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As we boarded the F train on that day about a month after our first date, I did not feel the slightest bit nervous. What was there to be anxious about? I was very train savvy, as I had been riding the trains since I was fourteen years old, and Devin and I had been dating for a month by then. Being his girlfriend was still new and different for me, but I thought that after a month we had made great progress in our relationship. We talked nearly every day and saw each other about three times a week. That day, he was coming over to my house so we could do homework together and hopefully watch a movie. We found our place in the corner of the train near the conductor’s door, and the rest of the crowd filled in the gaps around us. Soon, we were surrounded on all sides with people; one woman had her oversized handbag digging into my back and an older gentleman with a kind face declined politely as a young blonde woman offered him her seat. Devin leaned against the cool metal in front of me, the patches on his denim jacket rubbed against the wall. I secretly hoped that the train would brake suddenly, forcing him to catch me gallantly before I spun off and into that chivalrous older man or fell onto the lady behind me, crushing her purse in the process. In the meantime, however, I stood inches from his chest where he proudly displayed his gold Celtic Cross.
“ How was your day?” He murmured softly. Although train riders, some blasting music and others trying bravely to read books, surrounded us, in that moment I could only sense Devin. I could smell the sweet cologne he sprayed on his neck, and every time I braced myself against his chest, I felt the outline of his undershirt.
“It was fine, I didn’t really have any classes today. I responded promptly I felt pressure when my sleeve pushed on the bandage covering the former site of the needle. I told him about the cookies and juice the nurse had given me after I finished giving blood at the Blood Drive, and I asked him what his experience was donating blood. As he replied, I could not help but notice that the sign behind him was swaying. It almost felt as though I was on the teacup ride at an amusement park and I was trying to pick out my mom in the crowd as we spun the cup faster and faster. The stops were blurry and they seemed to be moving with the train. I began to realize that my stomach was flipping like I was going down the biggest drop on my favorite roller coaster and I knew I was going to vomit. I could not believe that I was going to throw up on possibly the hottest and only guy who would ever like me in my lifetime.
I guess at some point during this time my face told Devin that something was wrong with me. I can imagine him looking down at my freckled face with his striking blue eyes and seeing my skin turn milk white. I remember him asking me in a concerned voice if I was okay. According to him, the last thing I said was “no” before my eyes rolled back in their sockets and I began to lower to the ground.
Devin thought that I died once he saw the whites of my eyes. He grabbed me from underneath my arms and pulled me off the ground before my head slammed against the wall. His heart sunk as he realized that I was dead weight in his arms. Devin shifted me into typical “boy saves girl” position, tucking one arm beneath my shoulders and the other beneath my knees as he lifted me into the air. When he turned around to face the train car, all the people who had been grumbling about not having space to move or breathe comfortably made their way to the sides of the train and cleared an entire bench so he could lay my body. No one screamed in response to the sight of a Thor look-a-like carrying an unconscious girl in his arms. Instead, someone alerted the conductor and another person gave Devin a bottle of cold water to hold to my head.
As rude as some subway riders may be, thinking of my experience on the train when I fainted makes up from all the glares and mutters I witness daily. I was so fortunate to have been with Devin when this happened, but something tells me that even if I were on my own when this catastrophe struck, my fellow train goers would have been just as courteous. Riding in such close quarters with my fellow New Yorkers is aggravating, but knowing that my city is filled with people that are caring and helpful make up for it.
I grew up in Bensonhurst, in Brooklyn, but I attended high school in Manhattan. That meant that everyday, for four years, I took the train twice a day, an hour each way, just to get to school. It got old about three days into my freshman year, after the “buzz” of taking the train into the city all by myself wore off. I grew to loathe the subway, but I knew, deep down, that one day it would all be validated. So when you asked for our most memorable public transit experience I was vindicated; I had a wealth of experiences to draw from, and it was all worth it.
The first thing that came to mind when hearing the prompt was this one weird week I experienced. I can’t tell you what year it was, but I remember it was winter. Why do I know that? Because it was really, really cold. As soon as I entered the train that day, I noticed something weird; people were smiling, at 7 a.m. on the D train in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. I heard the voice over the speaker saying something along the lines of “Keep your jackets zipped, cause I gotta open these doors” but in warm, funny way. The voice kept cracking jokes, and made the trip almost not terrible. This continued for the next week. That specific 6:54 train always had a happier atmosphere. If it was raining, he’d brag about his umbrella. Just little things like that.
Then it stopped.
I have no idea why. Maybe he was disciplined for being unprofessional, maybe the MTA crushed his optimism and joviality, who knows. But I really enjoyed that week, since it was a very human experience in a sea of monotony. If you can’t tell, I really hate the subways.
Six years ago, on my way home from Manhattan, I encountered a relatively frightening experience with the MTA. The 7 trains stopped running. A hurricane had hit New York City and flooded the streets. As a result of this weather, the aboveground 7 trains were malfunctioning and having signal problems, so they stopped their services. I had no choice but to get off and walk to another train station. After following the crowd, I reached an E train station, which was running normally since it was underground. Although it was extremely packed, I was on my way home. Still, since I did not live near any train stations and had no bus that would go to my house from the E train, I ended up having to take a 30+ minute walk alone along a somewhat secluded area to get home. This was the most memorable encounter I had with mass transit as it was the first time I encountered a situation where the 7 train terminated its service. Through this experience, I became more aware of the lack of availability of public transportation connecting my neighborhood with others. It was unbelievable as I had been traveling during rush hour. Countless people depend on the 7 train service to get home but it was still terminated. I ended up with about a 3 hour commute. This goes to show how dependent New Yorkers are on public transportation and the great impact the weather can have on the MTA and thus our daily lives. New York City would likely not be able to function without the MTA services.
My senior year of high school I was distributed a free student metro card, which I did not truly appreciate until I got to college and had to start paying for my commute. Into the third week of school, my metro card inexplicably stopped working; it wasn’t bent or scratched in any spot that I could detect, but no matter how I swiped it, the turn-style would not let me through. The subway entrance closest to my school did not have an information desk at which I could purchase a new card, and therefore no guard watching to ensure that teenaged miscreants didn’t jump the turn-style illegally. Being the woman of dignity I am, I did not hop over the turn-style…I shimmied and crawled under it in my Catholic school polo shirt and pleated kilt.
And thus began my life of crime. I had never showed up to homeroom late or missed an assignment before, yet there I was, breaking the law every afternoon following Speech and Debate Team practice. Rather than take the time to inquire with my school about obtaining a new student metro card, I lazily and irresponsibly scurried under the turn-style every school day to take the F train home for the next three months. One afternoon, a few days before the first report card night of the year, I entered the the train only to be ushered off by two police officers who had seen me slip through without swiping a metro card. Trembling, I showed them my school I.D. and my defunct student metro card and explained that it hadn’t worked since September and I hadn’t attempted to get a new one. As I clutched my floral printed lunchbox and shook in my pink rain boots, the officers let me off with a warning after I promised I would ask for a new one at school the next day.
There are many interesting transit experiences I could detail but I chose this one because of the impact it has on me every time I travel using public transit. One summer night during my high school years, my father and I were traveling home from Manhattan. I was taking an SAT class through the Let’s Get Ready program. My father, being the over-protective parent he is, insisted on traveling with me every night.
We got on the 1 train and then transferred to the A train taking the two seat-er meant for those with disabilities. I took the seat closest to the door and my dad the one closer to the conductor’s door. We had stopped at the candy store and I began to indulge in some chocolate rocks. We talked about my day and what he did for the three-hour duration of my class. Then I began reading my book and he rested his eyes. As we got closer and closer to our stop, the train began to empty.
Around Broad Channel, I looked up from my book to find an older man staring at me. I made eye contact thinking it would make him aware that I knew he was looking and hopefully he would look away, but that seemed to intrigue him more. My dad at this point was deep in his meditation, he insists that he never actually sleeps. I realized from the way I was hunched over and how my dad was slouching, the man could not see my father and thought I was alone. I looked again at the last sentence I was reading in my book giving the man the benefit of the doubt and some time to look away.
Yet, when I looked up again, he was looking. The next stop was approaching and he began to walk towards me. He had a creepy smirk on his face. I leaned back purposefully to reveal that I was not alone, keeping my eyes on his expression. As I did, almost immediately, he stopped and swayed into the space right before the doors. When the next stop had finally come, he exited. I had not realized but I was holding my breath in fear of what he could have said or done. I am sure that if I had been alone that night, this story would have had a very different ending.
Now, as I take the subway alone on a daily basis, I am constantly reminded of that night. I am grateful for the services the transit system provides, but that night taught me that though we may come from the same place or even live in each other’s neighborhoods, we are strangers. That being said I still believe in and have great faith in humanity, but I also try to be realistic. I try to use great caution and practice great awareness anytime I travel, especially when I travel alone.
I do not have a particularly bad or good MTA experience, but I do have a memorable experience. The only way to get to Manhattan from my town is by bus and train. I have been traveling by public transportation since I was about five. I do remember this one moment on the 7 train which occurred back when the 7 train was not crowded. I was likely on my way to volunteer and had to get off at Roosevelt Avenue. At 103rd st, a group of three musicians got on the train. One had a guitar, one had an accordion, and one was the singer. They were dressed in Tejano clothing including sombreros. The music was probably ranchero from Mexico.
There were probably ten people in the train, so it was almost like having a private concert. These kinds of groups typically play between stops and then move on to the next car. While they played, everyone gave them their attention. Afterwards, we all applauded and gave any type of donation we could afford. I suppose this was back before people couldn’t be distracted from their electronics. This experience is memorable to me because I remember it has a moment when a group of strangers could come together and share some good music in the most unlikely place.
I consider myself pretty savvy with NYC public transportation. After all, I have been using public transportation to get to school for the last nine years. In sixth grade, my classmates and I were given full fare student MetroCards to use to travel between home and school. Before starting middle school, I wasn’t very familiar with NYC buses and trains. Coming from Queens, my parents always drove to wherever they needed to go, especially to other neighborhoods in Queens. While going to Manhattan from Astoria isn’t very difficult, going to other parts of Queens would require multiple transfers and more than an hour’s time.
During my three years of middle school I used the public bus to get to school and back. The commute wasn’t very long; it took about 20 minutes. I didn’t mind taking the bus since many of my friends also took the same bus to and from school. However, the bus would often run late and when the bus finally did arrive, it would often be filled to maximum capacity, forcing me to wait for the next bus. This happened at least once a week. One time the bus was fifteen minutes late and when it arrived, there were two more buses directly behind it. Despite the unpredictable nature of the bus, I am grateful to have had access to a bus that stopped only three blocks away from my house and only one block away from the school. Having access to student MetroCards also made it easier for working parents who may not have been able to drive their children to school in the morning.
Throughout high school, I had to take two trains to get to school since my high school is located in downtown Manhattan. The commute took around an hour both ways and it was during these four years that I really came to both love and hate the NYC subway system. I needed it and depended on it, but I wish I didn’t have to. It allowed me to get to the places I needed to go, but not without dealing with my fair share of delays, crowded subway cars, and angry commuters.
Still, one of my favorite views is the view from the Manhattan bound N train as it nears the Queensboro Plaza station. No matter how crowded the train is or how hectic my morning has been, the view always seems to calm me down. It provides me with a rare ounce of tranquility, even in the backdrop of the busiest city in the world.
Being that I am from the small suburban town of Lawrence, on the south shore of Long Island, I was never really familiar with the City’s subway system until my first day of freshman year. The Sunday before school started I moved into a one bedroom apartment in downtown Manhattan, and was finally able to call myself a “city girl.” As exciting as this was, adjusting to the City life added a whole new level of stress that accompanied those first-day-of-college nerves. When my first day of school finally arrived later that week, I made sure to estimate how long the subway ride to school would take. I decided that it would take no longer than 20 minutes to get to Hunter College from Astor Place, and so just to be safe, I left to school 45 minutes before my first class was scheduled to begin. With my newly purchased metro card in one hand, I hopped on my very first subway ride to school on the 6 Train that day. While the subway ride that day took a few minutes less than I had estimated, the ride nevertheless felt endless. To say the subway that day was packed is an understatement. At each stop, more and more bodies flooded into the subway car, regardless of the lack of breathing space available to the rest of us. What I realized on that day may seem cynical and perhaps a bit dramatic, but I found that many people become their most aggressive versions of themselves when piling onto the subway each morning. Since there are no legal constraints on the number of people that may enter each subway car (and if so such would be difficult to enforce), more people push and squeeze their way onto the subway than can fit. This is especially frustrating when the subway is delayed, which happens constantly. While this may seem to be a trivial complaint, it is a struggle I have dealt with almost every day since that first subway ride – since I am always commuting to school during rush hour. Furthermore, being that I get extremely claustrophobic in crowded spaces, this makes my daily experience with the NYC transit system extremely frustrating and almost unbearable.
My high school has over five-thousand students, and since most people ended either 8th or 9th period and commuted to school, that means around 3pm, the surrounding train stations were filled with Brooklyn Tech kids trying to go home and I would be quite excited. I was not so much excited because school ended for the day; I loved my high school. Everyone and everything there was cool and I’d live there if I could. I was excited more so because it meant that I was going to take the train home with my friends. Commuting by train was enjoyable for me because it’s how I met and bonded to some of my closest friends today.
I remember the first time I happened to take the train home with my classmate Cherin. We were acquaintances and knew of each other, but didn’t really talk in class because there weren’t many chances to. So while we were waiting for our train, I decided to get to know her. We talked easily about the class we shared and what we thought about our teacher. Once our train came, we stuffed ourselves into the carts like canned tuna and complained about it. After we were done complaining, we talked some more about anything and everything. We learned that we had a lot of things in common: we both got off the same stop, enjoy video games, and liked exploring new places. The shared experience of the uncomfortable travel back home helped unite us and brought us closer. What was a 45 minute commute felt more like a 10 minute commute. She’s still a good friend of mine today.
The MTA has been an essential and routine part of my life. The transit system dates back in my memory to the early years of childhood when my parents and I would take the N across the Manhattan Bridge to visit my grandparents and relatives in Brooklyn. They had emigrated from China to America when I was seven years old, and until then, I had never been to any other borough outside of Manhattan. All my subway trips were restricted to the darkness of the underground, penetrated only by the occasional waning light bulbs flashing through the velvety black tunnels, leading towards the inevitable fluorescent lighting shining over the yellowing tiles of the next stop on the train.
It was eye-opening the day I finally experienced a subway ride above ground. I remember clambering up to kneel on one of the plastic seats as the train slowly rose above the tunnel, gaining traction as it rumbled across the bridge. I remember staring in awe as the train climbed above ground, allowing the shiny windows of apartment buildings to appeared, flashing one by one across my peripheral view and creating a gigantic, panoramic picture of the Lower Manhattan skyline. Towering steel skyscrapers and luxury glass apartments with rooftop gardens would be softened by weathered brick tenements and rustic churches crowded close together, surrounded by highways winding lazily across the landscape, with beetle-sized cars creeping slowly down the stretches of concrete, their shiny exterior and windows glinting in the brilliant sunlight. The monochromatic structures of brick, glass, and steel would then give way to the shimmering blue-green waves of the East River, winking like diamonds against the white-gold rays of the early afternoon, sprinkled with the occasional sailboat bobbing calmly in the waves or a speedboat cutting a foamy white path across the water. The view was beautiful enough that busy passengers would chance a look away from their cell phones, take a moment to relax, ease the worries from their tensed expressions, and bask in the warm sunshine. Heading back home from Manhattan to Brooklyn, the fiery red-orange streaks of sunset would gleam across the gentle waves of the river. The warm gleam of the golden hour between sunset and dusk would light up the dust motes swirling around the train car. The scenic image and my hand tucked in my mother’s hand would sooth me: the gentle rocking of the train in harmony with the quiet murmuring of the fellow passengers, the rustling of newspapers, and the occasional pop song bubbling jaunty notes from a passenger’s headphones. This was a slice of my happiness growing up, as comforting as a piece of chicken pot pie or a hot cup of tea. This moments of traveling created a period of peace and tranquility in the otherwise hectic hustle and bustle of the metropolitan world in New York City.
In the modern day as a college student, the transit system has become less idyllic and romantic. Because of its daily usage and necessity as a means of transport, train rides have been less of a journey and more of a sudden pause between the next obligated destination and the next responsibility I have to fulfill. It can be an annoyance at times when the trains are delayed or inch forward at snail pace, a nuisance when passengers cause a traffic jam in train car doors, and a tension-filled bubble when tired commuters snap at one another and moan for the unattainable “more space”. It becomes a waiting area where I anxiety await my next stop, my next goal, my next step in the strenuous process of university, discovering an occupation, and taking initiative to achieve those dreams. It becomes an interlude within the hubbub of life, a place where I can catch up on last minute work or a place to catch a few minutes of precious sleep. Day in and day out, it becomes easy to slip into the monotonous schedule of our daily lives, the subway being a necessary blip in the process. However, it can also pick you up from the boringness of everyday travel. Anything from a baby’s chortle or a child’s excited babble to a casual conversation with a fellow passenger, a fluffy puppy in a hand bag or a lanky dog tucked under a seat, or a sea of school children swarming onto the train car is exciting. The occasional break in the flow of quiet commute always brings a unstoppable smile to my face and reminds me of the days in which every train ride was as exciting as the last, a stimulator of new emotions and feelings, a detour of new discoveries and surprises.
Waiting outside in the cold, I pull out my cell phone as the snow continues to fall. My hands begin to tremble from the near freezing temperature as I find the correct number from my contact list and struggle to press the “Call” button. A gentleman passes by and politely asks if I need any help and even offers to buy me some food from one of the food carts around the corner. I thank him for his concern, but explain that I am simply waiting for my ride home and he goes back on his way.
This may seem like a strange scene to some but, in fact, I have had many similar encounters over the last number of years. This is the unfortunate reality for the many New Yorkers with disabilities who rely on the city’s paratransit system, Access-A-Ride, as a primary means of transportation. MTA New York City Transit administers the service through private carriers that own the vehicles. Paratransit customers, such as myself, must call up to twenty-four hours in advance to book trips and are given a designated pickup time. However, a passenger must be willing to wait at least thirty minutes for the vehicle and the vehicle will often leave if the passenger is not on location when it arrives.
People with disabilities are, therefore, often forced to wait outside in extreme weather conditions for extended periods of time in order to ensure that they get picked up accordingly. They must continuously call the service to receive updates on the location of the vehicles, while waiting outside in poor weather conditions. I believe that an effective and efficient Paratransit system is critical to the success of New Yorkers with disabilities. The current system can, and should, be vastly improved to better serve constituents and also balance the fiscal concerns of the City and State.
A memorable transit experience? That’s a tough one. When, like me, you’ve basically been commuting for more time then you’ve even spent in school itself, well, you see things.
I have stories, don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen my fair share of curiosities such as the train toenail clipper or the guy sitting plucking corn kernels off a cob, only to stuff them suspiciously into his jacket pocket; and I’ve experienced more than enough uncomfortable encounters as well with that creep on the train who seems to have nothing better to be doing with his time. But one experience? I wish to share then, one, that I feel encapsulates everything I love and hate about NYC transit in one fell swoop.
“This is a Pelham Bay Park bound, 6, local, train. The next stop is, 59th Street.” I felt someone push me to lean even further over the old lady sitting and reading her newspaper before me, and giving her an apologetic grin, I mouthed the word ‘Sorry,’ before looking behind me to throw silent words of disapproval at the stranger’s backpack now digging into my back.
“Sorry, I’m being pushed,” I heard another lady announce as I felt myself also being pushed into the man standing next to me, the lady on my other side now fully glued to my arm.
“STEP ALL THE WAY IN. THERE’S ANOTHER TRAIN DIRECTLY BEHIND THIS ONE” I felt it even. The unseen roll of one hundred pairs of eyes joining my own, as the conductor’s voice went silent again and the doors attempted to meet one another for a third time. ‘Empty words. There’s always a train directly behind this one,’ I thought to myself as I heard someone suck her teeth as a small, Asian lady attempted to squeeze into the small space right next to the pole sitting at the end of a row of seats.
The crowd moved with her, a magical force sweeping through all the sleepy commuters, ending again at my now arched spine. I felt myself being tipped to lean even further over the old woman—I was basically reading her newspaper now, if anything—and felt as I was being pushed off one of my own feet. ‘Gaaaah! Where’d the floor go?!?’ I panicked for a second and as I attempted to plant my foot back onto the ground, the man to my left shifted; shifted as people do when they grab your hand’s spot on a train pole when you move for just one second to scratch your nose, and edged his foot to where mine had been half a second earlier.
That’s right. I now found myself in a most bizarre situation, worse than when I ended up having to ride the rails without something to hold on to, using my fellow commuters as human supports to keep me upright. I was standing on one foot, holding onto the pole above my head for dear life, so I wouldn’t become page six of the poor, oblivious lady-sitting-before-me’s “amNY,” and my abdominals were starting to burn with the effort.
Then the finality of it. We all listened as the door shut with a thud and the train began to move. Just one stop. Half the train empties at 59th. Just one stop, I told myself as the train began to seemingly drag itself forward. It was one of those super quiet trains as well, the ones without the dull roar of machinery, but just the sound of sweat trickling underneath peoples jackets as they exchanged body heat with one another. I let out a shaky, breath. It had gotten hard to breathe even. I couldn’t remember the last time the train had been so packed, if it had ever been so packed. I was standing on one leg for Pete’s sake! I decided hopscotch was only fun when played on chalk-drawn scribbles.
Something was missing though, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; and then the train pulled into the station. The stunted cries of “GETTING OFF” filled the air as a teeming mass of hats and hair wrestled its way off the train. And there it was. An audible breath filled the train car as everyone remaining let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My foot found its way back to mosaic floors, and I finally straightened up, muscles and body once again at ease. The moment was a New York minute if I had ever felt one. “The next stop is, 68th Street—Hunter College.” Best train ride ever.
El Conductor del Autobús de Muchos Idiomas
Growing up in Eastern, suburban Queens bordering Long Island, the Queens bus system was an inescapable and crucial means of transportation. Beginning in the sixth grade, when I began to take mass transit to school in Jamaica Estates, this system became of absolute necessity to me. Every day, I took the Q43 down Hillside Avenue to my school twenty minutes away.
Choosing to stay in my favorite New York City borough throughout secondary school, my relationship with the Queens MTA bus system only grew stronger. Transitioning to the largest Catholic high school in America, located ten minutes away by car and, to my then-demise, forty-five minutes away by transit, my knowledge of the bus system grew by two more routes: the Q46 down Union Turnpike and the Q76 along Francis Lewis Boulevard. With social privileges granted by my parents as I grew older, my knowledge of the Queens bus system continued to expand to its current state of expertise with the majority of public buses operating in Queens, east of Flushing.
Only recently did I complete the most simultaneously relieving, yet bittersweet New York teenage rite of passage – obtaining my driver’s license. Until that point, my knowledge of the Queens transit system had continually developed over time. Though definitely relieving, the two buses that brought me home – the Q43 and Q46 – continue to remain closest to my heart.
Alternating between these two bus routes, there exists an extremely memorable bus driver who made my commutes at dawn even slightly bearable. This driver is not only the most jovial driver I have ever met, but made it a goal to speak in several different languages upon reaching the bus’s differing streets and destinations, and the connecting buses at these stops. Upon reaching Springfield Boulevard and Union Turnpike, for example, he would proudly exclaim, “Connections are available to the Q27 and Q88, Q veintisiete y Q ochenta y ocho…” among at least three other languages. With that, this driver even greets memorable regular commuters upon their initial step onto the bus in the morning. To me, especially at twelve years old and commuting to middle school, this bus driver fully encompassed the meaning of New York City’s cultural heterogeneity. Having my fair share of MTA conductors and bus drivers who were seemingly angry with the world’s existence, his attitude toward the differing cultures and people of Queens was refreshing, to say the least. Now that I no longer commute from Queens regularly, I always hope to get this driver upon my occasional visits to and from my Queens home.
My favorite part about public transportation is the lull it gives to the sleep deprived that gently tempts us into the siren-like call of sleep. I discovered the comfortable sleeping environment the MTA had to offer in high school after I fell into a pattern of procrastination and turned into a sleep deprived zombie, a rite of passage most teenagers get to go through in high school.
Unlike most of my peers, I commuted to and from high school by bus, rather than train. The bus stopped almost in front of my home, and brought me right up to the bridge leading up to the entrance. The entire journey took roughly half an hour which meant that I had an extra hour of sleep each day, assuming I was able to snag a seat both times in the round trip from home to school. Each morning I commuted with roughly twenty other fellow classmates, half of whom also lost consciousness over in the rear section of the bus. Being able to commute with so many of my peers brought forth a sense of camaraderie that I had never felt before. Despite the fact that New York is known for its cold residents who want nothing to do with one another, I feel that falling asleep on public transportation reveals the vulnerabilities of tired New Yorkers (and their bags and wallets unguarded in the open) who are just normal commuters trying to make up for their lack of sleep.
I love the summer and I love the beach. I personally believe that there is nothing in this world that I’ve experienced that significantly trumps spending the hot, long hours of a July Wednesday with friends roasting on the sand and floating in the cold salt water. With family, we step the beach game up—we’ll leave early in the morning, and, with the luxury of a car, will drive out to Robert Moses Beach at the beginning of Fire Island (secret: the nude section is essentially empty). However, with my friends, we don’t have the luxury of a car, so we take the train.
I think the route is the A train—not the Lefferts Blvd. bound train, this is important—all the way through Brooklyn to Broad Channel, where everyone is pretty much in the same boat as you and is beach-bound, transfer to the S, and take that to your desired beach. However, my favorite part of the day might be coming home from the beach.
One train ride that stands out in my head occurred in the summer after my senior year of high school. My two buddies and I were coming home from a long day at the beach. It was the end of the summer, and I realized on this train ride that this would probably be the last time I would see my best friend for a very long time, for we weren’t just going to college, her family was moving up to Vermont with her.
The thing about this train ride was that once you hit a certain point on the A, the rest of the ride is completely above ground. The sun wasn’t quite setting yet, but it was that special 6:00 glow which lit up our train with a soft light that reflected off the water as we passed JFK. My friends and I were crusty from the salt. Our noses and cheeks pink from the sun, eyelids low from exhaustion, and bathing suits still wet. We probably reeked if we were on the L, but we were on the A coming back from Far Rockaway. Everyone was like us: wet, salty, reminiscent and mournful of the ending summer. This special light was so fleeting, and as the train re-entered the ground I held on to my salty smell with pride, as if I was wearing an expensive perfume, for I knew it would be a year until I would return to Far Rockaway.
The subway rides or bus rides I take everyday are often an aspect of my day that I am just trying to get through. They are a means of getting to the next thing I have to do so therefore I use them to relax (not likely, during rush hour) or to space out and mind my own business. But every once in a while there is a ride worth remembering for any number of reasons. One day recently I experienced one of these instances where it was not just another subway ride. My friend and I were riding the subway together after class; he was going home to Brooklyn, and I was going back to the dorms in the lower east side. It was an average ride for the first couple of stops after we got on, but what made it remarkable was that at 51st Street, my friend Dan’s father entered the same train car that we were in. A funny coincidence. But at the next stop, 42nd Street, my sister entered our car as well! Out of all of the trains and all of the different cars on each train, Dan’s father and my sister chose the exact same one that we were both in. An absolutely bizarre occurrence that will likely never happen again even if we all take the train every day for years to come. In such a big city with so many people, this particular ride helped remind me that it is a small world after all, and coming from a relatively small town in Westchester, reminders like this help me feel more comfortable each and every day.