It’s one helluva ride. I’ve always been fascinated by trains. My grandfather worked with the Philippine National Railways (PNR) and would occasionally take me on the job with him.
In Hollywood, 99% of the time, movies are set in New York (how else can tourist picture America without Wall Street, Times Square, etc., anyway?) which led me to having this picture of subways as something romantic (and perhaps somewhere I can bump into my potential other misanthrope half —possibly wearing a nice pea coat and reading Murakami). NOT.
Instead, I was welcomed by the stench of junk piling in the rails, the sight of moldy walls and the (gasp!) rats bigger than Paris Hilton’s Tinkerbell.
Two years and two months later, I can proudly say I’ve gotten used to the horrifying view. I know my subways as much as I know my alphabets in kindergarten. The subways can be pretty gross —humid, stinky and even sticky at times but I’ve seen it’s loveliness too —the tourist lovers holding hands, a family on vacation anxious for their next stop and the others who are lost in their maps.
As for you other misanthrope half in a pea coat, I’m given up on you. I found someone else. And yes, he reads Murakami too.