Diary of a Gold Liner: February
Erin Douglass
February 2, on the Red Line — Tonight I take the Red Line to Vermont and Sunset. Then I catch a local bus — the 2 — to Alexandria for my class a few blocks away. The ride is short and anything but sweet, with its gruff driver, pushy passengers and the requisite odd smell. I am in heaven. A scowling guy with a shaved head offers me his seat, but I say no thanks, my stop is next.
February 8, eastbound — I've decided this morning that Gold Line trains were designed for sleeker shapes than those Americans tend to favor. The seats are small, and the rows close together. A man who boards two stops after me is well over six feet tall and probably 300 pounds. His subsequent stashing of self and bag into a seat is a daily triumph. Where does it all go?
February 14, westbound — I miss driver proximity. On the bus, drivers get to deal with you — and you with them — coming and going. The fug of their moods and the quirks of their personalities fill the bus, even when they don't say a word.
On the Gold Line, "operators" are sealed in a pod at the front of the train. Occasionally, they choose to pre-empt the recorded voice announcing stops or the closing of doors. Many encourage us to read the emergency procedures just in case. But usually these Metro wraiths silently guide the train down its dedicated track. I've taken to smiling broadly, even waving, when I glimpse the face at the front. Most wave back heartily, thrilled they've been seen behind their curve of tinted glass.
February 22, westbound — A drippy morning after a holiday weekend of pounding rain. A mudslide in the Arroyo Seco has forced Gold Line trains to run once every 20 minutes, instead of the usual seven to 10. I'm cold and annoyed.
February 25, eastbound — An MTA worker clad in bright orange boards the train before we leave, a pile of papers in hand.
"Would anyone like information about the emergency schedule?"
Heads look up and nod. He slowly walks down the aisle, handing out papers like a teacher with an extra-credit assignment. Almost everyone accepts. When I receive my paper gift, I read it top to bottom.
"The following action will be necessary before we can resume operation on both tracks," it begins. "Remove all dirt and debris from behind the retaining wall, for approximately 300 feet, immediately east of the northbound track."
The paper explains that due to the amount of debris on the tracks, the tricky location and the crappy weather, the clean-up could take a few days. A modified schedule fills the back of the page. I sit back and smile. I like this announcement. It assumes we riders pay attention — and are smart enough to be served the details. "Ah, yes. The 300 feet just east of the north track...that's been a tough spot in the past. Godspeed."