I'm early. Its unusual and particularly ironic since I was out last night. The weather is nice but I've been too lazy to retrieve a lighter jacket from the closet, and so I'm warm all the way to the station, and even warmer once inside.
The tunnel has been painted overnight and the smell still reeks amidst the "wet paint" signs. I hear the train coming and make a run for it; why waste my rare earliness waiting for the next one?
More than I'd expect this early in the morning, the train is crowded and there is only seat left when I board. It’s a middle seat, in between a tall, young man in a blue striped suit, and an overweight girl in overly tight jeans. I squeeze in. The girl has an angry-at-the-world look about her, the kind that comes with an internal lack of self esteem that is never fully acknowledged outwardly. She closes her eyes and leans against the glass pane. The guy is sleeping too and occasionally leans on me. I cough, but not too hard, trying to make sure I don't disturb their sleep.
Friday, October 30
Thursday, October 29
Oh Holy Smoke
The elevator smells like cigarette smoke. In all the years I've lived here that's never once happened and as far as I know, there isn't a single person in my building that smokes. I'm suspicious, but also very late, so my thoughts turn quickly towards getting to work as fast as possible.
The weather has warmed up a bit, and the rain has stopped. Mrs. H. is standing on the corner and waves as I walk briskly towards the station, treading on a freshly paved 186th street.
On the subway platform, I pass a girl I could swear was standing next to me at the Fine Frenzy concert last night. I reach my spot and Elvis Guy is there. Anyone who takes the A from 181st regularly has seen Elvis at one point or another. He is an elder gentleman with an unnatural, perpetually Presley hairdo and clothes to match.
Z. is also on the platform and we ride the train together, discussing work at first and then thirty-something single life in Washington Heights, two topics that together cover a large portion of my existence.
The weather has warmed up a bit, and the rain has stopped. Mrs. H. is standing on the corner and waves as I walk briskly towards the station, treading on a freshly paved 186th street.
On the subway platform, I pass a girl I could swear was standing next to me at the Fine Frenzy concert last night. I reach my spot and Elvis Guy is there. Anyone who takes the A from 181st regularly has seen Elvis at one point or another. He is an elder gentleman with an unnatural, perpetually Presley hairdo and clothes to match.
Z. is also on the platform and we ride the train together, discussing work at first and then thirty-something single life in Washington Heights, two topics that together cover a large portion of my existence.
Wednesday, October 28
Accordion
I've taken to eating a challah roll while walking to the subway. They are fattening and high in cholesterol, but they are also very filling and at least I'm eating the whole wheat kind. It’s a sort of emergency measure: I'm too late for work to eat, or even buy, a proper breakfast, and I've got a package of rolls that will go to waste if they aren't consumed in the very near future.
The roll is gone by the time I enter the station. Naftali P. is at the metrocard machine. On the platform, I recognize a tall chap I met a few weeks ago at Susanne's place. I don't remember his name, just that it’s funny sounding.
On the train I sit across from a gray haired Orthodox Jew in business casual. He is intently studying a volume from the Talmud while holding the hand of the woman next to him, who's head is resting on his shoulder. He is wearing a wedding ring, she is not.
At 59th, I see Yaffa Z. and saw hello. She seems busy reading, and I'm too tired to talk to anyone anyways, so I walk a bit further down the platform.
An elderly man is playing Jerusalem of Gold on an accordion and I wonder if he knows the song because he is Jewish, or if he has learned to play it because so many Jews traveling on the MTA will recognize it. A little blonde girl is sent by her mother to drop a few coins in the man's cup. I, for one, am not particularly fond of the accordion sound and although I like the song, I eagerly board the B train as soon as it comes.
The roll is gone by the time I enter the station. Naftali P. is at the metrocard machine. On the platform, I recognize a tall chap I met a few weeks ago at Susanne's place. I don't remember his name, just that it’s funny sounding.
On the train I sit across from a gray haired Orthodox Jew in business casual. He is intently studying a volume from the Talmud while holding the hand of the woman next to him, who's head is resting on his shoulder. He is wearing a wedding ring, she is not.
At 59th, I see Yaffa Z. and saw hello. She seems busy reading, and I'm too tired to talk to anyone anyways, so I walk a bit further down the platform.
An elderly man is playing Jerusalem of Gold on an accordion and I wonder if he knows the song because he is Jewish, or if he has learned to play it because so many Jews traveling on the MTA will recognize it. A little blonde girl is sent by her mother to drop a few coins in the man's cup. I, for one, am not particularly fond of the accordion sound and although I like the song, I eagerly board the B train as soon as it comes.
Tuesday, October 27
Anime
Legally speaking, pedestrians always have the right of way. This well known, ill adhered-to rule should at least be respected on rainy days. That is why I am angry at a Family San Juan livery driver who cuts me off at the crosswalk, pulling up just too far for me to jump ahead before he turns at the stop sign.
I walk into the station, Aviva P. not too far behind. By the time we reach the turnstiles she has caught up and says hello. On the platform, Tzippy H. is waiting patiently for the train but misses me as I walk by. Caryn L. is also there, and she waves from the distance.
On the train, I sit next to a middle aged woman wearing striped gray pants, cowboy boots, and a long blue coat with a tan trim and big buttons. Most striking about her is that she is watching a Japanese cartoon on her iPod. The show, or movie, has lots of sword fighting, kissing, and the giant eyes typical of Anime. It's odd to see someone her age interested in cartoons, with the technical knowhow to mobilize them, and with the geekdom to watch them in public. I think there's open position in my department I want to tell her about.
I walk into the station, Aviva P. not too far behind. By the time we reach the turnstiles she has caught up and says hello. On the platform, Tzippy H. is waiting patiently for the train but misses me as I walk by. Caryn L. is also there, and she waves from the distance.
On the train, I sit next to a middle aged woman wearing striped gray pants, cowboy boots, and a long blue coat with a tan trim and big buttons. Most striking about her is that she is watching a Japanese cartoon on her iPod. The show, or movie, has lots of sword fighting, kissing, and the giant eyes typical of Anime. It's odd to see someone her age interested in cartoons, with the technical knowhow to mobilize them, and with the geekdom to watch them in public. I think there's open position in my department I want to tell her about.
Monday, October 26
Getting in Shape
I have little choice this morning but to take my clothes to the laundromat. My boss will likely appreciate it despite my lateness. On the way there, I see Elli L. as he leaves the synagogue across the street.
I drop off the laundry and start trekking to the subway. At 186th there is a convergence of train-goers. Behind me a pair of high heels digs loudly and rhythmically into the tar below. In front, my path is blocked by two large women, one very tall, the other very wide.
Inside the station tunnel, a woman pushing a baby stroller says hi to Newspaper Guy. An old man cuts me off to the turnstiles. I go down to the platform and I run into one of neighbors. She wishes me a good morning.
On the train, I sit next to a woman with a giant suitcase, with a label that reads "Dodds Athletic Tours." The woman, young and thin, has a definitively athletic physique. She is wearing a long white sweater, which reaches below her knees, over a gray t-shirt and khaki cargo pants. She has blue and gray sneakers and her blond hair is pushed back into a pony tail, revealing tiny unpierced ears. She gets off at 125th, the absence of her suitcase giving my legs a bit more room for the rest of the ride.
I drop off the laundry and start trekking to the subway. At 186th there is a convergence of train-goers. Behind me a pair of high heels digs loudly and rhythmically into the tar below. In front, my path is blocked by two large women, one very tall, the other very wide.
Inside the station tunnel, a woman pushing a baby stroller says hi to Newspaper Guy. An old man cuts me off to the turnstiles. I go down to the platform and I run into one of neighbors. She wishes me a good morning.
On the train, I sit next to a woman with a giant suitcase, with a label that reads "Dodds Athletic Tours." The woman, young and thin, has a definitively athletic physique. She is wearing a long white sweater, which reaches below her knees, over a gray t-shirt and khaki cargo pants. She has blue and gray sneakers and her blond hair is pushed back into a pony tail, revealing tiny unpierced ears. She gets off at 125th, the absence of her suitcase giving my legs a bit more room for the rest of the ride.
Friday, October 23
Return of the Tunnel
It feels daunting, after a four-day hiatus (thank you, Bronchitis) to be back on the way to work. In the elevator, I have a conversation with my neighbor's four year old, and then head out onto a cold street. I'm thinking about the weather as I walk into the station and wow, the tunnel is back to its full glory and splendor! For the past two years the southern half of tunnel was walled off and used to store construction materials and equipment, all of which has now been cleared. I'd forgotten how un-cramped that tunnel used to be.
Newspaper Guy says hello as I pass him. Down on the platform, there is a Hispanic couple making out just at the bottom of the stairs. His hands resting on her butt cheeks, she is kissing his neck. I move quickly towards my usual spot and take a seat on the bench.
I'm typing on my Blackberry and an arm is suddenly resting on my shoulder. "Stop blogging on the subway." It's Z. We chat for a bit until another friend of Z's walks by. He is also my friend's friend's husband, which is how I know him, and he is wearing jeans, with an unbuttoned and un-tucked shirt, and Z jokes about him being on the way to an interview. They both head up further towards the front. Tziva H. walks by and says hello. I wave and as the train approaches I get up and am lucky enough to find a seat in a crowded car.
At 59th, I'm waiting for the B or the D when I see Yaffa Z. She complains about having the longest commute ever, and I remind her that I am travelling all the way from WaHi, she is coming from 96th. "Actually," she smirks, "its 91st."
Friday, October 16
Laryngitis
I’m officially sick this morning. I feel OK, even the bit of cold from yesterday seems to have subsided, but there is no voice to be heard of. I can feel the swelling in my larynx and when I try to speak, nothing comes out at all. It’s an experience I haven’t felt since grade school but since I feel fine I cough it up to talking too much at dinner last night. I make tea and take it with me on the way out, in a Dixie Grab N’ Go cup. It’s a tip I picked up a few years ago from Caryn, who makes her own coffee for the subway ride.
On Overlook, near the corner of 186th, I see Aviva P. heading towards the station. I get into the station and down to the platform, and pass her as I walk to my usual spot. I walk by David S. too. He smiles and waves. David M. is also here, and he nods when I walk by him a moment later.
There is a saxophone player on the platform today. He is wearing white button down shirt with a New York sweatshirt over it, and dark blue jeans. A gray felt hat matches the sweatshirt. The sax case, open on the floor in front of him, is draped with an American flag and has a few dollars in it.
On the train, there is no chance of a seat. A young woman is standing next to me, reading FT Wealth with a copy of today’s Financial Times folded behind it. She has straight brown hair, brushed to her right, with giant ears poking out each side. Her lip is terribly bitten, and she continues to chomp on them as she reads. I bite my own lip for a second, and am surprised to find it rather soothing, the way I imagine smoking cigarettes must feel to addicts. I bite the other side, then, amidst momentary relaxation, remind myself I already have enough bad habits already.
On Overlook, near the corner of 186th, I see Aviva P. heading towards the station. I get into the station and down to the platform, and pass her as I walk to my usual spot. I walk by David S. too. He smiles and waves. David M. is also here, and he nods when I walk by him a moment later.
There is a saxophone player on the platform today. He is wearing white button down shirt with a New York sweatshirt over it, and dark blue jeans. A gray felt hat matches the sweatshirt. The sax case, open on the floor in front of him, is draped with an American flag and has a few dollars in it.
On the train, there is no chance of a seat. A young woman is standing next to me, reading FT Wealth with a copy of today’s Financial Times folded behind it. She has straight brown hair, brushed to her right, with giant ears poking out each side. Her lip is terribly bitten, and she continues to chomp on them as she reads. I bite my own lip for a second, and am surprised to find it rather soothing, the way I imagine smoking cigarettes must feel to addicts. I bite the other side, then, amidst momentary relaxation, remind myself I already have enough bad habits already.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)