A Long-winded Telling of a Ridiculous Subte Story

So yesterday I found myself leaving an interview in Microcentro (business capital, people in suits everywhere) at 5:00. Not thinking too hard about the implications of this time of day, I transfer from the red line of the subte to the green line to ride out from the city center to my stop in Recoleta. As I walk down the corridor to the train platform, a middle-aged man asks me the time in Spanish. I respond in Spanish, but not well enough to prevent him from asking if I am from someplace other than Argentina. When I answer that I am Estadounidense, he first compliments me on being from a country that produced the most beautiful girl in the world, then goes into specifics by telling me I am "fit" and asking if I do sports (Alex I'm sure you love this part). He introduces himself as a doctor and tells me that he does, in fact, want to learn English -- could I teach him? Seeing a potential student (albeit an unsettling one -- when I mentioned that I was twenty-two, he was surprised that I wasn't sixteen... because the previous compliment would have then been more appropriate?), I give him my email address only and tell him to let me know if he would like a lesson. "Saturday night?" he asks. "No," I say, "during the day. In public."

At this point the train reaches the platform and the magnitude of trying to hop on the notoriously crowded subte during rush hour hits me. Throngs of professionals swarm onto the train, and I try to squeeze in with my boxy professional-bag just as the bell rings announcing the doors closing. A few members of the large crowd churning inside pull on my arms like a scene from a horror film. Though my body makes it in, my left foot is caught in the closing doors. I, envisioning every horrific subway scenario I've seen, begin to panic and scream while wrenching my foot out of my shoe. Though I successfully get my foot out in about five seconds, my shoe is still trapped in the subte door. My panic has inspired several others in the packed car to also panic and to begin shouting "PARE! PARE! [stop]" and "ABRA LAS PUERTAS [open the doors]," all likely picturing my ankle being broken by the pinching door. After stopping, starting again, and stopping, the train door opens, and I retrieve my shoe, placing it on the ground (not on) my trembling foot. Someone nearby sees that the door opened solely for me to recover my shoe (something I realize later could have just as easily been done at the next stop) and loudly mutters "un zapato?!" The murmer "ni pied, solo zapato" goes through the car, and the faces of the 50 or so people packed and sweating inches from me turn to disgust.

Meanwhile my doctor friend from before pets my hair and tells me how happy he is that I am all right. FOUR STOPS I then have to ride standing next to creepy man and scrunched by people slightly upset that my foot didn't break. Needless to say, I am avoiding the subte between the hours of 4 and 6 until further notice.

On the bright side, my shoe only has the smallest scuff! Ready to wear with my serious jacket for the next interview!