Besides the importance of county-wide bike lanes on every street so those annoying motherfucking asshole piece-of-shit dickhead entitled fucktard cunt faces riding bikes using roads yet blatantly disobeying road signs on those roads can have a place to ride, I’ve maintained that a rail line connecting to the airport is something Miami has been sorely lacking.
And then we got it. Rejoice!
Sure, it would’ve been nice to extend that courtesy and add a line from downtown to South Beach, but getting scraps from our shitty government and taking it all in as if it were an innovation as great as an iPhone powered solely on boasting is something we’re used to here in Miami. The last time I found myself having a favorable reaction to Miami government was when Alex Penelas visited my middle school and I thought I heard him say “shit” (he actually said “community”, honest mistake.)
The last time I found myself having a favorable reaction to Miami government was when Alex Penelas visited my middle school…
But whatever, we got ourselves a genuine means of public transportation which doesn’t require waiting in traffic on a bus. Recently I went to Costa Rica with my girlfriend. In other words, not hooker-chasing. I decided we should try out this newfangled metro line I’ve heard so many thing about. We take the mover to the Government Center station, pay the $2 one-way fare, and await the train. Right off the bat, I have no fucking idea which train we’re supposed to take. Yes, it’s the “Orange Line”, but there’s no real indication as to which one is the Orange Line. I expected a digital sign like with the movers which tells you “Next train: Orange Line”, instead I had to call an audible and make an assumption when the train arrived and it had a very dim, very small, and very broken orange light bulb somewhere on the side of the train. Obviously, this sort of visual feedback is horseshit, but I figure we should get on the train anyway and listen to the intercom tell us where this train is headed since we could just get out and wait for a different train at the next station. We get in, the doors close, and we hear a voice say the following:
I decided we should try out this newfangled metro line I’ve heard so many thing about.
“train… pst pst pst… station… doors”
TRAIN. STATION. DOORS. Have you ever tried eavesdropping on someone whispering a porn site password to someone else? Whispering in a language you can’t speak? Into a jet engine? During a thunderstorm? In the vacuum of space? Yeah, well, that would’ve been easier to decipher than whatever this lady supposedly said. It was way too low in volume spoken by someone who either hates their job or trolls with more determination than God. There were a couple of people sitting by us, and one of them smelled like Amy Winehouse’s corpse. For some reason unknown to me, I decided to ask that gentlemen if he knew what train we were on. He, of course, had no idea. How could he? How could anyone?
Two stations later, the conductor (I assume) grew enough of a backbone to speak up and say we’re on the Orange Line headed to the airport. The rest of the ride was uneventful, that is until we passed the Earlington Heights station (last one on the main track before heading to MIA) and I noticed we were pretty much the only people with luggage on us. This could mean one of three things: 1) They work in the airport in apparently civilian clothing. 2) Those people wanted to find out just how easy it is to find your anus being prodded by TSA as a suspected terrorist by traveling without luggage. 3) They had no idea they were on the Orange Line, because it doesn’t fucking make it clear. This was evident when we arrived and were the only ones getting off the train to a bunch of confused faces. Keep in mind the train will just turn back around and head where it just came from, i.e. all the stops we just hit that no one needed. One old man in the back reading a newspaper was like “where are we?” and looked so heartbroken when I told him.
There were a couple of people sitting by us, and one of them smelled like Amy Winehouse’s corpse.
So whatever, we get there from downtown to MIA in like 14 minutes which is pretty damn awesome. We go through our trip, good times, and eventually find ourselves back at MIA to take the train to downtown. Seamless process so far, buy $2 fare, go to the station, etc. However, unlike our trip from downtown this train took more than a minute to arrive. It took about 20, exceeding the arrival time listed in the huge LCD screen by 10 minutes. Then when we got on the train, we had to wait another 8 or so before it started moving. Why it took so long is still a mystery, but it had me wishing Mussolini were our mayor, because at least he could get the trains running on time. Once it started rolling though, the ride was a breeze.
I say breeze, of course, because the goddamn AC wasn’t working so we had the windows open. Ridiculous.
The Orange Line is a great idea, and we need even more lines (South Beach, the one to FIU, etc.), but I suspect Norman Braman will need to finally die choking on molten gold before any of that comes to fruition. However, this shit needs to be a little more user-friendly. Seriously, something better than a faded orange bulb which can’t even be properly seen in sunlight. Even a homeless man yellow out “ORANGE, MOTHAFUCKA!” Anything.