Next Stop: “Frocprewsticsanprt” |
What was that? Did he say College Park, or was that Airport? I panicked, just for a second. Should I hop off? Is this my stop? My stomach did a quick nervous flip.
I was in Atlanta, on the MARTA, the city’s admirable (for the most part) public transit system. I had just left the Hyatt downtown after speaking at a conference and was heading for the airport.
For once, I had enough time to not hurry to catch a flight, though the “Quick Checkout” kiosk in the Hyatt lobby did its inhuman best to delay and frustrate me. That kiosk is possibly worth a separate post, but back to the MARTA.
The train I hopped on was spacious and clean. I was reasonably sure I was heading the right way (south) and I was about 75% sure that the airport was the last stop. Still, I’d never ridden the MARTA, and there was no map evident within my sightlines.
“This is “Iripclssenson,” came the soft, bored, almost inaudible voice through the disembodied speakers. I keyed on the two other passengers with rolling overnight bags. I figured when they got off, we must be at the airport. Of course, the airport ended being the last stop, so it would have been hard for me to screw it up. But that didn’t keep me from experiencing a very emotional, anxiety-filled ride.
On Chicago’s century-old L trains, which I ride every day, there’s a Disney-fied, chipper voice that clearly states which stop we’re arriving at, and which stop is next. It’s a bit soulless maybe, and happy clarity doesn’t matter one way or the other to regular riders, who know their stops by heart.
But it keeps the adrenaline from pumping and heart rates from racing for the uninitiated.
