I sidle up to the boletería inside the first metro station I've set foot in for four years. A woman in her 50s is engrossed in a game on her phone, corded light-pink headphones in. She doesn't look up as I slide my money through the slot and say 'Buenos dias'. She returns my greeting while continuing her streak on Jewels with one hand, separating and dispensing my ticket with her long manicured nails on the other.
After riding with Lucas in the mixed carriages most days, I'm about to ride solo in one of the women-and-children-only carriages at the front of the train. I wait on the platform on this unexplored side of the barrier, which is controlled by a policewoman. As the doors slide open I'm met with the glances of women, young and old, adolescents, mothers and grandmothers.
The signage inside the trains talks about a woman's right to live free of sexual assault. An article published by the Institute for Economics and Peace on gender based violence in Mexico states that “sexual assault makes up about two-thirds of the violence that women experience in public spaces, and about two-thirds of those acts are committed by strangers” [Hidalgo M., (2022)]. Some might weigh in that segregation is not the answer; that women shouldn't need to hide away in order not to be victimised; the onus should be on boys and men to change their behaviour – no mean feat.
It felt liberating riding with only other women. I was able to relax my mind and not have to watch where I was looking so much (or, overt my gaze when I found men looking at me). It was interesting that I interpreted looks from other women as curious, knowing, or acknowledging our common experience. I interpreted looks from men in this closed environment very differently in that I tried not to attract them or hold their gaze for any length of time.
On my last solo ride, there was a young woman boarding my carriage. She sits in front of me, grazing my too-long-for-the-seat knees as she does so. She peers into an oversized shopping bag and starts rifling through and rearranging some items.
She takes a deep breath and stands up. Her light-pink sweater is pulled over a sports bra and underwire bra combo. Neither stop her breasts from spilling out the top, as they're ill-fitting and too small. She starts her sales pitch in the aisle and is selling colourful pens. I’m hoping she sells enough to buy a more comfortable bra.
I get off at my station, Etiopia, and glance inside the boletería on my way out. I see a younger female ticket vendor who never meets my gaze. She’s poised on one elbow, mirror raised, eyes wide and applying a thick coat of mascara with her lips gently parted.