By Andrew Schmiege, edited by Bailey Jaworski
I met a girl in the subway and we never exchanged names; I’ll never see her again. But that’s how the subway works, isn’t it? The subway promises nothing. It is assumed that the commuter agrees to the contract on one of those signs upon entering: “The subway is NOT RESPONSIBLE for lost or stolen items.” Its only concession is that it will take you where you want to go; however, many times upon entering, one remembers that he doesn’t know exactly where he wants to go, yet he is swiftly ushered forward regardless.
At 8:00 a.m. the red line in Santiago, Chile is packed. Many times no one can enter the train at the Moneda station, which is right downtown—those trying to get to work in the suburbs need to either take a bus (many times equally full) or wait for their chance to box-out the rest of the commuters and smash their way into a wagon. She, like me, had a greater measure of manners than those who had lived their lives there in Santiago and had thrown subway chivalry and decorum out the window long ago. We preferred to squeeze into the train with more dignity—many times costing expediency. Fortunately, because of this we found ourselves waiting together, hoping that, on the next train, at least one person would get out so that one of us could get in.
She always got to the Moneda station at 8:05 a.m. We waited with each other a couple days a week for about three weeks. She was from Venezuela. Absolutely gorgeous. Never really discovered why exactly she wanted to talk to me. Perhaps because I was a gringo who spoke Spanish better than 99 percent of other gringos. Her smile was the size of a scimitar, and it had not a tinge of dissimulation or inauthenticity. She was inquisitive about me and why I was only in Santiago for five weeks. It’s an exciting sensation when an attractive person is interested in you. Many times it is as if we bachelors are asking all the questions only to receive one word responses, but with esta venezolana we had a balanced amount of give and take dialogue.
Most times we didn’t ride the train together, for only one person could squeeze on at a time. I tried to be as chivalrous as possible and help push her in first while I would just wait for the next train. Her smile would thank me as the train disappeared horizontally into a renaissance vanishing point, and I stood there behind the yellow line with subway security workers making sure I was behind the yellow line.
One morning it was packed as usual. The train came up and a person got off. One gets off, one gets on: that was the accepted and unwritten norm. We did the usual, making sure she would be able to coalesce with the rest of the riding mob. Then, this day, she pushed and boxed out and pushed and looked at me cajolingly. So I got on with her. This confined mob is many times a lawless and disgusting thing so early in the morning. One must hope that everyone brushed their teeth. The best part of this crowded twenty-minute ride was that I was smashed up against her. We talked, of course. Sometimes looking at each other, but if we both looked at each other we basically would have had to kiss, so most times we talked past each other. It would have been weird to kiss her then and there…even though other couples showed little restraint.
Maybe I should have done it.
One day my travel companion and I just got sick of using the subway at its peak hour, and I never saw her again. Meeting someone in a foreign country is just as exciting as visiting a foreign country. The assumed attitude of Carpe Diem seeps from you like Oxygen from a plant. But this feeling is like the subway: it makes no promises, you can decide to get on, but you may not know what direction to take once you’re on your way. Whitman said, “You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.” I never found out the venezolana’s name because I never asked, and I never asked because I had previously found a different Chilean girl. But when finding a girl in a foreign country there are no promises. It’s a circumstance as impetuous as the subway. I may see her again someday, but probably not; I may be heading down the rails in the right direction, and I may not.