Beijing Subway

Wudaokou is one of those places that one never has to leave. Fortunately for me, I have to leave this (practically) Western sanctuary for work and venture out into the unknown of Beijing sprawl. To do this, I spend a lot of time on the Beijing metro and it encompasses all the elements of a love hate relationship. It is an incredibly cheap form of transportation, costing only 2 yuan (or $.30) a trip to anywhere in the city. The extensive and efficient system allows me to rub elbows (and even more than that during rush hour) with a decent sample of Beijing- migrant workers with their dusty toolboxes, highschool students in their matching jump suits, hip kids with big hair and studded boots, white collar workers, etc. And everyone, of course, is on their cellphone. Texting, sexting, playing games, watching movies, anything a cellphone is capable of doing. Transfers from one line to the other act as a form of exercise for me as I find myself going up and down stairs, speed walking to avoid the impenetrable wall of people and the occasional use of brute force -think of football training- attempting to enter and exit a crowded compartment (it gets really crowded). The experience is also a time for me to exercise my underutilized brain by listening to podcasts or doing some crossword puzzles. Since Chinese people often think I am also Chinese, I get a lot of curious stares when they see me writing or texting in English (because it is both crowded on the train and Chinese people have no shame about snooping). On days when I am tired and search of a rare, coveted seat, I gauge each seated passenger's likelihood of getting off at the nearest stop or transfer and hover over them in hope that I was right and they leave at the next stop. More often than not I am wrong and spend the entirety of the trip bitter and angry. Maybe I shouldn't look so eager when I hover.