Thoughts on the London Tube
This post originally appeared on CAPA World Blog on October 9, 2015.
Back in my life in the United States, where I live amongst small towns connected by back roads and a 20-mile single-lane highway, in an area too spacious and green to even be called suburban, I get everywhere I need to go in a 2007 Toyota Corolla named Audrey.
Over the past two years that I've been in possession of her, grumbling about the price of gas and the inconvenience of oil changes, little did I know that this small vehicle was possibly the biggest luxury money could buy.
I have heard many people say that cars are a terrible investment, that they decrease in value the moment you drive them off the lot, and that from then on, you just keep pouring money into them to maintain them, year after year, as you would a child.
Believe me, it's worth it.
Never before in my life have I longed for a material object as desperately as I do for my little golden car. Never have I gone so long without feeling the soothing hum of the road rolling beneath a set of tires as I was on my way anywhere, even to do even the simplest of things — to pick up some takeout, to return a book to the library, to shop for groceries, to get to work on time.
I never realized how liberating it was to have a car radio and speaker system, or how fantastic it felt to travel while enclosed in a 100-cubic-foot upholstered bubble. Alone. And I certainly never thought I would actually daydream about turning a key in an ignition and backing out of a driveway. But alas, it would seem I have taken many an ordinary, middle-class, American amenity for granted.
The tube has been a rude awakening for me.
Arnos Grove tube stop on the Piccadilly Line, London, England
My homestay in Arnos Grove, North London, is a good hour away from anything in the central part of the city. This means an hour commute to my classes at CAPA. And an hour commute to my internship. And an hour commute to any field trip I'm attending or museum I'm visiting or sight I'm seeing.
Basically, it's an hour to anywhere.
Which means waking up two hours before I need to get somewhere in the morning. And if I've forgotten anything for the day, well, that's too bad. It's really not worth the two-hour round trip to go pick it up again.
Yes, I am used to a considerable drive to get to work or school or the supermarket or the movies in Pennsylvania. It's not like everything is close together in farm country. But here are the differences between a leisurely drive there and a day here on the tube:
Speed-walking uphill for ten minutes to make it to the nearest tube station, freezing even in my fall jacket because the mornings are always cold and it is very possibly raining.
Waiting, along with a large crowd of other morning commuters, for the train to arrive whenever it is convenient for the train. Which usually isn't more than a few minutes, but it can feel very long with my bag digging into my shoulder, growing heavier with every moment.
Watching the tube arrive, full of passengers packed together like cattle, pressed against the windows and doors, and trying to squeeze into the available space with the rest of the crowd waiting on the platform. And it helps to be aggressive, or I'll be waiting five minutes for the next tube with just as little possibility of fitting into that one.
Standing, possibly for an hour if the seats never empty out, pressed against the backs and fronts of strangers, falling back and forth with the jostling movements of the train, sweating profusely in the stagnant air even though I was chilled to the bone ten minutes ago.
Shuffling off the platform, into the corridors and up multiple escalators in a dense current of fellow commuters, through which there is no hope of moving quickly, and running the risk of losing the heel of my shoe somewhere along the way (no, that is not hypothetical).
Speed-walking for another ten minutes to reach my destination, by which time I will be exhausted, irritated, and suffering from a body temperature imbalance.
Repeating the process in eight hours.
Granted, these are likely the common characteristics of any system of public transportation in any major metropolis. I just haven't had to deal with them before.
Waiting for the train home to arrive
But I am adjusting to this aspect of my life in London, although my patience with it comes and goes. I'm no longer worried about getting lost in the city or missing my tube stop or wondering how to get home.
As far as navigation goes, the London Underground is actually very well-organized. There are tube maps at every entrance, signs with labels and directions every forty paces, and complete lists of tube stops at every platform. It's easy to make your way back from anywhere on the tube, and as long as I can find a tube station, I know I'll get where I need to go.
And there are ways to make the ride worthwhile. Like watching the children in their private school uniforms, or the businessmen with their morning papers, or the teenagers that get up to give older men and women their seats. Like closing my eyes and plugging in my headphones and swaying with the momentum of the train, relinquishing control, letting go.
And even when I'm dreaming about the feeling of the gas pedal underneath my foot again, wishing for a way out of the compression of the crowd and the stress of the journey, I can try to taste the uniqueness of this new situation and absorb the culture that I'm experiencing.
Because the tube, with all its difficulties, is part of that culture.
This is London, and with all its ups and downs and delays and crowds, I am living a London life.
