The Inhuman Condition

It was rush hour in Rome, and I was at a Metro stop near the Termini, maybe Cavour or Colloseo; I forget. It was crazy busy, and the cars were so full that it reminded me of the bullet trains in Japan, where a crew of pushers would physically jam people into the cars so the trains could leave the stations on time. 

Deciding that being crammed into a subway car with a hundred complete strangers was just the ticket, I jostled forward with the rest of the crowd on the platform. The cars were completely full, of course, but we pressed up against the phalanx of defenders at the open doors, confident that there would be enough room for everyone to board—and somehow, there was!

The doors closed, and we were off with a whoosh. Silence descended, and suddenly, the only communication was through wry smiles, raised eyebrows, shrugs, and hand gestures as we all began rocking slowly back and forth like penitents at a revival meeting. The hard-core locals exuded an air of quiet resignation as if to say, "Well, this can't last forever. Eventually, the riff-raff will get off, and we can return to some semblance of normalcy, perhaps even find a seat." 

For those visitors who had braved the heaving, shoving mass of human flesh jammed into the cars, it was a great experience, not unlike the mosh pit at a rave. Imagine scores of perfect strangers, all crammed together, barely able to move, hurtling along in the dark, underground, like Space Mountain at Disney World. Men guarded their wallets and cell phones; ladies, their purses and virtue.

Finally, with a tortured screech of the brakes, the train arrived at my stop, and I was spat out onto the platform like a wet watermelon seed. The experience had been so unique and surreal that I turned at the last instant, raised my cell phone, and captured that moment for this blog post. Oh, and those white streaks on the windows? It's exactly what you think it is.