The air is thick. The atmosphere steamy. You find yourself uncomfortably nestled in the sweaty armpit of an old man. You can feel the breath of the woman next to you on the side of your face. You can smell the remnants of her lunch, muddled with sweat, and someone else's overpowering aftershave. You're pressed together, skin to skin, like sardines in a tin can.
It's dirty. It's dark. The glare of bright, artificial, white lights illuminate the way. There's something cold, unnerving, unnatural, about the way they crackle and flicker.
Nobody talks. Nobody makes eye contact. We stand metres apart, waiting to be inevitably pushed closer together. Yesterday's newspapers flutter effortlessly, elegantly across the platform like tumbleweed in a desert.
Nobody talks. Nobody makes eye contact. We stand metres apart, waiting to be inevitably pushed closer together. Yesterday's newspapers flutter effortlessly, elegantly across the platform like tumbleweed in a desert.
Slowly, the noises get louder: whistling, then gushing, then roaring engines and bright round eyes lighting up the tracks, the speed whipping your hair, giving a rare, welcome, gust of air. You hurtle from place to place within seconds, one side of London to the other in mere minutes. You're swept away with the crowd, pushed and pulled from pillar to post, desperately trying to make sense of the maze around you.
That's right, this is the overwhelming pace of underground life, passing by the ordinary individual, a blur of a million faces, and the pitter-patter of busy footsteps.
I've never been a fan of trains, mainly due to a slight claustrophobia, and I cannot think of anything worse than the London Underground.
My throat closes up. My chest becomes too tight. My breathing becomes short and desperate.
The descent into this underworld fills me with fear, but my desire to explore the city and see more of the world, is forcing me to attempt to overcome it.
Last year, I took to the Underground more than ever, but most scary was the Metro system in Paris, which I experienced on an art trip last February. I can categorically say this was worse than any experience in London. Of course they share the same dirty, claustrophobic setting, the home of rats, but you are surrounded by twice as many people, all frantically talking in a foreign language. The trains themselves are a lot older and less stable, and just when you think you physically cannot fit any more people in a carriage, a good thirty people will barge their way on at absolutely any cost.
For twenty innocent British art students, this came as a shock at first, and even after the weekend was over, I was still pretty traumatised, but after forcing myself to be more adventurous in London when I returned, I am gradually getting more confident and in fact, becoming quite fascinated by the whole experience.
I am a people watcher, not some crazy stalker, but people just fascinate me: their mannerisms, their facial expressions, their conversations. Never will you see more people in one place, at such close proximity than on the Underground. Everyone from any walk of life is forced together for that one minute, and it's a real test of character.
Will that wealthy man give up his seat for the elderly gentleman with a walking stick, or the pregnant lady weighed down with bags?
Will that young student have the courtesy not to eat his tuna sandwich in the overcrowded cart and wait until he gets off?
Will you knock over a child, and shoulder barge your way into a cart, or will you wait a mere five minutes for another train?
In the silence of the Underground, a lot can be communicated, and you can learn a lot about people merely by what they're reading, the muffled music from their headphones, or even their outfit. There's an element of trust involved. Although there is an 'every man for himself' mantra in every commuter, I think the actions of those in the 7/7 bombings of 2005, demonstrate that in the stony silence, there is the potential for human kindness and support, ready for action if necessary. It lies in the fifty pence thoughtlessly tossed to the busker, or the mumbled apology for trampling on your toes. It subtly ripples amongst the unspoken words and diverted eye contact. Nobody wants to think of the possible situations in which this emotional barrier would be forced to be broken, those possible situations that they have all made themselves vulnerable to by choice ...
Today saw the 150th anniversary of the Tube in London. It may not be the most pleasant of experiences and recent years have shown it not always to be the safest form of transport, but without it, we would all be lost. It is one of the most revolutionary creations in British history.
So Happy Birthday to the London Underground. I will force myself to become better acquainted with your tunnels and pathways, to the big lights of the big city.
