The view from my window is a mirror image of my house, and the walk to my bus stop feels like a jog on a treadmill–same sights, but with the benefit of a good workout.  I live in Bergen Beach, a small, isolated neighborhood in Southeast Brooklyn with no access to subway lines except for a few rather lengthy bus routes. My commute is long and monotonous, but it is a significant part of my day as a Baruch student.

Yes, my neighborhood falls somewhere within that blank space!

Brief History of My Neighborhood: 

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Bergen Beach was intended to be a resort area similar to Coney Island. Of course, that didn’t go as planned; otherwise we’d all have heard about my neighborhood, whereas most people don’t even know that it exists.  In 1925, real estate developers Max Natanson and Mandlebaum & Levine purchased the resort area for $2 million, and planned to build a residential community featuring a bathing beach and a new amusement park. This was never accomplished either, and the land remained the largest undeveloped area in Brooklyn throughout the mid-1900s. Even the construction of a new highway, the Belt Parkway, in 1939 failed to attract developers and residents. The area became more fully developed by the 1960s, but really gained residential popularity beginning in the late 1980s and early 1990s.¹

Part of the amusement park on Bergen Avenue, circa 1902. Source: BergenBeachCommunity

My walk home through modern-day Bergen Beach.

My Commute on the B3 Bus and Q Train:

Every morning I walk 10 blocks to the B3 bus stop and prepare myself for one of the most annoying, yet somehow most memorable parts of my day. The bus ride is slow and frustrating, and the people boarding the bus are even more irritating with their loud music and shallow phone conversations…or maybe I’m just not a morning person. After 40 agonizing minutes in an overcrowded bus, I stumble out with the masses and walk to the Avenue U Q train station.

A crowded Avenue U train station in Brooklyn.

The uptown Q Train passes through several different neighborhoods, and each neighborhood has its distinct people–of varying ethnic backgrounds, social classes, habits, and quirks. As soon as I get on the train, I see a lot of elderly Russian couples speaking loudly in their native tongue (most likely from Brighton Beach, a stop that precedes Avenue U) and cliques of snobby high school girls (most of whom will get off around Avenue M near Edward Murrow High School). As the train creeps into my station, there is an influx of Chinese Americans boarding the train; in fact, Avenue U is sometimes referred to as Brooklyn’s Chinatown. I usually end up standing all the way until my stop, unless I really fight for that one momentarily empty seat.

An approaching Q Train.

As people pile in and out, the demographics change. The old and cliquey get replaced with the young and hip as the train passes through Cortelyou Road, 7th Avenue, and Dekalb Avenue (and a bunch of stops in between). I see students cramming for exams, businesspeople frantically checking their iPhones, and the occasional blue collar worker trying to get a few more minutes of sleep, leaning against the New York City Subway map. They all seem to be in their own worlds, focusing on their own problems. The only time people come together is in unanimous frustration–when the train operator announces a delay in service.

The train slowly ascends up the Manhattan Bridge, and a few minutes of sunlight–and cell phone reception–ensue. Suddenly the crowded but relatively quiet train car erupts in an explosion of voices, ringtones, shuffles, and groans. The frustration is contagious; at this point I’m a nervous wreck, running late as usual.

We are finally in Manhattan, past Canal Street and approaching Union Square. The train runs express in Manhattan, so that’s a relief. I exit the train and run to catch the N or R across the platform. I stand yet again, but only for one stop. Besides, I know that my whole day will consist of sitting in a chair, so does standing for another few minutes really matter? I finally reach my stop and bolt out of the train before the automatic voice can say “This is 23rd street. The next stop is 28th street”. Somehow I make it on time. Maybe tomorrow I will come out with more time to spare, but most likely not. I guess I kind of get a rush out of…rushing.

For anyone who’s ever said that the journey is more important than the destination, I really beg to differ. In the morning, there’s no greater relief than arriving at your train stop on time. However, it is exactly the journey that gives our destination any significance. My long and annoying commute makes Baruch seem like a finish line that I struggle to cross every morning. I always attempt to beat the clock and make it to school on time against the odds. Of course, when I get so caught up with my own problems and self-inflicted time constraints, I don’t look around as carefully as I should. There are so many personalities, problems, and sights in just one car of the Q train. I sometimes wish that I could somehow gather everyone’s frustrations and get rid of them altogether. That would make the commute easier–although far less interesting.