The Subway....not the sandwich joint

At 2:00 today (Sunday) I wanted to go to the Village and I wanted to be back to the upper west side by 4. This is no easy task. I wrote down the ACE lines, but had completely forgotten I was supposed to walk to Central Park West, and instead was on autopilot and went to my local stop at 86th and Broadway. I didn’t panic though, when I realized my error on the train since I knew I could transfer at 42nd. At 72nd, I saw the 2 across the platform and ran across the 12 feet of concrete to catch the express. I got off at 42nd, walked over to the blue line and caught the next A train in a matter of seconds. I felt fabulous. I was negotiating the tangled web of subway lines like a seasoned New Yorker. I made last minute adjustments to bob and weave underground and get to the Village in 28 minutes. I was coming into my own.

The New York City subway is one of the oldest and most extensive in the world. There are 468 stations and 656 miles of track across four boroughs. Last year there were over 1.6 billion rides. Yours truly will account for roughly 700 of those rides this year. The New York City subway carries more passengers than all other rail mass transit systems in the US….combined. So the L and the Bart can suck it.

Technically, pan-handling in the NYC subway system is prohibited, but people still do it. I was carrying over-sized packages from midtown on the 2 and a man boarded the train. He was blonde, with spiky hair and hallowed cheeks. He wore a brown polo shirt and matching pants. He looked like your local UPS man. He raised his voice and spoke of how he and his family had hit a rough spot the last few months. He had a stroke, his wife was unemployed and his insurance didn’t cover his medical bills. “We couldn’t even afford cable television,” he said. I thought this wasn’t the best approach. Food? Yes, that would warrant some sympathy. The fact that you were missing the latest American Idol wasn’t worth my petty cash. The tourists gave him some money, but everyone else turned their shoulders. They weren’t buying it.

The other day I saw it snow in the subway. It was surreal. Here I was, submerged in the dark grit of the New York underground, and when I looked up, there was a shock of pale blue light and the gentle fall of snow drifting onto the tracks like powdered sugar. There was a hole in the ceiling that extended up to the street. It was beautiful.

I was on the Q crossing the Manhattan bridge in rush hour and we suddenly came to a stop. The announcer crackled onto the PA system. “Please excuse the delay. We are paused here due to rail traffic up ahead.”
I was a little annoyed because I was trying to get to a studio to teach for the first time, and I definitely did not want to be late. My aggravation turned off like a faucet however, when I glanced behind me. What made me turn was the look on the faces of those looking out the window over my shoulder. They were bathed in warm light and all shared a look of wonder, like children gazing on a bright collection of sweets. Their eyes were wide; almost giddy with unexpected delight. So I turned.
I turned and rested my eyes on the east end of the Brooklyn bridge, floating out in front of me – so close it felt I could reach out and touch the interlaced web of suspension wires glittering in the light of dusk. Beyond the bridge, the sky was a deep orange, the sun setting in a majestic explosion of color, and there, nestled in the lower right of my view, the statue of liberty stood triumphant – her bronze arm raised to the sky. It looked as if her torch had lit up the entire horizon. It took my breath away.

The Subway is convenient. The Subway is dirty. The Subway is crowded. But sometimes, on a Monday night in March as you are suspended over the east river in a silver capsule….the Subway can be magnificent.