Seen from above the Metro during rush hour must look like one of those tile games where one square is missing and you slide the others around one by one until you've reconstructed the picture, or put the numbers in order, or whatever. There is constant movement in some part or another of the car as the women slide in and out, wriggling their way through the crush in a callously persistent effort to reach the doors in time to disembark at their stop, or scooting ever closer to a row of seats, waiting for someone to stand up so that they can slip into the vacancy, sometimes rather like a baseball player sliding into home. But slightly more dignified. For most of the line the car remains so tightly packed that it is completely unnecessary to hold onto a bar (even if I could reach one); when one sways, we all sway, and when one stumbles, we all stumble. A strange picture of unity. Slatted wooden shades are pulled down over the windows to block out sunlight and dust, and this only heightens the cattle car impression.

Thankfully, especially since the Metro is crowded at most times of day, the front car is reserved for women only, and between about 8 am and 4 pm the second car is also. We never ride anywhere else. If the throng in the women's car is uncomfortable, it's certainly not more crowded than the rest of the train, and sharing body heat and breath with Muslim women is always preferable to sharing them with Muslim men, who think that American women want only one thing (and it ain't diamonds or love).

We decide that tomorrow we must certainly leave by 7:30 at the latest, in an effort to beat the 8 am rush. The ride home in the afternoon is nearly as crowded until we pass out of the center of the city, and then we each manage to find a seat for the last 20 minutes of the ride. The wooden shade at my window is jammed open, and dust billows in through the opening. By the time we reach our stop my shirt is soaked through on my back with sweat, but the women across the aisle look completely untouched by the heat, despite being shrouded in polyester long-sleeve shirts and long skirts, with their heads tightly wrapped in huge scarves.
It must be in their genes.