"Batten down the hatches," countless emails and news reports said. "The strike's a-coming."
Given the effectiveness of previous strikes, the quantity of signs, and the society's (partially misdirected) rage at Socialist Prime Minister Zapatero, I was getting ready to endure the storm. Checking the supplies of peanut butter and sending out a few emails just in case, I headed out.
As I stepped into the hall, I noticed it was dark, darker than a burnt squid ink paella. But that didn't matter, because the hall lights are usually off. They love conserving energy here like Santiago pilgrims love their rapidly decaying clothes. I pushed a button on the wall and the elevator responded, saving me from a rather rigorous run down eleven flights of stairs.
I headed into the Metro, feeling optimistic upon seeing Metro workers, but still fretting about the reports that the Metro would probably just be running at 50%. And running at 50% in Spain usually means 10%.
The electronic sign stated the usual "train arriving in 5 minutes," but I didn't take it for granted until I stepped on the train five minutes later. The Metro ride and walk to class went surprisingly smoothly as I walked up the escalator free from the usual crowds that block my path. While I did see a few shops closed later, I decided that all in all, things were actually working better the day of the strike.
Que productividad. There was no difference between regular efficiency and strike day efficiency.
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