loving and hating the subway

"This is a Brooklyn bound 4 express train. The next stop is Borough Hall. Stand clear of the closing doors."

* * * 

I have been in New York now for five weeks and taken exactly one cab ride. From JFK International Airport to my apartment in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. $75. I know. Wait, scratch that, I've taken two cab rides. But the second one was technically an Uber, it was raining, I split it with a friend, rode only 7 blocks, and paid $4, so I barely count that. I take the subway like a real New Yorker. Everyone does. That magical underground connection of electric railway lines that move literally millions of people a day throughout the five boroughs, the subway (or the train as it's usually called) and I have a complicated relationship. Somedays when I wake up, after briskly walking down Franklin Avenue in my neighborhood, the 4 is just waiting for me, as if it knew I was coming (I avoid the 2 and 3, they make more unnecessary stops). The particular car I hop into has few passengers on it, each one thoroughly engrossed in their newspaper or iPhone. I find a seat quickly by the railing, pop in my headphones and I'm off. There is no train traffic up ahead, no weird smells, no one staring at me for no reason, no crying babies or scary homeless people. Nothing disturbs my ride. For a small moment in time the subway and I are meant for each other. This doesn't happen often.

The New York City subway is one of the oldest and busiest public transportation systems in the entire world. It includes a complex grid of underground and elevated railway lines, some run on embankments or open cuts, with a few even running on ground level. It covers all five boroughs, with every line accept one (the awful G) making its way through Manhattan. The trains are constantly being updated, renovated, maintained, in a sense, becoming better. The first underground line started operating in 1904, 35 years after the initial elevated line opened, and it's only exploded ever since. There are currently 468 separate stations, with 34 different lines in operation 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, even on holidays. From recent estimates almost 6 million people ride the subway daily, on weekends it drops to a mere 3.5 million. For a city like New York, with a population of nearly 9 million people, the subway remains the most efficient means of transportation offered.

* * * 

"Ladies and Gentlemen we are delayed due to train traffic ahead. Thank you for your patience." 

* * * 

For those of you who have never ridden the subway before, or their only familiarity with public transportation is raucous and drunken cab rides late at night, in solitary bliss, or trolleys to some destination with family, the New York City subway can be an intimidating and at times overwhelming experience.When I took the train back in January, on my first trip to New York, I rode it with someone I knew at all times. It was a shared experience, which are always easier to handle. There was someone to wink and nod to, a person to laugh with, a face to focus on. You are allowed to smile and chat with the people you know. Once you're forced to ride it alone, as I have now for the past five weeks, you have to put on an entirely new persona, the subway persona, adapting to the riders and locals around you. Your once smiling face transforms to one of confident non-expression. This lack of expression, a face made of stone, cannot waiver no matter who sits down next to you, no matter how bad the person across the car smells, or how loud the homeless person is begging, or how many times a tourist steps on your foot. If you don't have a book or article on your phone to read (sorry, there is definitely no cell service underground), or earphones to shield your hearing, your out of luck. Your attention must be on something. And while staring at your lap is easy it can get real boring real quick, and for the most part eye contact with strangers is not a viable or even smart option. 

Personally I choose to look up above the seated passengers, locking my gaze on a specific advertisement: the jolly Airbnb customers, the new Oprah-centric summer menu at Starbucks, the Upper East Side plastic surgeon's office ad that is simply a picture of a woman's cleavage. The trains that display the subway stops lined up for convenient reference above the windows, with their round lights above going dim once the stop has been passed are an easy distraction. I look up and down and memorize the order, my OCD taking over. When my eyes aren't looking up, they're looking down of course, at people's feet. No chance for eye contact down there. I've seen every type of shoe you could imagine, even some bare feet. Don't ask. Worn out sneakers, scuffed red wings, gladiator sandals, Christian Louboutin's, work boots, even this season's trendy moccasin. While I try not to look at toes, sometimes it's hard NOT to look at them. 

* * *

"Brooklyn bound 4. Express. Next stop, Nevins. Stand clear closing doors."

* * * 

Everyone moves so quickly beneath the city, if possible even faster than when they're up above on the streets. No traffic lights to stop them. Pause for a mere moment, you're subway roadkill. One thing you realize very soon is that New Yorkers always have some place they need to be. And they need to get there as soon as possible. Doesn't anyone want to wander anymore? No they do not. They have reservations to meet up with clients, work to make on time, deadlines to accomplish. There is proper subway etiquette to follow. An important rule that I learned immediately is you must allow the people currently on board the train to get off before you proceed to get on. This allows an orderly flow of traffic. I learned this by seeing a curmudgeonly older gentleman with wispy white hair, walker shaking about, literally scream at someone trying to barge their way in, "Wait your fucking turn, asshole." I thought he was being polite.

Below the high rises and under the steaming grates people whip in and out of the subway cars on a personal mission, metro card in hand, ready to swipe at a moment's notice. If you are one of the very unlucky people who have to swipe more than a couple times for your card to go through, I pity you. For someone new, you have to pay very close attention to the signs. The literally dozens of signs that point you in every direction imaginable. That classic scene from "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" comes to mind, when he's driving at night and the traffic signs become increasingly more absurd and complex, confusion growing into anger leading to fear. Many times I found myself at a dead end I thought was taking me to an exit. I should have noticed I was the only one walking down an abandoned pathway. There is local or express options. Weekday only or weekend nights. Morning or rush hour. Downtown or Uptown. Manhattan or Brooklyn. Queens or the Bronx. And the colors! Red for the west side, green for the east. Yellow for the center. Orange takes forever. Blue is the slowest. On the ride, glance up at the wrong time and you find yourself above Central Park in Harlem instead of across the river in Brooklyn. Trust me, getting lost is an almost too common occurrence.

* * *

"Lades and Gentleman, be safe. Look after you possessions and be aware of your surroundings. If you see something, say something. This has been a message from the MTA service department." 

* * * 

For all that is wrong and weird and scary about the subway, there is something about it that is extraordinary and unique. I think about all the time I spend driving in solitude at home in San Diego, how everyone does. The hours spent in traffic, each one of us, in our own separate boxes, alone, blasting the radio or listening to NPR, illegally checking our phones, swiping through Pandora. The same drive and the same street signs day after day. All routine, no action. The only time driving is scary is when we see a cop lingering behind us, or there's an idiot maniacally swerving beside you. On the subway, you thank your lucky stars when there's a policeman in your car, and practically each ride you feel as if your car is going to fly off the tracks, lights flickering on and off. You get used to it. 

The routine of solitary driving lies in stark contrast to riding the subway daily. Sure, you grow familiar with the stops you frequent, or the major stations where the most people get on and off, but there is always something happening, there are always the people. Below the city, lies another city all its own, with its varied citizens and laws, unspoken rules, and common occurrences. Each line and station carry a distinct personality. You know you're at Fulton street when you see the hoards of businessman headed to the financial district in their crisp suits, briefcases in hand, blue tooth in ear. You know you've arrived to Times Square-42nd because the train becomes a cluster of confused tourists, and frustrated midtown professionals, a surprisingly combustible mixture that I try to avoid as often as possible. Moving uptown on the east side, you see the urban trendsetters of the Lower East Side and East Village with their amazing clothes suddenly switch to the pearls and pumps, and holier-than-thou attitude of the upper east side house wives. Yes, even they take the train. Grand street into Canal becomes the epicenter of Chinatown locals, carrying multiple grocery bags, chatting amongst each other, dragging behind them their daily lives in steel crates. There's rush hour just like on the roads. Less trains run at night, because there are supposed to be less people out and about. I'm waiting for the MTA to realize the 12am lines are in fact even busier than the 3pm ones. 

* * * 

"(indecipherable noise)... Brooklyn express... (noise) delay... (noise) next stop... (noise)... doors please." 

* * *

In the end it's the faces that get me the most. The faces even got to me back in January, when they were obscured by scarves and beanies, when I was a subway virgin. During the summer though, no one's face can hide, there's exhaustion in just standing on the subway platform. The hot air staying still, the only relief coming with the shock of breeze that blows past as the train arrives. The beads of sweat, the tired eyes, the nervous tics befall everyone. And it's amazing to see how the people change as you move swiftly through the neighborhoods and boroughs. It's like pressing fast forward while walking down the avenues. The more you move towards the East river into Brooklyn, the wearier the faces get, the longer the people have to travel. The population that inhabited the train at Grand Central looks very different from when you arrive to central Brooklyn, and you see it. At 9pm on Friday in the midst of the madness of midtown what began as a jam-packed, standing room only 4 filled with a combination of tourists, twenty-somethings heading downtown, urban professionals finishing their overtime and annoying tweens soon thins out. All that remains are the Brooklyn artists, the twee hipsters, the minorities and people of color, the ones who have the longest ride to take. They play candy crush on their phones and look up every so often at nothing in particular. They bounce their heads to the music flooding into their ears through headphones, they sleep with mouths wide open, they huddle and chat in groups. And they've always done this, and continue to every day because they must. Living in New York demands it.

So what is there to love you may ask? For me, it's the fact that everyone subjects themselves to the chaos, the personality and the psychology of this underground world each and everyday. Because really, who in their right mind ever wants to drive in Manhattan, and who can realistically afford taking a cab each day? In the eyes of an evolving artist, the subway provides not only endless inspiration, but also a constant stream of curiosity and questions. Where are they going?.. I wonder what their day has been like... Who is that ridiculously attractive man?.. What events lead this individual to be begging for coins on a half empty train at 2 pm?.. Why is that woman so upset?.. They look like a happy couple... For a writer, there's nothing better.

* * *

"This is Franklin Avenue." At last, my stop.