At the top of my list of '100 Most Unpleasant Things' is standing in a steamy, hot, overcrowded subway car when it's about 100 degrees outside. Already 'glistening' from the walk to the subway station you then have to wait for the train on a subterranean platform where it is no doubt ten degrees hotter than outside. Everyone else down there with you is in quiet reflection mode, the air is thick and heavy, and the stillness gives you the sudden wherewithal to realize that you've probably just sweat through your shirt when you start thinking, 'how the hell is it still so hot?' It's as if the air is sick with fever and slinks down the stairs to lean on you while it sweats the sickness out.
If the platform is where hot air goes to be sick, then the cars are where hot air goes to die. This was the situation I found myself in yesterday, surrounded by steamy, dying air and seriously overheated people standing too close to one another. Looking into the eyes of my fellow passengers all I could see was quiet, melancholic resignation. Some people leaned against hand rails with their heads cocked back resting against the glass, seeming to be concentrating on not passing out. I looked over at Graham and saw a single bead of sweat slowly slip down his brow, he looked back at me and said "Don't talk to me right now, too hot".
Intolerable heat has a way of lowering your irritation threshold, so when I saw a man with a guitar and harmonica step into the car I couldn't help but roll my eyes and groan 'Oh God, no'. The last time I experienced a subway musician it was another harmonica player who was either delusional or plain crazy. He clearly didn't know how to play a harmonica and sang as a deaf person would, with no concern for how he sounded. I tried to prepare myself for the onslaught that was about to begin.
But then this new guy started playing his guitar and it sounded good. Then another guy, squatting on a wooden box across the aisle from him started playing the bongos, and it sounded better. Then the harmonica came in and it was really good. I looked around at my fellow sufferers and we were suddenly smiling, bobbing our heads and tapping our toes to the beat. It was an impromptu little concert and we had prime front row seats to the show. I was enjoying the music so much at this point that I felt terribly guilty for having wished them out of existance before, so I took out my wallet and grabbed as many coins as I could spare (there's a coin crisis going on) for the hat that I knew was bound to come my way.
I was sad to see them get off at the next stop, I wanted to ask them to stay, play again, let me forget my plight and lose myself in your song, but I don't know how to say that in Spanish. The thought to follow them even crossed my mind but following them wasn't going to get me home any faster. So I let them go and swore to post about them when I got home.
So what's the moral to this story? Don't judge a book by its cover? There's a silver lining to every cloud? No, it's if you like the music then fork over some pesos please.
Excellent description of extreme discomfort. Reminded me of when I lived in Thailand and used to commute from where I lived to where I worked through a tapioca plantation. The air was so humid that it combined with the tapioca dust and actually became visible as you approached the factory. Anyone passing by on the road outside was coated with a vile, sticky layer of the stuff. We used to pay the driver of our bus an extra 5 baht to get up to 60mph to lessen exposure. PS Thanks for the flowers. Mum rather thoughtlessly opened the gate for the delivery women and Gunner, who was waiting, nearly savaged her. Love, Dad
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