Anne Travels: Washington, D.C.

All hail the almighty metro.
After navigating the labyrinth that is the Franconia-Springfield parking garage (unscathed, mind you), we embark on this metal tube which hurls us to a new destination. We put our faith in this hollow casing that will hurtle us (and a myriad of other D.C. denizens) to the outside world, because when you're actually in the metro (for any length of time) you feel as through you're transported into some sort of covert, creepy, underground lair. You crave sunshine; it comes only in doses. You crave fresh air; it's much better than the scent of the man next to you. You just want freedom; it is only nine stops away. Then you will tumble out of the metro, rushing just like everybody else to the same place.
Alas, despite these sharing a cramped space with a myriad of people (from all walks of life) is
adventurous. You see things. You see people, interesting and boring people. Most importantly though, you see different people.
There is the kind mother who wears khaki pants and a denim jacket. (Isn't that the staple outfit for a reasonable woman?)
There are the working sort whose eyes are glued to a mechanical device of some sort; they carry brief-cases, look important and wear neutral colors.
There are the cheerful tourists and the disgruntled tourists.
There are the happy babies and the screaming babies.
There are the dowdy dressers (in over-sized tee shirts and denim skirts to their ankles) and the hipster trendsetters (who still wear over-sized tee shirts and denim skirts to their ankles but manage to look cool).
The metro is the great equalizer. After all, when we board, we are all at its mercy and we become its minions; we are forced to bond with the many enclosed within its shellacked walls; we are all forced to tread upon the same dingy, apricot carpet and sit on the same vinyl, scuffed seats. Ah, blessed be those seats, because they are difficult to procure.
All hail the almighty metro; without you we would actually have to drive in Washington, D.C.
And that, my friends, is probably a fate worse than being smashed into the armpit of a stranger. Or, is it?