Trip to the Tech Fair
It was last weekend, while I was on the 7 train on my way to the required Macaulay Tech Fair when I stumbled upon an awesome cultural encounter. I was just sitting down on the train at Main Street Flushing, waiting for the it to finally leave the station, when a tiny Asian woman with a big pink suitcase walked through the doors and sat next to me.
This was all fine and dandy, but then she started to lean over me. I just sat there thinking why is this woman leaning over me. But then I noticed that she was trying to read the little sticker that listed all the stops the 7 train made. All of a sudden, in broken English, she asked whether or not the train went to Grand Central. “Yea,” I said. She smiled, but I didn’t know if she got it or not. Then she asked me how many stops till we got there. I told her, but she kept leaning over me looking at the sticker. I then realized that she was probably confused by the fact that we were already passed 40th street and proceeding on to 33rd st. She knew she was getting off at 42nd street. This meant that she probably didn’t know the streets were different in Manhattan. She got really nervous, until she heard another lady on the train, who was apparently speaking her native tongue. This was a relief to me. After a quick back and forth between the two, for the first time, the woman sitting next to me looked satisfied and relieved.
Eventually, a mariachi band decided to come on the train wearing the costumes and everything. To make matters worse for the poor woman, the lady who spoke the woman’s language got off at Queensboro Plaza, making the woman stand up, probably out confusion and distress. This forced another conversation between the two until finally the train doors closed. I realized that the lady leaving, because she was using her fingers, had told the woman that the train would eventually get to Grand Central in four more stops.
By the time we got to Vernon Blvd. the lady was leaning over me again staring at the little sticker while glancing at a piece of paper with a bunch of writing on it. All I could make out on it was, “42nd Street Grand Central.” In an attempt to reassure her I said, “Next stop,” trying not to confuse her, I put up one finger. She understood and looked relieved, at least she stopped leaning over me. Four minutes later we were pulling into Grand Central, I said, “This is it.” She proceeded to thank me, picked up her enormous pink suitcase and left through the train doors.
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