The Subway

I am not a stupid person.  I have my faults, sure.  But stupidity is not one of them.  I'm college educated.  I have a great deal of common sense and decent reasoning and problem solving skills.  But if there is one thing on earth that can make me feel stupid, it's the subway.  Any subway.  I'm from a small town.  The nearest city is St Louis and it's over two hours away.   Trying to get anywhere on a subway is the most baffling experience.  I always feel like such a dumb ass.  I live in a town where I can (nearly) run to Wal-Mart, buy some paper towels, come home and make some coffee all during a commercial break.  It's a very small town with no need for public transportation.  Buses, subways and taxis are completely foreign to me.

My mom and I are in Chicago for the weekend and, of course, we are using public transportation.  I'm feeling good about it, because after five years of travel, I have finally (kind of) gotten the hang of subways.  You get the card at the little kiosk thing.  Stick the card in the turnstile thing then pick your subway.  ***there are two sets of problems with subways.  the card and then the actual subway***  This particular day I'm feeling confident.  I've got this.  I'm on it.  I even tell Mom that I've gotten it figured out.  I tell her to watch me walk up to the kiosk and put money on the card like a pro.  Watch me, I says.  

We walk downstairs to the subway and I STRUT, we'll call it strut, to the kiosk.  I get my subway card out.  I get ready to put the card in the kiosk and this little old lady saddles up next to me.  She's about four feet tall, maybe seventy years old.  I can tell she is completely bewildered.  She needs help.  "Sorry lady", I think to myself, "I have to concentrate".  So I turn back to Mom and ask her if she can find a transit worker to help this poor (stupid idiot) lady.  I look at her with pity because it must be sooo awful to be so stupid.  Really, it must hurt.  Me, I'm not stupid.  I've got it figured out.  I'm a boss at subways.

Back to the business at hand, I stick the card in the little slot.  The machine kicks it out.  I stick the card in the machine again.  Again, it gets kicked out.  I do this seven or eight more times.  I stick it in, the machine kicks it out.  Over and over.  

By now the transit worker has helped the poor (stupid idiot) lady with her subway ticket.  I can't take it anymore so I turn back to Mom and I say "Why isn't this working???"  

The transit worker looks at me, with pity, and says "Because that's your room key."  I look down and, sure enough, I'm holding the key to room 414 of the Hilton on Michigan Ave.  I had repeatedly--repeatedly--stuck my hotel room key in the subway token kiosk.  

So, I check my pocket, find my subway token and put it in the kiosk.  Worked like a charm.  I heard that lady laughing as she walked away.  I'm sure I made the Chicago subway Christmas newsletter that year.  I was mortified, and not just because I tried to add money to my room key, but because I was so confident, so sure I had it figured out.  I looked down on the little old lady who asked me for help.  I rolled my eyes at her, judged her, because she was too dumb to get a subway token.  At least she was smart enough to not use a room key.  So, on that day, I got my ass handed to me.  By karma? Life?  Who knows.  But I DO know that I will never be that cocky and arrogant again.  I kept my subway token.  I taped it into my travel journal.  Every time I see it, I just laugh and laugh.  It serves as a good reminder to not get too big for your britches, as my dad says.

That is exactly what I looked like walking up to the machines.  That is not what I looked like walking away...