I’m a taxi guy.
There is the Metro. Fast. Modern. Immune to the gridlock just a few meters above. And totally packed out. At rush hour lines 1 and 2 resemble the alimentary canals of giant man-eating tube worms after an all-you-can-eat human parts buffet. Last week I had to tell the dude standing behind me that if he got any closer, he’d have to buy me a drink first.
The Beijing bus system is convenient and you’re never more than 50 meters from a stop, but they can be a tad unreliable. Twice in the past month I’ve had the driver of the Number 8 bus simply stop on the North Third Ring and announce he wasn’t going any further. I have no idea why but I’m guessing the riotous mob my fellow commuters formed ultimately beat the reason out of him. Good times!
There’s always bicycle I suppose. But as a larger-sized mammal, I’ve found that my riding bikes to be far too amusing for passers-by than is perhaps good for my self-esteem or the general social harmony.
A colleagues suggested I buy a car, but with the streets clogged worse than a hutong sewer, the Beijing Municipal