A series of untimely transfers

I really wanted to see Slumdog Millionaire. So when I saw an advertisement from Fox Searchlight to see the movie for free, I considered my meager earnings and signed up for two free tickets. In Baltimore. On a Monday night. 

Because I used to take the MARC from Penn Station to Union Station when I lived in college, and didn’t have a car, this didn’t worry me. The plan was to take the bus to the Metro, ride the Metro to Union Station, and take the MARC from Union Station to Penn Station, in Baltimore. Penn Station is approximately two blocks away from the movie theatre. I checked the MARC schedule obsessively through the afternoon and determined that as long as I caught the 6:05 p.m. I’d make the 7:30 showing. This was the last possible train I could catch and not be late and I expect the two previous trains would be easy to obtain.

I allowed for my trip to take three hours, leaving work one hour early, allowing thirty minutes to wait for my bus (the route is considered reliable, and scheduled to arrive every ten minutes—usually it’s closer to 15) and thirty minutes to reach Union Station (this is more than reasonable).

It took more than an hour and a half to get from my station to Union Station. For the first time in my life, the MARC left the station late. (I’ve arrived late, but never departed late. I know this is probably rare, but I’ve come to expect the trains to run on time.)

We hit every red light getting to the station. The Metro car was moving with so much efficiency that it trailed the car in front of us and we would frequently stop. That the driver spoke clearly and announced the next station and time at each stop only added to the anxiety. For the first time I wished the driver would mumble incoherent announcements over the speakers and we could ignore the slow speed at which we were traveling.

Everyone that exited was a tourist. Or an octogenarian. None of them understood that you must stay to the right. Even men and women fulfilling the stereotype of the 9-to-5ers with their running shoes, jackets and briefcases, were befuddled with the general lack of direction. Several were incensed when I dashed up the left side of the escalator. (Clearly we'll need to re-visit the rules of public transit.)

The general malaise and zombie-like shuffle in no particular direction continued upstairs, and when I had escaped the vortex of inefficient walking, I reached the ticket machine. It was 5:58 p.m. After a struggle (which didn't last as long as it felt) I dashed about the platforms looking for the train. My inner monologue looked something like this:

Why isn't the departure listed? Is the website wrong? Shouldn't there be a train before 7? What kind of world are we living in? Could all of these people be boarding a train that isn't to Baltimore or Frederick? This is insane!

I found the lone board listing a 6:05 train on platform 11. Why it wasn't on the other boards, why it wasn't in front of the train, escaped me. Or maybe it was there, and the transit universe is plotting against me.

On the train a man [fairly] forced me to into the middle seat, sandwiched between an angrily apathetic rider and the businessman.  When I did, he dumped his briefcase and disappeared until long after the train left the station. Until we departed desperate passengers demanded I move the briefcase, despite the bulging backpack on my lap. Finally, when people "asked" I said, "It can't belong to either of us. Our laps are full of our own belongings." This statement did not go over well, and neither did my follow-up, "You can move it, but you're responsible for his return."

We arrived in Baltimore at 7:15 p.m. This final break, after a dash across the bridge in the rain, allowed dinner at Sofi's. I sat in my seat, in the back row, at 7:28 p.m. That I made it at all is a miracle. It almost makes me want to never take any train or bus again.