One St. Patrick's Day morning, I was riding the c-train through downtown when a man stepped onto the train and sat down beside me. I could smell that he had already been taking advantage of the holiday, as the alcohol fumes wafted off of him. He turned to look at me and said in a very deep, Russian accent, "Hchhullo." I turned to him and smiled politely. He studied me for a second and then asked, "Do you smoke?" "No," I answered. "Do you drink?" He tried again. "No," I answered. "WE HAVE NOTHING IN COMMON!" He shouted and I burst out laughing. We continued talking for awhile, during which time he told me that I don't need to be afraid of Mother Russia anymore, the cold war is over. "It's not Russia I'm afraid of..." I thought. He got off the train a few stops later and headed to another pub to make the most of the Irish holiday, leaving me with one of my favourite c-train memories.
Or there was that other time that my sister and I got chased home from the c-train by the ninja cop. Or at least, we imagined we did. Neither of us stopped to look back.
Oh, public transit, what fun!