Winter 2005
You Can Ride, But You Can't Hide

Apparently, the hottest spot to meet and greet new people and reconnect with old friends is public transportation. Over the last few months numerous people have commented to me that they’ve run into an old friend, high school acquaintance, college roommate, or spring fling while riding the Metro. Even more have met a suitable suitor while riding the rails (not just the crazy, toothless guy who hits on everyone, male and female alike). In a city the size of Washington, with a system as far-reaching as Metro, is it possible to find an old friend or new love while navigating the urban jungle?

Just last week, my boyfriend called to tell me that he’d been delayed for 45 minutes on Metro not because of train malfunctions but because he was chatting up an old friend he had run into on the train. They exchanged business cards and promised to get together for a drink sometime soon. Over cosmos that evening at happy hour, I figured it was only natural that I query the girls with regards to connecting while they’re connecting at Metro Center. Everyone had a story to share of a friend she had recognized on the train or someone she had heard about who had met the man of her dreams en route to some other destination. Everyone, that is, but me. Was I the only one who hadn’t had a run-in with my long-lost doubles ping-pong partner while riding transit? I began to feel like one of those people who read the “I Saw You” ads in the CityPaper, just hoping someone was out there searching for me.

Later that week, I received a “Guess who I just saw” e-mail from Erika about this kid who had graduated with us. They quickly reminisced during the three-stop train ride, caught up on life since high school (he wasn’t that good of a friend, so six minutes was ample time to cover eleven years) and said goodbye. I was instantly jealous that it wasn’t I who had seen the acquaintance. No fair! I had visions of myself staking out Metro Center at rush hour, just sitting on the bench where the trains arrive, casually peeking over my issue of (what else) the CityPaper, looking to see whom I knew. I was afraid I might become like Tom Hanks in that movie about the guy who started to live in the airport, forever underground in the Metro Station until I became a piece of urban lore about which parents warned their children.

Nevertheless, I was determined to run into someone I knew, even if it killed me. For the next week, I was maniacal about riding Metro every chance I got, even if it was a short distance that I’d normally walk. I never left the house without my hair perfect and my makeup done. If I was going to run into someone, then by gosh, I was going to look good doing it! But a week of that was exhausting, so I finally gave up and went back to my normal routine. If fate wasn’t going to work with me on this one, then I wasn’t going to push it, either.

As is usually the case in these stories, the minute I stop paying attention is when “it” (whatever “it” is) smacks me in the face. I had just come from a swim at my boyfriend’s pool and I was all a mess—straggly hair, no makeup, you get the picture—and whom do I see but the president of the junior class getting on the train. Thank goodness I had a CityPaper (of course) to hide behind. She looked stunning, as she had in eleventh grade, and I suddenly reverted to the geeky, gawky teen I had been. I jumped out at my stop as quickly as possible, nearly decapitating a little boy who was trying to get on the train in my effort to escape Madam President’s view.

I quickly called Erika as I was hiking up the escalator at Dupont Circle to tell her about the sighting. She started laughing at me, reminding me that for the past several weeks I had been insufferable, dying to see someone I had known in a past life. Even though she was right, I would much rather have seen someone I had known well than the most popular girl in school, especially since I looked like the dregs of humanity. The only benefit was that I had been riding the train instead of spending money on taxis or driving myself, so at least I could take comfort in the thought that I was a good citizen (albeit momentarily unkempt).

I guess, when all is said and done, you can only run from your past so long until it ends up riding the train with you, and then you can either choose to strike up a conversation with it or hide behind the CityPaper like an antisocial adolescent. I vowed that in the future I would walk up to my past, stare it in the face, introduce it to my present, and sit down to enjoy the ride, wherever it took me.