Boston College - Sub Turri Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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A T-errific Experience Do you remember your first ride on the trolley? Before coming to BC, I had heard all about Beantown ' s nostalgic form of transportation. Someone even wrote a song about a three-time loser named Charley who never returned from his green line journey. Since the bus was the only way to get around in my town, I was naturally anxious to experience for myself the true excitement and aesthetic qualities surrounding streetcars. Two days after orientation, I decided it was time to check out the city. Everyone on my hallway was either too busy or too tired to go, so I took a deep breath and resolved to take the plunge myself. After several minutes spent scrounging around for change, a Boston map, and my guide book, I headed for Commonwealtn Avenue to begin my journey. Before the station was in sight, I could hear the horrible screeching of steel meeting steel. I had no idea that the trolley was responsible for that noise until, from a distance, I discerned one of the cars moving painstakingly towards the city. Fearing that I woulcl miss the next car, I quickened my pace, perspiring in the scorching heat of the da v. When I finally arrived at the stahon, I was disheartened to find the much-heralded streetcars in deplorable condition. The cars looked like they were in a Samsonite luggage ad — the one where they drop the luggage from a plane. Furthermore, of the eight cars in the station, only two seemed to be operating. I thought it would take me forever to get into Boston. After waiting fifteen minutes, a man in a tacky blue suit boarded the car closest to me and opened the door of the train with one of his keys. I snickered at his appearance; he looked like a cross between an usher at Chestnut Hill ' s Showcase Cinema and a back-up vocalist for Wayne Newton. The car pulled up directly in front of me and I boarded, depositing my money into the coin box. I was headed for the back of the car when, with a shuddering jerk, the trolley abruptly began its journey. I threw my Dody into the nearest seat. The old trolley began squealing and pounding its way down the track, protesting each rotation of the wheel. Nothing undaunted me, however, as I peered out the smoke-stained windows. The minutes stretched to hours as the trolley ' s pace slowed to that of a glacier. Monotonously, it stopped every hundred feet to admit or discharge passengers. I had been on the train for nearly half an hour and we still hadn ' t reached BU. I was just finishing the last page of WAR AND PEACE when the trolley suddenly plunged into the heart of darkness. I knew now there was no turning back. I edged towards the doorway and leapt into a throng of assorted characters that were jockeying for position on the platform. I dashed up the stairs with the theme from Rocky resounding in my ears. As students board the T, they must be prepared to part with 75 cents for the opportunity of traveling among passengers herded like cattle. IH ifii nmmm iiA TOKENS OK EXACT CHANGE ONLY NO DOLLAR BILLS kl.. i 104 BOSTON

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y a s- — ! BOSTON BOSTON 103

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BOSTON 105