Trapped in the human hurricane that is Line 1 of Beijing metro

Recently, I took the Beijing metro.

Not for the first time, though. I had taken the metro before usually either late at night or in some obscure corner of the city where people come and go in a steady but thin trickle.

In attempt to evade the traffic and avoid the whopping 40 yuan ($6.25) fare I had been coughing up everyday for a cab, I decided to take the metro. This time, I was traveling at 5:30 pm, the height of rush hour, from Muxidi to Guomao on Line 1, the line infamous for hosting massive throngs of people.

Now I finally know how a chicken feels in a chicken pen at a chicken-nugget factory. Where did this exodus come from? I live in Hong Kong, one of the most densely populated cities on the face of Earth, and yet the Hong Kong metro seemed spacious in comparison.

Standing sandwiched between a middle-aged woman clutching an armful of shopping bags and the sweaty bicep of a beefy doppelganger of the Michelin Man, brought back memories of the Taylor Swift concert I attended a few months ago. The inside of the metro bore an uncanny resemblance to the mosh pit at the country star's Hong Kong debut.

I remember my friend Lucy remarking with amusement, that she couldn't lie down. "Try to fall back!" she exclaimed through the cacophony. I relaxed my body and let my knees give in. And yet I did not budge one inch. There were so many people converged on me from all directions, that the collective flesh of 1,000 concert-goers simply supported me in standing position.

The Beijing metro was no different. In fact, the 2 yuan ticket entitles you to a little extra, something that isn't offered with the HK$900 ($115) Taylor Swift ticket - incredible, awkward tension.

When a stranger's face is literally a few centimeters away from yours and shifting your stance is not an option, you are forced to tilt your eyeballs in the most unnatural way to avoid eye contact. Otherwise, you will find yourself immobile, gazing deeply into the other person's soul for the hour-long ride.

I was lucky, however, and managed to snag a spot by the television screen, a dusty monitor screening pixilated animations from a provincial television program, the kind of program I would instinctively flip past while watching TV at home.

Yet on the metro, it was like watching Harry (Potter) discover a horcrux (the key to the secret codes) at the premiere of Deathly Hallows Part 2. Tweens watched, as if catching up on the latest episode of Glee; middle-aged men ogled, as if enjoying the finals of Miss Universe. Two young Canadians stood in the corner enraptured, straining their necks to catch a glimpse of the subtitle-less, barely audible, mediocre children's cartoon, as if it were the finals of an ice hockey tournament.

The hardest part, however, was getting off. Somehow, during the course of the journey, I was pushed toward the back of the carriage and squeezed against the window. The doors were at the other end. I was stuck.

In the end, I followed the thin path created by two women inching their way through the crowd, using them as pawns, and finally got off the train.

Victory! I strolled through the station jauntily, proud to have survived the journey so far. All I needed to do was transfer to Line 10 to get to Tuanjiehu. And then I paused mid-step. I saw it by the escalator - a massive, gaggle of noise and human flesh.

What was going on? I stepped closer to observe. It resembled the crowd of maniacal girls I saw waiting for Justin Bieber at his concert only months after Taylor's debut. And then it dawned on me. These were the people transferring to Line 10. I backed away in horror.

Better take the taxi home.