Commute Article Ready for Publication.
By: Natalia M. Clavijo
December 14, 2009
COMMUTE ARTICLE
Word Count: 2,833
I am very fortunate to live in Woodside, Queens which provides easy commuting to and from Hunter College; on a good day it can take me as little as a half hour to get to school.I also commute to visit friends and family all around New York City and I thank the MTA for having an active subway and bus system so desperately needed by people like me: I don’t own a car and I don’t drive.I enjoy riding on the R train where I get to bump into very diverse people: Spanish, Asian, African American, Europeans, Caucasian, and a huge number of those we now called ‘Mixed people.’Me being one of those mixed individuals, my grandmother on my mother’s side was Jewish, on my grandfather’s side (my mother’s father) I have some French, Spanish, and German and on my father’s sideI have some Italian, Greek and more Spanish which brings me to a complete mutt.I like being so diverse because it makes me look so unique and people don’t know what language I can or can’t speak, as well as guessing where I come from.I am originally from Colombia, South America and when I tell people they seem to be very surprised because I have very fair skin.Off course I tell them I am mixed, but also Imake sure I explain to them that despite coming from a tropical place like Cartagena where I used to live, not everyone there is tan; that in fact, there are so many different kinds of people there, different colors, races and backgrounds, and in my own words, “We are as diverse as people are here in New York City.”
Every woman learns quickly about what not to wear when commuting in New York City or suffers the consequences.It is important to avoid light-colored pants on rainy days. Mind the gap on the platform if you’re wearing flip-flops. Check the see-through ratio of your clothes before heading out into the sunshine. Hold your skirt when climbing the stairs out of the subway.
I mastered all of these rules ages ago; I thought I did.
Because on the night of October 12 at 6:00 p.m. when I was descending to the R train at Lexington Avenue, a wind caught my long, but lightweight, skirt and blew it near my neck, exposing things that should not be exposed. It was just like a page out of Marilyn Monroe’s famous sidewalk grate scene except that she was a platinum blond bombshell adored by men, and me: the girl next door with auburn hair.I pretended it didn’t happen. What? Me showing everything my mother gave me in public? You must be mistaken. Except I had a witness.
I nonchalantly checked around to make sure no one had seen my coming out as it
were and noticed a guy behind me at the top of the stairs talking on his cell
phone. Or maybe he was snapping a photo.
I could be a naked cowboy equivalent of the subway. For those of you not living
in the NYC area, the Naked Cowboy is somewhat of a local celebrity, like Dr. Z.
but with better abs. He can be found in Times Square with his guitar wearing
only a cowboy hat and cowboy boots. Okay, he is also wearing tight whities. The
Naked Cowboy has made a career out of one simple tenet: Everything is more
interesting when you add the word ‘naked.’ (Just think about it)
But the Naked Cowboy has parlayed his gig into appearances in commercials,
endorsements and music videos. I’m thinking this might work for me. I’ll appear
in Sub Talk posters informing riders about smart clothing choices or stand at station
entrances handing out pamphlets on windy days. Imagine: Your faithful subway
commuter making a living because of an errant gust of wind. People have become
famous for doing little else. (Paris Hilton, anyone?)
On October 15 on the
Queens-bound R train, evening commute, a man and woman step into the car. They seemed
to work together, but hadn't left the office at the same time.
Woman: Hey, long time no see.
Man, looking distressed, nods at her.
Woman: Tough day?
Man: Yeah. Don't feel well.
Woman: Sorry to hear it. Same issues?
Man: Can't shake this pain in my stomach. Have to get a refill on the
oxycodone.
Woman: Oxycodone! You shouldn't be taking that. You'll get addicted.
Man, shrugs: If you had pain like this, you'd take it too.
Woman: Seriously stop taking it. It's addictive. Do you want that?
Man, looks her straight in the eye: I'm a grown man and I'll take it if I need
to.
Riding the 7 train into
Manhattan, on October 22 at 9:00 a.m. a mother is sleeping while her two boys,
one in a stroller and the other one about seven years old entertain
themselves.The boy in the stroller,
pointing to other passengers: “Shoot the bastard. Shoot the bastard.”
Older boy, making a mock gun with his hands: Rat-a-tat-tat. Got 'em. Got
'em. (Laughs)
Boy in stroller: Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!
That same day at 6:00 p.m. going into Queens in the 7 train another mother wearing a white blouse, jeans and her hair pulled back, held a baby in her arms completely covered with a blanket. It seemed she was trying to feed the baby breast milk.People stared but didn’t say anything.
On November 2 at 9:00 a.m. on the R train into Manhattan a young female in her 20s with coffee in hand sat by my side wearing a tight black jacket, black pants and black nail polish; she then proceed to read the book “Intro to Music,” suddenly someone pulled the emergency break and the train suddenly stopped making the female spilled her coffee on her legs, book and bag.It was such a mess; thankfully I gave her some paper towels I found in my bag so she could clean herself.
On the way back that day at 5:30 p.m. I jumped into the R train Queens-bound and the train was very crowded.All I could see was a multitude of heads like a stadium at its peak.A male in his 50s wearing a blue jacket and jeans, with grey hair and blue eyes had his back directly behind my back and each time the train stopped he pushed me against the door of the car.The gentleman appeared to have mental problems because he kept talking to himself, as well as having a European accent it seems.I had no choice but to move to the other side of the car because he almost ran me down to the floor at the prior stop.
A dark skinned male got on the train at Queens Plaza wearing a yellow coat, white sneakers and a backpack.He immediately started singing “Beautiful World” in an attempt to collect donations from passengers.People seemed to be bothered with his singing because they covered their ears with their hands.The train smelled like perfume mixed with sweat and dirt.The floor was yellow with brown spots all over and the passengers carried at least three bags each, indicating they went shopping.One of the chairs on the right end corner of the train was cracked and the door to the conductor was semi open giving the opportunity to see the rails and tracks through the window of the conductor’s cabin.
On Steinway a mother and young child got on the train.The young green eyed child with blonde curls hanging from his little head wore a red jacket, dark jeans and grey tennis shoes kept asking his mother if they where there yet while jumping up and down in his chair.His mother gave him a toy to play with.It was a little blue car; the child laid down on the floor and moved around the passengers’ legs and feet at the same time he made car sounds.His mother got angry and told the child to behave and to sit down.The next stop was 65th Street, where I got off.
A couple of months ago my aunt’s friends from Florida were touring New York City for a few days. I met them for lunch and spent most of the time giving them subway directions to the fifty sites they had on their checklist for the following 24 hours. Their next stop was Chinatown, not so they could eat or buy silly souvenirs, but so they could “say we’ve seen Chinatown.”
Mere steps from the
entrance to the West Fourth Street station, we encountered a slice of life, New
York style. A toothless, bedraggled man, who had a sixth-sense that they
weren’t from ‘round these parts’, asked for some money. He was for the most
part harmless, but did get in their personal space (and being from a more rural
area, their personal space is about ten feet more than a New Yorker’s). Despite
my attempts to keep them moving forward, they stopped and began a conversation
with him which only served to egg him on. When I finally wrangled them
underground, they were concerned.
“Are you going to be okay?” they asked.
Oh, I’ll be okay, you “I Love New York” t-shirt wearing, unzipped purse
carrying, white sneaker trotting tourists, but you won’t if you keep staring at
complete strangers.
If you’ve ever visited New York and thought you blended in so well that you
passed for a local, I’m here to tell you that you didn’t. We spotted you a mile
away. In fact you might be following all of the standard local protocols: no
eye contact, no chattering on like teenagers, and, for the love of God, no
shorts. But still, you’re not passing. It’s got something to do with presence
and an uncertainty, I guess.
But this is not a bad thing. My mom’s friends later reported that they thought the New Yorkers were incredibly nice. “We only had to glance at our map on the subway and several people would offer directions.” I’ve witnessed this myself, although it’s less about generosity of spirit than it is a love of New Yorkers to be able to tell people where to go.
But then where else, except New York, would I be riding the 4 train on a Saturday Autumn day at noon, and see one woman wearing a surgical mask, another one with a t-shirt that reads “Friends don’t let friends get mullets” and my one of my favorite musicians, Delta Dave Johnson, belting out the blues on his guitar and harmonica from his wheelchair?
I should take a look at the A train and my experience in the way back from my friend Laura’s house in Inwood.The train’s starting point, the 207th Street station in Inwood, seemed to agree: its walls are emblazoned with mirrored mosaic tiles that read “At the start ...”
A handful of people plod onto the next train slated to leave (indicated by an old-fashioned illuminated sign that reads Next Train). They are a mix of ages, races and levels of alertness, but from talking to some of them, the hype about Inwood’s real estate status, as one of the last places in Manhattan where property is still reasonably priced appears to be true.
Looking more Williamsburg than extreme Upper West Side, a young male approximately 25, moved here three years ago because his office was in the area. “It’s about the only place in Manhattan I can afford to live,” he said. “I grew up on the Upper West Side, so I guess psychologically it was important to me to stay in Manhattan.”
Another male in his 50s said he grew up in the neighborhood and moved back full time in 1983. “It was a Dominican neighborhood,” he said, “but now yuppies are moving in and pushing the Dominicans east of Broadway. That’s true all the way down to Washington Heights.”
Although he travels about 40 minutes to Fulton Street every day, the gentleman told his friend he doesn’t mind the commute. “At this stop, you can get a seat, pick up a paper and let it roll around you.”
The crowd gets thicker and more diverse as we progress pass Yeshiva University and the Cloisters at 190th and 181st Streets, but the flood really begins at 168th Street, where the A meets the C. Gabbing high school students, heavy-eyed laborers, and a few Blackberry-poking suits pour in. Many listen to iPods; most are sleepwalking. “You can’t get a seat on the A train before 10 a.m.,” said a female in her 30s, who boards with who appeared to be two of her friends.
It’s true: by the time we hit 125th Street, the last station before an express shot to Columbus Circle, all the seats are gone. For one female in her 40s, who works in management in Midtown as she said to a friend of her coworker, the risk of standing is a small price to pay. She said she lived in Westchester, and for eight years has been driving to a parking lot near 181st Street every day. From there, she boards the A train to 42nd Street. “I don’t like to drive in the city,” she explained. “And I like to read.” She holds up her book; it’s something from the self-help category. No wonder she seems so calm about her hour-and-45-minute ride.
When we hit Columbus Circle, it feels like the whole world rushes off the train. But when the doors close, strangely the crowd has not thinned significantly. It only gets less crowded at the next stops: 42nd Street, 34th Street, 14th Street and Canal Street, where the crowd disperses in short, frenetic bursts, as if the train is coughing pesky straphangers out of its system.
The last stragglers lumber off at Broadway/Nassau Street, and though the train will continue on to Brooklyn, the platform is nearly empty. One of the only people waiting to board is a male in his 30s who told his told the female sitting next to him that he is catching the train back to Crown Heights. He looks just as tired as everyone else, but with one important difference, and said to the female: “after a graveyard shift at a downtown restaurant, I’m finishing my day just as everyone else is getting started.”
Any New Yorker who has ridden a city bus might think there is a ghost buried under the floor of the bus. Engine making a high volume sound, as well as squealing of an old machine and acceleration is often accompanied by hummings of snaps and cracks: the squeals of aging.The new line of New York City buses promises to have no noise.
I decided to put the M2 new East village bus to the test.I took the bus on December 5th at 3:00 p.m. after visiting my aunt who lives in the East Village at 11th Street and 4th Avenue.In the bus there were 37 seats inside a brightly lit interior with glowing LED panels. The rear doors open after a slight nudge, and the batteries recharge every time the driver hits the brakes.
On the trip to Washington Heights, not every passenger had the same reaction. A female in her 40s made her way to the bus’s elevated rear seats. She quickly returned. “It’s too high,” she said, frowning at the seats, which are closer to the roof than in other city buses.
But is it smoother? “It might be if the road wasn’t this bumpy,” she said. “But it is bumpy, so it’s the same thing exactly.”
Another female in her 30s took a seat near the front after boarding just north of 42nd Street said “It feels like the air is cleaner, lighter.”Glancing around the bus and adjusting the fox-fur lining on her khaki coat. She squinted through her sunglasses. “It’s still noisy, but it’s nice that it’s bright.”
Other riders were immediately struck by the lack of racket. “There’s no hissing back there,” said another passenger.“There’s usually a lot of engine noise, but this bus it’s a lot quieter; it makes me think it’s electric.”
A female in her 20s said, “This new bus is awesome!”“It smells like a bus that takes you to different countries and states.”
As I grew more interested in getting to know this new built bus I decided to take the bus until its last stop to 168th Street and Broadway, and when we got there one passenger wearing a black and white suit carrying a black briefcase, with blackberry in hand, told the driver “It took more than an hour to get home, this bus is too long.” He said.“That’s all I got to say.”