. . . now a New Yorker . . .
In March of 1996, very close to the date now, I sat in a subway car enviously and frightfully starring at the people around me. I was baffled that the cars were so full, I was frustrated that I couldn't get a seat or fully grab the knack of hanging on while standing, I was tired from "touring" the city for days, and I was a dreamer. I remember a thirty-something blond sitting across from me, and she sat with her legs crossed, her briefcase on her arm, and her body language spoke of ease, comfort, and familiarity. Several college students--as tags on their packs attested--loudly discussed notes for an upcoming exam (fittingly, it was a performing arts crew from NYU) as the train chugged along underground. A man leaned on one of the poles and read his folded newspaper; he had the "subway fold" that is common to the old school crew who still read the paper version of the Times. Then, then that blond pulled out a book and casually began to read. I let out a silent gasp in awe, wonder, and absolute envy. I do not know what novel she was reading, but I do remember what I thought.
I want to ride the subway, with such ease and familiarity, that I can read a book along the way. I want to be that New Yorker who is so comfortable with her route and surroundings she can soak up pages of fiction as easy as the street vendor sells me an overpriced water. I want to be that New Yorker who speaks of the city without saying a word. I want . . . I want to be a New Yorker.
Tonight I had my moment. No, this was not my first time reading a book on the subway. Rather, it was one of the those nights when the joy of my present place set-in and painted its picture in drab tones of gray, black and white, and flecks of red and yellow for wonder.
I'm reading Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul, and perhaps it was his narrative that helped flavor my evening. Perhaps memories of Istanbul overlapped and made New York more charming. Perhaps . . . perhaps moments of fiction and silver-screen glory occur in moments of reality.
I headed into Manhattan to browse a closing Borders books. I figured I might pick up some subway fiction (i.e. books I read on the train), some food literature for the newest project, a Kentucky travel guide (yes, people DO visit the Bluegrass), and lord knows what else. I walked out with a food book and a Kentucky travel guide (surprising, since the Bluegrass doesn't have many). When I exited the 4 on Broadway, I was literally across the street from Borders. Arriving on the street, just before darkness began to sprawl across the city, my world looked a little black and white with the yellow "Going out of Business" signs and Borders's red lighted sign as my markers for orientation. I smiled and headed across the partially crowded street into the comforting glow. An aimless wander through the store, a chuckle at a hipster passing through and loudly proclaiming "I'm waiting for the day everything is 85 percent off, then I will buy!," and a half an hour long line later I exited back onto Broadway. Leaving the store, my eyes revolted at the sudden darkness. My mind revolted at the seemingly empty New York street.
Streets in this city are never empty in real life; everyone knows only the silver screen came make a Manhattan street bustleless. Now, with the yellow and reds of Borders literally and metaphorically behind me, my world stood--almost silently--in black and white. I headed back toward the subway, along a dimly lit street, with no one on either side of me. No one in front. No one in back. I saw a Starbucks, silently groaning about the loss of independent coffee shops, and since I wanted some caffeine I headed over.
On the door I found a hand written note, in carefully scribed cursive script and blue ink, apologizing for the closing for a store meeting. My hand paused on the handle in disbelief and my eyes rolled over the words in a discombobulated moment of befuddlement. A locked Starbucks across the street from a closing Manhattan Borders. . . seemingly surreal, yet a marker of my current reality. A black man, in a green fleece with a shapeless lean face, said "The store is closed." I turned to walk away, mumbling "I know," as he tried to open the door. I heard him utter something about the door being locked, but then the man passed from my periphery field as quickly as he came. Shrugging, I again headed to the subway.
I walked down the stairs, next to a Subway sandwich shop and a local pub, and the entrance was missing. Muttering, "How did I miss the entrance?" I came back to the street to retrace my steps. Fifteen years ago I would have been beside myself with fear, I would have most likely found a taxi and paid a fair I could little afford. Instead, I took to walking another block or so--even in a state of wonder to the disappearing subway station--as perfectly normal.* As I realized I was where I should be, where I started, and that clearly . . . I heard the voice of a man I used to know echo in my head. Years ago he felt like he was trapped in a time warp on the red line in Boston, particularly he was trapped enroute to the UMB campus and Canton.
The streets had the classic winter's steam oozing from the sewers, and still no one was around. For a moment, the traffic did not enter my state of reality. The world remained black and white.
Shaking his words from me, before this eerie perfunctory moment could become reality, like a doomsday movie, I saw a black and white sign for Sushi and noodles.
Entering the shapeless noodle joint, with nothing to distinguish it from thousands of others, the unfreindly man at the counter seemed put off when I asked if the vegetable noodles had red pepper. Since they did not, I ordered. Sitting at a stool by the window I starred out the window into the night. The unfriendly man yelled at me for not placing my order right, the cook told him to be quiet, and the unfriendly man delivered my food with a grunt and "Sorry." I raised an eyebrow. As I looked down, I realized . . .
The color was back, as green and orange jumped from my noodles. More so, I was sitting in a tiny, common shop eating a quintessential New York single meal, on a Friday night, just a subway ride from home. I thought, as I opened my soda, how odd that I use a straw these days. Not long ago, I looked at soda can drinkers with straws as an oddity. New York has worn off on me in many ways, I presume.
Leaving the shop, I crossed the street to hear two women complain about their men. With one, "the problem is I don't call him to tell him where I am at . . ." and they passed along with shopping bags and coffees. Going down the steps to the subway a few blocks away, I could smell the layers of dirt and hear a twenty-something say into his phone "Yea, I'm almost there. I'm on Wall Street." Scraps of conversation floated through the air as effortlessly as I maneuvered the subway . . .
The 4 train brought a filled-to-the-brim car, with the man in front of me carrying a pet rat on his chest. Transferring, and settling into the N home, I listened to a Turkish man tell his girlfriend--a dyed blond, carrying a blue croc-leather Coach bag--that Americans are stupid. I was still reading Istanbul, and he pointed at my book a few times. Perhaps I should have told him that this American biraz türkçe biliyorum. Maybe my book set him off. Instead of disrupting his perception of me, I stayed in my silent trance . . . At some point he and his woman exited the train, and I continued onto Astoria Blvd. Closing my book and leaving the platform it hit me.
I am now that New Yorker who reads shamelessly, carelessly, and lovingly on the subway. I am that New Yorker who overhears others and laughs at my own knowledge. I am a New Yorker.
* The extra block or so allowed me to use up the calories from a latte . . . cha cha.
I want to ride the subway, with such ease and familiarity, that I can read a book along the way. I want to be that New Yorker who is so comfortable with her route and surroundings she can soak up pages of fiction as easy as the street vendor sells me an overpriced water. I want to be that New Yorker who speaks of the city without saying a word. I want . . . I want to be a New Yorker.
Tonight I had my moment. No, this was not my first time reading a book on the subway. Rather, it was one of the those nights when the joy of my present place set-in and painted its picture in drab tones of gray, black and white, and flecks of red and yellow for wonder.
I'm reading Orhan Pamuk's Istanbul, and perhaps it was his narrative that helped flavor my evening. Perhaps memories of Istanbul overlapped and made New York more charming. Perhaps . . . perhaps moments of fiction and silver-screen glory occur in moments of reality.
I headed into Manhattan to browse a closing Borders books. I figured I might pick up some subway fiction (i.e. books I read on the train), some food literature for the newest project, a Kentucky travel guide (yes, people DO visit the Bluegrass), and lord knows what else. I walked out with a food book and a Kentucky travel guide (surprising, since the Bluegrass doesn't have many). When I exited the 4 on Broadway, I was literally across the street from Borders. Arriving on the street, just before darkness began to sprawl across the city, my world looked a little black and white with the yellow "Going out of Business" signs and Borders's red lighted sign as my markers for orientation. I smiled and headed across the partially crowded street into the comforting glow. An aimless wander through the store, a chuckle at a hipster passing through and loudly proclaiming "I'm waiting for the day everything is 85 percent off, then I will buy!," and a half an hour long line later I exited back onto Broadway. Leaving the store, my eyes revolted at the sudden darkness. My mind revolted at the seemingly empty New York street.
Streets in this city are never empty in real life; everyone knows only the silver screen came make a Manhattan street bustleless. Now, with the yellow and reds of Borders literally and metaphorically behind me, my world stood--almost silently--in black and white. I headed back toward the subway, along a dimly lit street, with no one on either side of me. No one in front. No one in back. I saw a Starbucks, silently groaning about the loss of independent coffee shops, and since I wanted some caffeine I headed over.
On the door I found a hand written note, in carefully scribed cursive script and blue ink, apologizing for the closing for a store meeting. My hand paused on the handle in disbelief and my eyes rolled over the words in a discombobulated moment of befuddlement. A locked Starbucks across the street from a closing Manhattan Borders. . . seemingly surreal, yet a marker of my current reality. A black man, in a green fleece with a shapeless lean face, said "The store is closed." I turned to walk away, mumbling "I know," as he tried to open the door. I heard him utter something about the door being locked, but then the man passed from my periphery field as quickly as he came. Shrugging, I again headed to the subway.
I walked down the stairs, next to a Subway sandwich shop and a local pub, and the entrance was missing. Muttering, "How did I miss the entrance?" I came back to the street to retrace my steps. Fifteen years ago I would have been beside myself with fear, I would have most likely found a taxi and paid a fair I could little afford. Instead, I took to walking another block or so--even in a state of wonder to the disappearing subway station--as perfectly normal.* As I realized I was where I should be, where I started, and that clearly . . . I heard the voice of a man I used to know echo in my head. Years ago he felt like he was trapped in a time warp on the red line in Boston, particularly he was trapped enroute to the UMB campus and Canton.
The streets had the classic winter's steam oozing from the sewers, and still no one was around. For a moment, the traffic did not enter my state of reality. The world remained black and white.
Shaking his words from me, before this eerie perfunctory moment could become reality, like a doomsday movie, I saw a black and white sign for Sushi and noodles.
Entering the shapeless noodle joint, with nothing to distinguish it from thousands of others, the unfreindly man at the counter seemed put off when I asked if the vegetable noodles had red pepper. Since they did not, I ordered. Sitting at a stool by the window I starred out the window into the night. The unfriendly man yelled at me for not placing my order right, the cook told him to be quiet, and the unfriendly man delivered my food with a grunt and "Sorry." I raised an eyebrow. As I looked down, I realized . . .
The color was back, as green and orange jumped from my noodles. More so, I was sitting in a tiny, common shop eating a quintessential New York single meal, on a Friday night, just a subway ride from home. I thought, as I opened my soda, how odd that I use a straw these days. Not long ago, I looked at soda can drinkers with straws as an oddity. New York has worn off on me in many ways, I presume.
The 4 train brought a filled-to-the-brim car, with the man in front of me carrying a pet rat on his chest. Transferring, and settling into the N home, I listened to a Turkish man tell his girlfriend--a dyed blond, carrying a blue croc-leather Coach bag--that Americans are stupid. I was still reading Istanbul, and he pointed at my book a few times. Perhaps I should have told him that this American biraz türkçe biliyorum. Maybe my book set him off. Instead of disrupting his perception of me, I stayed in my silent trance . . . At some point he and his woman exited the train, and I continued onto Astoria Blvd. Closing my book and leaving the platform it hit me.
I am now that New Yorker who reads shamelessly, carelessly, and lovingly on the subway. I am that New Yorker who overhears others and laughs at my own knowledge. I am a New Yorker.
* The extra block or so allowed me to use up the calories from a latte . . . cha cha.
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