next stop hope

Among other things Spanish, pig feet and words like membrillo not included, I miss the public transportation.  I accomplished so much while being zoomed back and forth on the high-speed trains or while being mushed against strangers in the metro underneath Madrid.  Books were read, scarves were knitted and naps were taken.  I was in good company.

Through the cloud of sleep I loved when I heard Proxima estacion: Esperanza. Next stop: Hope.  What a great name for a metro stop. Mexico and Manu Chao first introduced me to the comforting, prerecorded voice promising hope and peace.

Somehow, while napping on the transfers between point A (usually Atocha) and point B (usually Barajas), I always seemed to wake up just as the doors were opening. I muddled along, becoming one with the river of pushy commuters and confused American tourists to the next train or up to the surface, exiting the underworld of green florescence that did nothing to hide the greasy dark circles under everyone's eyes. Returning to reality, climbing the sticky stairs and being blinded by the rejuvenating sunshine, was usually accompanied by a deep breath of the stale air being propelled upward through the vents of the departing train that had delivered me so safely at the destination promised.
Sometimes, I am not so sure of my own abilities behind the wheel of a car to complete that task and wish that I could have an hour to read my pile of books instead of bobbing and weaving to avoid all of the speed racers on the interstate. And a nap is never counterproductive... especially in Spain.