(Mis)Adventures on public transit

Cruising around on Tiff last year definitely spoiled me.  While I certainly had some adventures and misadventures on the bike, they are thus far nothing compared to the adventures I've had on the public transit of the community of Madrid.

I live about 50 km outside of Madrid capital.  This means two things.  The first, I have a lovely commute of a three-four minute walk to work.  The second, that I have a commute of about two hours to class and one hour into the city for any fun I may want to have.  During the day, I haven't had many issues with the transit system, other than running all around town like a crazy person trying to buy my monthly pass when I first arrived.  The bus station is a quick walk from my school and home, and the bus drops me off fifty minutes later in Metro Moncloa.  The seats are too small and my knees get slightly scraped by the carpet on the back of the seat in front of me, but generally it's painless.  When I go into Madrid for fiesta, though, strange things happen.

First came Noche en Blanco, last Saturday.  I stayed out all night having fun and dancing in the (roped-off) streets and generally had a great time.  Around 5 AM I made the wise decision to crash at my friend Nate's place for a few hours.  I woke up around 8 and headed out to catch the metro and then bus home.  Leaving his building, I (quite literally) stumbled upon a young pair of people locked in an amorous embrace on the sidewalk.  Like, really amorous.  At 8 in the morning.  Chalking that up to Spanish passion, I picked my way to the metro station around mountains of beer cans and crushed beach balls. 

Then I rode the metro, which is always fun on Sunday morning with the mix of drunk people swaying or holding their heads and little old ladies on their way to church and caught the bus home, where I happily slept.  Shortly before arriving to San Lorenzo, however, things got weird.  People kept getting on the bus.  Lots of people.  Everyone was dressed in what appeared to my sleepy eyes to be traditional Hungarian garb, and carrying figures of Jesus and Mary formed from foodstuffs.  While I had had a big night, I knew it hadn't been THAT big of a night, so I asked about it: apparently some form of festival.  They all exited the bus and started walking down the street singing in what I think was Romanian.  I blinked after them and headed home.

Last night I went out to sing Karaoke (awesome).  One of my friends offered to let me crash with her for a few hours, but I decided against it, figuring that I would need to figure out the night bus system eventually.  Mistake.  If I can avoid ever having to do so again, I will.  First, I walked for what seemed like forever but actually turned out to be only like 30 minutes through a residential neighborhood to arrive at the street where the intercity night buses picked up.  Arriving early at the bus stop, I watched a few twinks pick up clients.  Oh boy.  I positioned myself next to the most formidable looking old lady I could find, and waited for the bus, which zoomed by me 30 minutes later.  I was not having that, so I chased it, and after a block or two the driver stopped and let me on.  I settled into my chair, set my alarm for 50 minutes later, and dozed off.

40 minutes later I woke up and all seemed right.  I was in a nearby town, and should arrive home soon.  Good.  10 minutes later I woke up to the bus driver turning off all the lights, announcing the end of the route, and kicking me and the two teenagers left on the bus off.  Somehow, he had gone past our town and we had missed it (note: my town was supposed to be the end stop!)  We looked at each other, discussed the situation for a minute, and then started walking along the highway in the direction we figured was town.

Yeah, it wasn't.  After a few minutes I wound up at a housing development that I had never seen before.  I started crying.  It was pitch dark, one street light illuminating my world, and I was on the side of a highway with two drunk fourteen year-olds.  Other than the entrance to the development, there were no signs of civilization.  Somewhere, a cow mooed.  The girl screamed.  That, at least, made us laugh and kicked me into action.

The kids didn't have any credit on their phones.  I called my room mate (thankfully, he was still up at 6:30 AM) and sobbed "I don't know where I am, I don't know what's going on, and I don't know what happened."  Luckily, he was very helpful and got us walking in the right direction (the way we'd come from naturally).  He gave me the number for a few taxi companies, and they all told me no, because Spanish taxis don't operate at the ungodly hour of 6:30 AM.

So the kids and I walked single file along the shoulder of the high way for about a kilometer or so, cars whizzing past every so often and making the poor girl scream, my keys tucked into my fingers Wolverine-style and a pen clutched in my other fist.  Eventually I saw something that gave me hope: the crematorium of San Lorenzo.  We were going the right way!  A few minutes after that, we were in a housing development that I recognized, and the domes of the monastery came into view in the distance.  Now that it was the acceptable hour of 7 AM, I called us taxis, and we headed home our separate ways.  The taxi driver tried to chat with me, which I was generally unresponsive to.  I finally fell into my bed at 7:15, only 3 hours and 45 minutes after I parted with my friends for what I figured would be an hour and a half-trip home.

My angry hate letter to the bus commissioner?  Sent.
My plans for tonight? Sleeping at a friend's.