Let’s not kid ourselves, the Underground is like a cult. Our uniforms that attract stupid questions like magnets, the head nods to anyone else with the logo, shared exasperated glances across crowded platforms, jumping gratefully into the cab when faced with the crammed and smelly nightmare of a crush-loaded rush hour train. Trying to learn an impassive expression to hide behind when people start staring in the wake of vague announcements. Listening to the trains rattle and hum, even though it isn’t my line, almost hoping something goes a little bit wrong just so you can see what really happens when the shit hits the fan.
It takes some getting used to. The first day in the depot was like the world’s most unsettling (and lame) amusement park. Huge signs everywhere bellowing their instructions to dress up like a radioactive satsuma or be mercilessly killed, eardrum-piercing whistles telling you the huge lump of metal right next to you is about to come shrieking and clunking out of its shed. Dirt, God, so much dirt. Lifting seats, unearthing secret compartments and the well-hidden gizmos that make it almost impossible for anyone to go hurtling towards death and dismemberment. Diagrams full of dancing coloured lines that mean nothing at all, suddenly transformed into vital veins and capilliaries that your mind learns to trace instantly. Now when the train cries out its dismay or sudden impotence, the sound alone is enough to tell you exactly where it hurts.
Not that you treat these metallic monsters as wounded children, motors and electricity don’t care how much you want to make everything right. Fix them as they demand or stay stuck forever, what do machines care if they grind to a sudden halt? Forty years these particular ones have been rattling along the same tunnels, trapped in a continuous shuttle from North to South and back, returned to the yard at night to be poked and prodded by men (yes, only men it seems) who have brake grease in every line of their flesh. So many things that can go wrong, one component enough to cripple the system, both on the trains and all those miles of tracks, not to mention the hundreds of signals. It’s frankly a miracle that it doesn’t go up the wall more often.
Strange vocabulary assimilated in hours, it’s only when you talk to a civilian about the combine, the pipe, or getting juiced that you realise they’re not quite getting it. Trash-talking the other lines like playground rivals, which you swore in the first week you’d never be sad enough to sink to. Collecting an anthology of macabre one-unders, unable to avoid the fixation that seems to grab everyone who hasn’t experienced it. The stories never come from the actual driver involved, but some are legendary, and you unconsciously store them for down the pub or for the day when you’ll be the seasoned pro scaring a newbie.
It’s not just a job, as trite as that might sound. It’s a whole bloody lifestyle.
*This was originally posted on my old LJ, but since I’m getting back to my actual career at the moment, I thought a reminder of when I was fresh-faced and easily impressed was in order.
Borrowed from JoshWeller on Twitter. Sums up the feelings of this transport worker nicely. Honestly, I finally succumbed to a nap yesterday afternoon (we’re using the word ‘worker’ loosely here) and woke up to this little catastrophe. Despite my own flirtations with Conservatism in the past few years, even I couldn’t vote for these twats.
I know I was just raving about my unbridled love for New York City, and I’d hate for you to find me fickle; but damned if I’m not utterly, ridiculously in love with Chicago, Illinois.
Not sure I could sum it up in just one reason why, and hell, I only ended up here because of a colossal letdown and changing plans for an already booked trip elsewhere. Then it turns out to be just about the best part of my entire time away, so it just goes to show that I know nothing, clearly.
It’s a beautiful city – the dramatic skyline to rival New York, but on wider streets that call to mind Parisian boulevards. A perfect mix of space and spectacle, in other words. It goes without saying that the world-famous architecture is a treat for the eyes, but more than anything the order of it all is bizarrely soothing. Legend has it that we have Mrs O’Leary’s cow to thank for burning most of the city down in 1871, thus allowing them to plan and create the aesthetically pleasing neatness that forms the city today.
The best view of it all comes from the famous Sears Tower (and if you call it the Willis Tower, you’re just a dumb tourist. If you want to hear how Chicagoans feel about corporate rebranding of institutions, get them talking about those New York interlopers – Macy’s) Seeing the city from the 103rd floor is really seeing it – and it’s the 5th highest building in the world, after all. Not a problem for someone like myself who has absolutely no fear of heights. Never troubled me, in fact I’ve hurtled off a bridge in my time without worrying too much about it.
Turns out that bravado evaporates when faced with the simple task of stepping out onto perspex over 103 floors of um, nothing. Now I understand why people describe vertigo as such a violent reaction, having never experienced it before I thought they were a bunch of exaggerating wusses. I won’t doubt their agonies again because that was a purely physical reaction as my feet ignored my mental commands to step forward. Perhaps it was the lack of feeling anchored/tied to anything, but my knees locked in defiance and my stomach performed a triple somersault that would make any 12 year old gymnast green with envy.
Of course, once you actually force yourself out there, the feet register a solid surface underneath them and the freaking out storm quells. I tried not to be too jealous of the people who could not only look down while standing out there, but in fact roll around and act like they weren’t a million miles up on just a piece of fortifed…whatever. A humbling experience, to be sure.
It’s addictive as a place to explore though – the fact that Chicago sits on the shore of Lake Michigan just might be its most attractive feature. The sand and the fresh air is delightful, even with crashing waves to set the scene. Still, it’s fresh rather than sea water and I must admit the boat cruise I took was the highlight of just about everything. The guy taking the tour said I looked ‘blissful’ and I’d really have to agree.
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- This is what we call a ‘rictus grin’ JFC
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- And just like that.. I have a new team ;)
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- Let’s Go Cubbies
Sunday brought my most ‘American’ of experiences – the baseball game. I’m not going to rewrite history here, I didn’t even think it was a sport in the true sense of the word before I saw it for myself. Whether it was the easy camaraderie on the El to the game, or the warm welcome from the stadium staff, but by the time my new cap was in place and my ‘Cubbies’ scarf was tied around my neck, I was beginning to get the bug. This was not, after all, just cricket without the crumpets.
I was surprised to discover the rules aren’t any more sophisticated than rounders, though all the statistical side of it is a tad too nerdy for me I’m afraid to say. The hecklers became apparent after a few beers, and I knew I had found my people when they started casting aspersions about the Astros’ relief pitcher’s wife. But for the accents and the action on the field, it could almost have been Anfield on a spring Saturday afternoon.
Alas, my Liverpool luck seemed to have travelled with me, and those darned Astros sneaked a 3-2 victory on the day. The Cubs might suck, but they’re my boys now and I’ll be keeping an eye on their scores while squinting at the jargon that comes with this funny, insular little sport. I wouldn’t have had such a perfect weekend without such amazing hosts, so many heartfelt thanks to Mr & Mrs ‘Flippet’ for their awesomeness.
Chicago, I think we can safely say I’ll be back.
