No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin! (Pt. 3: Meet the Metra)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Ever had a wacky public transit experience? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from Tuesday's pt. 2 post.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, I was bounding down the steps of the Metra station and into collegiate/shopping wonderland of downtown Evanston, Illinois. Which, if you’re keeping track, is NOT in Wisconsin.

As my Converse hit the concrete, I was almost knocked down by the even more purposeful bounding of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and easily the most ludicrous pants I’ve seen since the Personals went thrift store shopping in Madison (which actually IS in Wisconsin) in May. These pants were pouffy and gave the illusion that the wearer had no knees. The pants' graphic print fabric was covered in kitchen utensils and salt and pepper shakers. Is this guy dressing to metaphorically match his hair? I wondered, before remembering that Evanston is, or at least was, home to a fancy-pants culinary institute. I gave the guy a free pass from the fashion police, hoping to god his fancy pants were his school uniform.

But speaking of fancy, let’s talk about the train before it chugga-chuggas out of the station. The Metra is the Cadillac of Chicago public transportation. Much as I love the El, compared to the Metra, those trains are rusty, flat-tired El Caminos. If you’re going to catch fire or derail from time to time, and serve as a urine receptacle for the city's homeless and/or frat guys, you don’t get to be the Jaguar or even the Jetta. (FYI, the bus is the bus.)

The Metra costs more – I shelled out $6.40 for my ticket from Wicker Park to Kenosha, vs. $2 for any El ride – and it costs more for good reason. It’s faster. It’s cleaner. The seats are comfier. Since it’s double-decker, you immediately feel like you’re riding one of those cute red buses in London, waving at the queen's guards from the top deck and trying to get them to crack a smile by hollering lewd puns about their big, furry hats and sharp, shiny swords (or maybe that was just me). Also, I took the Metra to see Cheap Trick for my birthday. So I heart it, plain and simple.

What’s most notable about the Metra, though, could be the riders. I can’t say what the people in the lower cars are like or what they’re doing down there because I try not to associate with people who would pass up the chance to ride up top. (What’s wrong with them? You can ride on ground level any time!) But in my car – the caboose, of course – it was clear that Metra riders are a slightly different breed. I have only two Metra rides to draw from, but I’m going to generalize anyway. (It’s my saga. I can do that.) In short, they look richer and whiter than anyone I have ever seen on public transportation.

Meet the people on the top level of the caboose with me: a man with a tie and wire-rim glasses scribbling in a legal pad; another guy pretty much the same, only slightly older, with no tie, highlighting documents instead; three men reading newspapers (none of which were Streetwise or even USA Today); a middle-aged woman in a suit whom I had assumed was a man when I sat down in front of her (She seemed peeved that I was looking around, surveying the train car . . . people don’t like it when you look around but that’s just tough. Far as I know, I've only got one shot at life on this planet, and I'M GONNA LOOK AROUND, BITCHES!); a younger, spiffier woman with an Ipod, also in a suit; and the exceptions to the rule – a girl in a pink hoodie and sneakers staring out the window and a younger guy who looked like an extra from the film Heavy Metal Parking Lot wearing a t-shirt that urged some wrestler or rapper I’d never heard of to rest in peace.

That’s who the riders were. Which means they weren’t trudging from car to car asking for “spare change,” rambling about lost tabs of LSD and how they see better without their glasses. No one is eating tortillas off the seat. I imagine they were thinking your basic nonthreatening, boring people thoughts: Should I make rice or potatoes with the chicken tonight? When is Sheryll Crow going to play the Midwest again? Isn't it about time pleated pants came back in style?

All these train people made me want to be around my people again -- people who could speak extemporaneously on the relative merits of Cinderella (the band, not the fairytale) versus Ratt (the band, not the vermin). I had an hour to kill before the train to Kenosha chugged into the station -- not a lot of time to safely skip down memory lane at Northwestern and be back without missing the train. And I'd be damned if I was missing another train!

As the caboose stopped and I bounded onto the platform at Evanston’s Davis Street Metra station, I spotted two record stores. I had a decision to make – rock-n-roll or college. Is there really any question?

(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow for my run-in with Rod Stewart's junk!)