I admit it: The earthquake scared me. Hastily walking through the hallways at my workplace as the lights went out made me feel uneasy. But when I got out of the subway, on the way home, that's where I really felt afraid.
I got to the platform at the Miguel Ángel de Quevedo subway station at around 3:30 p.m., almost two hours after the earthquake. It was empty. I hesitated, deciding whether or not to stay. What if it was out of order? I started to come up with ideas about how I was going to get back home when I thought I heard an earthquake warning. A lady (I don't know where she came from) held onto my arm. False alarm; it was an Amber alert coming from the screens at the station. "Whose idea was it to do that now?" I asked myself.
In a car, someone yelled, "I smell something burning!" That was two already. Mass hysteria cost us; we were stuck in a tunnel for about half an hour. And from that point on, from stop to stop, delays... I ended up getting off some stops earlier and walking.
Big mistake. Everything I found on my path was what I only knew from movies and documentaries. People crying desperately in the sidewalks, who did not dare go home. It wasn't unwarranted; the streets were filled with glass, rubble, or makeshift "Danger - Do not cross" lines made with ropes, string, and clothes.
The more I walked, the more and more chaos I ran into. Every three buildings, there was a damaged one. I couldn't believe it.
