The MARTA Experience: Like Public Transit, But Worse

I’m back in Atlanta – which means I’m back in an airport that has its own train – a train hated the world over by travelers of every tongue. But in the spirit of fairness, it runs with the precision of a Swiss watch. It’s also clean, safe, and clearly tells you where it’s going. Sure, it’s no fun taking a train inside an airport. No one likes it, but it works – and it works well.

On the other hand, Atlanta has another train that goes by the name of MARTA¹. It’s never on time. It moves at the speed of molasses. It’s disgustingly dirty. It can be terribly unsafe. And if that weren’t enough, the idiots driving the things don’t even bother telling riders which train they’re on – which is especially insane, because there are only two: red and gold.

In every other city, the trains would say whether they’re the Red Train or the Gold Train. But no… not in Atlanta. The trains show up unmarked, so you have to get on and ask someone – assuming you’re not in an empty train, which is nerve-wracking as hell. Nothing shouts “sitting duck” like a guy with a forty-pound suitcase sitting by himself. God help the women in the same situation.

I was in a train yesterday that didn’t even have a map in it. Imagine that for a second. The morons running this operation can’t even be bothered to put a map in the damn train. If you’re from out of town, you’re not only helpless, but lost. I guess Larry, Moe, and Curly – or whoever the halfwits are running MARTA – expect you to rely on your phone to see where you are.

It’s $2.50 for a ride, which sounds like a bargain – until you compare it to New York, where a subway ride costs just forty cents more, and you actually get your money’s worth: a conductor who speaks clearly, trains that are clearly marked, live maps that tell you where you’re going, and believe it or not, they’re usually clean – unlike the rolling garbage cans in Atlanta.

But it is what it is. Atlanta has never claimed to be a city with proper public transportation. It makes no attempt to do anything right. Even buying a ticket is a pain in the ass – half of the terminals at the airport don’t work. And to further exhibit how incompetent MARTA is, there are no signs saying they don’t work. You fumble around with it until a MARTA ne'er-do-well – who takes their cues from the speed of the train (molasses) – moseys on over to tell you to use another machine.

Now that I’m off my soapbox, I’ll tell you that in the last fifty trips I’ve made to the airport, I’ve used MARTA a handful of times. I usually drive and park in a lot. But every once in a while, the universe decides I need a swift kick to the nuts – and few things deliver as much displeasure as riding MARTA.

But given the choice between taking a haymaker to the ol’ beanbag or suffering through Atlanta’s poor excuse for public transportation, I’d gladly let Frick and Frack take one for the team.

¹Metropolitan Atlanta Rapid Transit Authority

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA