I love the irony of the Oz-like voice on the Red Line intoning “This is Grand” right before you exit the train into one of the grungiest stops of the whole CTA. The place sucks. So as I walked down the stairs into the station Sunday night, it was strange to hear the melancholy strains of Swan Lake rising out of the depths. The tile walls make a great echo chamber, but the subway seemed like an odd venue for Tchaikovsky.
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The train was late, and the platform was crowded. On one side of the platform was a violinist, a big guy with a long gray ponytail and an open violin case full of change on the concrete beside him. A few yards away, several young men–Joffrey dancers fresh from a party at the Rock Bottom restaurant–were dancing a Cliffs Notes version of the ballet. The swans all had Skechers and Chuck Taylors on their webbed feet, but there was no mistaking their trembling feathers, as the dancers’ hands quivered in the oily breeze. They were just goofing around, but a young couple leaning against the wall took the romantic music seriously–they were making out. Suddenly an excited murmur went through the crowd: in the distance, someone had spotted the train. The music and the swans died away, and a few people tossed coins or dollar bills into the violinist’s case. One guy laid a ten-dollar bill on top of the pile.
