Around 5:15 this afternoon (or evening if that's your fancy), I was walking toward the long Rosslyn escalators. As usual, I was sizing up the two lanes to determine the easiest and fastest one to walk up the left-side. As I inched closer, the right escalator had very few people. In fact, it had nobody in either the local (left) nor the tourist (right) lanes. I imagined myself flying up the escalator in my way-too-old sneakers that I wear to save my feet from dress shoe blisters. Oh sure, the other escalator's line was very long and nobody was approaching the right escalator, but I might as well shoot for the moon.
What Dupont (or any station's stairs) look like as you catch the last train on Saturday night.
I appoached the VIP escalator and saw a metro worker toying with it. I asked if I could still walk up the escalator (and fulfill my dream of finally counting the number of steps in the Rosslyn station (I average 88 steps when I traverse it)), but I was told he was simply trying to get it running again. Unfortunately, I had to pass on this oasis of metro stairclimbing and travel up the slower than usual left lane of the only working escalator. I probably looked like a jerk since I walked right up to the broken escalator only to cut in line of the working one at the last minute. I was no better than those cars that get over at the last minute on Cabin John Parkway. As I made my way up the moving escalator, I watched the right one with intensity, only to find it not working by the time my trip ended. If only I could have gone up the frozen escalator and found out just how many steps there are...if only I also had a brain and realized how unimportant finding that out would be.
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