campus. In Florida. Many miles away from this swamp.

Only policemen and tourists deign to cavort about on segways. Sorry, I prefer not to look like a character on The Jetsons.

Scooters were cool in middle school.

Skateboards are for hipsters and people looking to break their necks.

Helicopters are for medical emergencies or dates on The Bachelor … or medical emergencies and dates on Grey’s Anatomy.

Vespas are too Euro-chic—and as an underling with an entry-level salary, I can’t afford one anyways. (If I could, I’d buy a bubblegum-pink one. No question. Yes, I want to be like Hilary Duff’s character in The Lizzie McGuire Movie. Whaddup.)

So besides being a better option than a go-cart or a golf cart, the Metro has many other exciting components to offer the daily rider.

a) meeting new people! Some may try to sell you "perfume" in vials hung around their body like gun cartridges

b) observing what people are reading! Some like to read excerpts from the Karma Sutra while in transit

c) listening to people’s interesting stories! A select few like to boisterously harangue their significant other via iPhone or Blackberry (those still exist?).

d) getting great outfit ideas! While the majority prefer to wear snug suits that hug their expanding waistlines, one also perceives the occasional leopard tracksuit, shorts too short to be called shorts, and heels made for those girls who parade around Montmartre.

e) facial tattoos! Wait, what?

In conclusion, there are perks abounding when one decides to embark on the journey that is Metro-riding: the sights, the sounds, the IMAX, in-your-face experience you won’t want to miss.

CON

by Theresa 

via

Mother of Pearl. What is that god-awful smell? You guessed correctly. It’s the DC Metro system. For some inexplicable reason, it constantly reeks of BO and day-old Chinese. How does this even happen? I thought the totalitarian ban on food and drink (which huge signs remind me of every day) was supposed to prevent this kind of thing!!!

But it doesn’t end here. The perpetual odor is only one of the many enigmas wrapped up in the capital’s public transportation system.

Like its nefarious plots to ruin your schedule as unexpectedly as possible. You can almost imagine its evil conversation with a figmental Metro user.

Oh, so you’d you like to arrive at your meeting on time? What’s that? You left an extra 30 minutes early AND you already have money on your Smartrip? Haha, silly commuter. I will still make you late. Surprise!!! WE ARE GOING TO HAVE TRACK WORK AT 8:00 IN THE MORNING FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON! I hope this didn’t totally ruin your day. Thanks for riding Metro! MUAHHAHAHAHAH.

But seriously. There is constantly a delay on the Metro. If it’s as much as drizzling outside, you are guaranteed a delay. It’s like that death and taxes quote. One of the universe’s “Old Reliables.” So if the weather channel calls for rain, slap on your rainboots and bring your copy of War and Peace because it’s going to be a long one.

Let’s say you had a pretty bad weekend. You slipped and broke your leg, but you still have to go in Monday morning for the daily grind. Work doesn’t end, even for the injured. Normally (a.k.a. on any other system), this wouldn’t constitute a problem. That’s why God invented elevators. Or some engineer did. Whatever. (Un)luckily for you, however, the Metro doesn’t believe in having both the elevators AND escalators working properly. It’s almost like a fun guessing game! Which system will be out of service today? My money’s on the Up escalator!

Yeah, not that fun when you have a broken leg. I recommend you get a pal to drive you in to work. I also recommend baking that friend obscene amounts of cookies because driving into DC is almost as bad as Metroing.

If all of this isn’t enough to deter you from using the Metro, you may want to sit down for this next part. The Metro, while discriminating against people with broken legs, also manages to reserve itself for the upper echelon. Weird, right? Public transportation is supposed to be something for the masses, the regular Joes, the hard-working middle class of America! The sans-culottes! (You do have to wear pants on the Metro, though.) Not in D.C. Unless you take out another mortgage, you won’t be able to afford the steep fare. You want to get to Farragut North from Shady Grove? No problem! Just hand over your first-born son.

And finally, the greatest enigma of them all. Despite ALL the problems of the Metro system, it continues to draw the masses of Washington’s professionals. Maybe’s there is something in the water… Either way, day after day, delay after delay, I, along with several of my harried and suit-clad fellow commuters, show up on that platform to wait the necessary 20 minutes to clamber aboard the relic of the ‘80s that the MTA calls a metro car. 

Here’s to the Metro: I spend more time with you than I do with most of my closest friends. May our continued and constantly strained relationship never cease.