Toddler Transit Tales: Encounters with Kids in the Subway

New York is such a “young adult city” that I’m often taken aback when I encounter the very young or the very elderly in Manhattan.  People come to begin careers and businesses, to compile university degrees, and to share apartments with other single strangers–all activities typically associated with your 20s and 30s. 

Little kids usually stand out most on the subway.  Everybody notices the gigantic stroller fighting for space in the crowded car; more than once I’ve had to shove my hand in the closing doors in order to get on the train, which almost left me because I waited so long for a parent to wrestle their child-supporting megabus onto the platform.  Or kids are particularly oblivious to the implicit “let there be silenced (or no more than hushed tones) on the morning commute” law. 

Three particular observations stand out to me:

When I was traveling through the tunnels of the Upper West Side, a very clean-cut man (jeans slim but not tight, button-down crisp but untucked for a weekend look) got on with his daughter, her 4-year-old head springy with thin blonde pigtails.  He sat her on his lap and gave her an iPhone, on which she began to play a Mickey Mouse cartoon.  Seated next to her was the most adorable, cherubim-faced little black girl about the same age, her head clicking with multi-colored barrettes at the end of her braids. When the blonde girl’s cartoon began playing loudly enough for the entire train to look, her neighbor craned her little neck to get a look, not saying a word but innocently trying to share in some good Disney fun.  The dad tilted his daughter’s hands so that both girls could see the screen, explaining, “Let’s share with this girl so she can see Mickey, too.”  Unsurprisingly, the blonde pigtails shook ferociously: “No!”  Thus ensued a temper tantrum.  As the father tried to calmly explain why sharing is a virtue and then quietly asking if his daughter understood why he was going to turn the cartoon off, her protests grew louder and more shrill, her actions stronger and more combative as she tried to squirm off his lap and back into the bag that held the confiscated iPhone.  All the while, the adorable girl who had – in some sense – begun the upset by trying to see what shenanigans Mickey and Donald were getting into just sat and watched the unfolding scene.  Her complete quietness, her inescapable innocence, and her wide-eyed stare at this father trying to quell his daughter’s tantrum revealed that she found this event far more entertaining than the cartoon would have been.

Another day, I was on a moderately busy train – it wasn’t empty, but almost everyone had a seat. A couple got on with their very chatty toddler in a stroller – again in pigtails.  The mother sat, facing her daughter towards the seats, including the abandoned one next to her.  Since children seem universally incapable of moderating their voices, this girl, Clea, started bellowing.
“Mama, tell me a story!”
“What kind of story do you want to hear?”
“I dunno.  Talk about a princess.  That can be her throne!”  She pointed towards the empty seat next to her mother.  She continued babbling, essentially telling her own story by instructing her mother to piece together elements of all the fairy tales she’d heard.
The train doors opened, and new passengers embarked.  A woman sat down in the empty seat.
The look on Clea’s face was priceless.  This woman's choice to sit down in that seat was an abomination.  Clea yelled in outrage, “Mama! Mama! That woman sat on my story!”


Last week, on the F train, I stood facing the bench, holding on to the ceiling bar.  I had been absorbed by the novel I was reading and had about 15 pages left in the tale of 1898 Alabama gang wars, in which literal and metaphorical backstabbing happens between reeking, ruthless sharecroppers, and gruesome accounts of buckshot entering and leaving bloody bodies are told in every chapter.  After a few minutes, I noticed the face of the little girl (about 8 years old) on the bench below me, shyly peering up at my opened book cover, trying to get a glimpse of the title and perhaps even the back cover summary.  I felt a little shameful since the blurb mentioned murderers and prostitutes, and the title of the book contained the word “Hell.”  (I’m such a bad influence). When the girl noticed me looking at her, she quickly turned her head, whispering in the ear of her grandmother, who also sent a glance in my direction.  At the next stop, the little girl climbed on her grandmother’s lap.  The kind woman said, “Please sit down!  She told me, ‘Grandma, can I sit on your lap so the lady can sit down?’”  Although she was too shy to talk to me, the sweet girl gave me a vigorous good-bye wave when they departed at York St., as if we were old friends.  The encounter made my day; the only downside was that my anxiousness to make up the time lost in conversing with the grandmother caused me to throw myself into the last few page of the hell book...and miss my stop.

Vodka and Corn

Source: Nebraska State Historical Society General Collection & RG2053-5

This may be true for the country at large, but I know that most Southerners are under the impression that New York(ers) lack a quality that is the essence of Southern life: hospitality.* I have noted the apparent isolation mentality of people I see on the subway or pass on the way to work.  However, I don’t want to commit to that overgeneralization or give the impression that I believe all – or even most – people I’ve encountered show no kindness. Quite the contrary.

[Spoiler alert: Philosophizing ahead.  Skip to the juicy story after the break.] Set against the backdrop of aloofness that you get on the first impression (of many people) is generally a congenial spirit. Everyone desires community and connection; we all just have different ways of finding it and varying levels of openness to it. Some people have serious trust issues that deter them from any kind of intimacy, and others are perhaps too forthcoming with their inner selves, but on some level we’re all scared to trust.  I am referring not only to relationships with significant others or friends but even the person on the street.  We don’t trust them to give us the benefit of the doubt, so we go on the offensive, deflecting their imminent judgment.  We present a chilly exterior sometimes, unwilling to engage with anyone and then risk them finding us boring.  We read a “high-minded” book to avoid others thinking that we’re unintelligent. We avoid beginning a conversation with the clearly poverty-stricken lunatic on the train because others might think we’re soft or ill-equipped to handle these harsh realities of New York by ignoring them.  And, if we’re honest with ourselves, maybe we judge the lunatic, too.

These things don’t make us inherently mean people, just those untrusting and unloving enough to open ourselves to interaction.  If we’re not mean, we’re usually not openly kind, either.  In cultures unlike the South where hospitality hasn’t been culturally adopted and performed (and often mutated as a result), acts of kindness stand out, shine a bit brighter by virtue of their sincerity.

When a cashier at Trader Joe’s starts a friendly conversation about the bananas I’m buying or asks if I have big weekend plans, it actually has a profound effect on my mood, especially since I’ve just waited in lines that literally wrap around the entire store to buy those bananas.** When a fellow coffee shopper takes a minute to converse about the amazing design on the top of the latte, even share a laugh, it’s uplifting.  When a pair of random strangers at the Manhattan bar who strike up an engaging conversation with me and my friend offer to pay for my cab home to Brooklyn because it’s safer than the trains after midnight…well, bowl me over.  There is hospitality, kindness, and sweetness in New York.

What about that lunatic on the train? 

New York Confessions: I Love the City's Texture

I'm like a little kid who sees the forbidden fruit of "NO" as all the more reason to indulge.  On the subway platform, a thick yellow line indicates that you're supposed to stand back, to allow that dead space to exist between you and the rushing train as it approaches.  If color isn't a powerful enough deterrent, most platforms have hundreds of round hemispheres either sunken into or growing out of the cement in this yellow no man's land, allowing your feet can feel the difference between the safe zone and the (highway to the) danger zone.*

I always stand in the yellow zone.  No matter what shoes I'm wearing, I can feel the ridges under my feet, and for some reason, I like it.**

The same goes for the subway grates on the sidewalk, which feel like walking on metal waffles. Unless I'm wearing heels, I usually opt to walk over them, maybe just for the thrill of not "falling through," which so many people claim as a true fear of city walking.

Of course, at times, this practice gives a little thrill to everyone around - that is, in those moments when I'm wearing a dress, a subway goes by underneath, and I end up giving my best Marilyn Monroe impression (which, admittedly, is horrendous).

*They operate much like the grooves on the shoulder of the highway that wake up a sleepy driver with a horrendous noise (which my family affectionately used to call "road farts").
**A metaphor for my life?  Perhaps.***
***Nah; I only wish I was so adventurous.

This avian visitor hung out at the Nostrand stop.

You Know You're in New York When...

Everyone assumes that everything you own is designer and/or desirable.

Last week, on a morning commute as typical and colorless as any other, I was in the middle of transferring trains - A to the B at West 4th.  As is customary (or, at least, courteous), I stepped back to allow the departing passengers smooth passage.  I felt a hand on my shoulder – gentle, but assertive enough to get my attention – and I looked to see a professional woman, pretty, probably mid-30s.  I assumed I was blocking her path, so I moved to step aside, but she had a question for me.

“Excuse me.” A rarity to find such manners during the soundless and harried morning commute! “Do you know who made your bag?  It’s beautiful!” She honestly gushed.

The crowd pushed me forward into the mouth of the train.  But not before I could get out a confused and somewhat apologetic answer.

“Um…Target.”

Lovely

Most weekday mornings on the subway are the same: struggle to squeeze my way into the subway car on the express train; once that’s managed, struggle to find space for my book; once that’s accomplished, struggle to avoid looking at my watch because I no longer have any control over the fact that, despite my best efforts, I still will be only just on time to work. And of course, maintain my bubble of it’s-morning-and-I’m-going-to-work-so-I’m-not-planning-on-talking-to-anyone blues.

The norm.

One day, I got on the train expecting nothing different, unaware of the delight that awaited me.  Per usual, I stood, attempting to delay the posterior-numbness of eight hours seated in a cheap office chair that would greet me upon my arrival at work. I was reading a book of reflective essays on literature by Michael Chabon (for funsies), and on some level I must have been aware of a voice speaking louder than I’m accustomed to hearing in the mornings. The volume of the voice resulted not from anger, desperation, or insanity, as one might expect; this voice was, surprisingly, animated by geniality. 

Of course, I was only tangentially aware of this woman’s voice, so determined was I to finish the essay I was reading.

At the Jay Street-MetroTech stop, the train cleared out a bit, which is always a welcome relief.  Commuters cleared the aisles and even some of the seats.  I glanced up to see an empty seat and a woman beckoning, “Have a seat!”  Well, how could I refuse?

I sat and continued reading…a few lines.  I was tempted to feel annoyed by this woman and her loud voice, now amplified by the fact that she was sitting right next to me and distracting me from the words on the page.  But then I began to listen in, and any observer would have noticed the corners of my mouth twitching into a smile, one that clearly resulted from a source other than the open book in my hands. Yes, I thought, THIS is what I moved to New York to encounter.

Because of the degree of familiarity in this woman’s voice, I assumed that the man to whom she was speaking was a good friend.  Turns out, he was not.  This is what I tuned in to:

“Where do you go to church?  What faith are you?” Oh, no, I thought.  I hope this doesn’t turn into live-action TV evangelism of the alienating sort.

“I’m Baptist.”

“Baptist?  Baptist is not a faith; let me tell you about faith.” She proceeded to quote Hebrews 11, though I’m not sure which version. It surely wasn’t ESV, so she’s clearly not a good PCA-er.  Ha.  Let’s go with… “‘Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.’ So, you know, it’s not about religion, it’s about faith.  You have faith that you're going to make it to work, but you don't know.  Something could happen to you on the train or on the street.  You don’t know....faith is spiritual, see?  We are spiritual beings that occupy a body.”

She went on for a minute or two, then asked, “What do you do for a living?”

“[Something generic.] What do you do?”

“I inspire people to be the best they can be.”  Clearly. She turned to the man. “You have a wonderful spirit.  You’re young but you’re old. You smile with your face; your face smiles.”

The man soon exited the train, possibly gratefully.

Two seconds later, I felt her shift, the sound of her 90s-era windbreaker-material coat swishing to adjust her shoulders in my direction. “Whatcha readin’?”

I turned my book toward her to show her the cover.

“Is that for school?” 

I immediately felt myself get offended.  I know I look young, but you just assume that I’m a student? Why can’t I just read for pleasure?  People do that.  Then I realized this defensive posture was ridiculous and ungenerous.

“No, just reading for myself.”

“What do you do?  What’s your degree in?  English?”
Well, that’s a little scary.

“Yes, English.”

“Ooh, girl.  You’re going to help me.  Get my number.  I’m going to school because I want to open a school.  I have my Associate’s now in business, but I’m going to get my Master’s and my Ph.D.  In Liberal Arts.”

Umm….How do I say this?  Better pose the impossibility of this plan as a question: “Can you do that? Get a Ph.D. in liberal arts?  From my experience, it’s a bit more specialized than that.”

“Oh.  See, girl, this is why you can help me. Maybe I’ll get my Ph.D. in English like you.”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to open a school? Why don’t you get a degree in Education?”

“That’s so specific.  I want to be more general.”

Umm… “Well, actually, graduate degrees in English are pretty limiting and specialized.”

“Really?  What do you study?”

“Literature.”

“Ooh.  I don’t like to be pigeon-holed.  But you call me; I’ll help you write your thesis. Get my number.”

So I gave her my book, in which she wrote her name, her email address (Hotmail), her number, her Facebook info.

“What’s your name?”

“Leah.”

Her face brightened. She clasped her hands joyously, and I imagined her too-long acrylic nails clicking together.  “That’s my goddaughter’s name! It fits a beautiful person with such a good smile. Such a beautiful name.”

“I’ll tell my mom.  But…do you know what it means?”

“It’s in the bible.”

“Right, so think about the story…” We proceeded to spend a couple minutes rehashing the story of Jacob, Rachel (the beautiful girl he wanted to marry), and Leah (the homely girl with “weak eyes” whom he was tricked into marrying, who popped out seven kids). 

“So what do you think Leah means in Hebrew?”

“Something like ‘steadfast,’ ‘enduring,’ or ‘faithful.’ She gave birth to all those children.”

“Weary.  It means weary.”

“Oh!  Well, she gave birth to all those children…No, that’s not a good name for you.  I’m gonna give you a new name.  Ashley.”

What?! “That’s about 50% of the girls in my generation.”

“I got it.  Lovely.  I’m gonna call you Lovely.  See?  Because it’s got a V in it for my name Valerie. Lovely because you got a lovely sense about you.”

Eventually I had to get off and go work. As I departed, she urged me to contact her.  “Call, email, facebook!” The doors opened, and even before my foot stepped onto the 34th Street platform, I heard her acquire a new target:

“You have a beautiful spirit...”

Subway Soundtrack

The sounds of the subway offer a fascinating study into New York.

Just by listening, a commuter can determine the time of day.  In the early or weekend morning and very late at night, each car is usually quite silent, the sound of the metal-on-metal of the tracks, the screeching of the brakes, the ding of the doors combining into a surprisingly soothing tune, an urban lullaby for those tired enough.  During the morning rush hour, even though the train is at capacity with work-bound travelers, everyone must be either struggling to wake up or upset about the impending workday, for they are still quiet.  The sounds that punctuate the morning commute are the sounds of cheap headphones turned up too loud (to a volume that creates concern for the listener’s future auditory capabilities) and blaring Beyoncé, the desperate “excuse me, excuse me, excuse me!” as someone shoves to get off, and the annoyed conductor’s “Please stand clear of the closing doors so we can go!”  At midday, the sounds of conversation begin to filter through each car more pronouncedly, and in the evening…wait, was that laughter?  Remarkable.

Of course, at any time of day, crazy condemning and cursing people can show up to cause an unwelcome ruckus…that is pointedly ignored.

But then there are the performers.  The subway buskers.  I love the variety above all. The 34th Street Stop in Herald Square, my workday destination, is actually a great stop because there's an area where a pretty decent music act usually sets up: a jazz band, a crooner, a violinist. In any given week, I can be treated to a mariachi band, an impromptu hip-hop duel, or a solo girl guitarist who tries unsuccessfully (and painfully) to resurrect Mariah Carey’s glory days of the ‘90s. I’m still waiting for the day when a group of people consisting of a pot-smoking ex-professor, his transvestite boyfriend, an ex-rock star and his stripper lover, a lesbian performance artist and her lawyer girlfriend, and a filmmaker start weaving in and out of the poles singing about restaurants and Santa Fe.

One Sunday, on my way to the Manhattan-bound A-train at Nostrand and Fulton, at about 8:30 in the morning, I turned the corner and heard the sounds of Cyndi Lauper emanating loudly from an off-key 40-something man four blocks away.  “If you call, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting…time after time.”  But by far, my favorite so far has been on the platform of that subway stop.  I found a spot between two pillars that was free of other commuters (that Isolation M.O.) and opened my book to wait for the train.  But I only got a few sentences in.  Drifting slowly into my awareness was the classic, feel-good sound of Bill Withers’s “Lean on Me.” Strolling down the platform were four men, probably in their 50s, singing a capella harmonies.  Musically, they weren’t incredible, but I could sense such…pleasure.  They weren’t dressed alike and actually looked like they had been headed to the office or to a leisurely family event (or, in some cases, hopefully to the laundromat) when all of a sudden, they caught each other’s eyes, recognized the shared desire to harmonize, and spontaneously burst into song.  They weren’t pandering for tips, though I would have gladly provided one, they just sounded like they loved to sing.  That’s what they sounded like: delight.

It’s something I recognize.  Although I have no great gift for singing, I absolutely love to do it. I desperately miss being in choir, not only for my friends there and that community but for the pleasure and honor of worshipping in that way.  And I miss my car, the one place where I could sing with abandon.  My car sessions were intense, I’ll tell you – full of Broadway fantasies, soulful expressions, and not a few accompanying dance moves.  The walls are too thin in my apartment to justify singing with any real volume or dedication (although I love to sing, I never said I was all that confident in it…).  I miss my pitiful guitar-playing, the hours I would spend striking the few chords I knew just to sing to something. 

I now look forward to mornings at the A stop platform, for it brings me joy to hear those men enjoying singing. Perhaps it’s only my own wishful longing to sing that I project onto them, but I don’t think so.  All I know is that I’ve never heard the songs of The Temptations sound so good.

Metro Book Club

In the style of one who has clearly not grown up with it or had to deal with it for very long, I must admit that I am a little bit in love with public transportation.  Never fear, I will get to the considerable frustrations with it in due time, but before you hurt yourself rolling your eyes, New Yorker, hear me out.  Or at least, just indulge me.

When I studied and taught at the University of Tennessee, my commute from my door to the parking lot was roughly 20 minutes in the morning class-rush, 12 minutes for the 5:30 AM arrival to my office to work on my thesis.  My first semester teaching for Roane State required an abominable 45-minute drive to Harriman to teach an 8:00 AM Basic Writing class on Mondays and Wednesdays, but my last semester teaching included a delightful drive of only 10 minutes during rush hour to Bearden High School.

Every day now, my transit time from door to office is about 40 minutes.  But I love it because….I get to read.  It gives me time to read for pleasure, a hobby which I could barely make myself practice in between reading student essays and trivial department-assigned composition readers and rhetoric texts.  Finally, I can make a dent in those 50-odd titles that have been sitting on my bookshelves, unread, for years. I’ve already read about six books, and that at a pretty leisurely pace, considering that I primarily read on the train (downtime at home has, sadly, been devoted to catching up with the rest of the world’s new obsession with Downton Abbey or rediscovering Arrested Development).

But I love New York public transportation more because other people read.  So many people.  The means differ – smartphone, Kindle, traditional book (for the purist). I’ve previously discussed the dedication to reading on the train, and that is no small feat.  But I’m impressed with not only the number of people who read on the train but with the astonishing variety of what they read.  I think that what people read is incredible insight into their characters.  Maybe you can’t judge a book by its cover, but I will certainly judge a person by the book cover he or she holds.  When I enter a house, one of the first things I look at is the owner’s bookshelves; if they’re floor to ceiling or you have an entire library (and the shelves have a higher ratio of books to knickknacks and trinkets than vice versa), you earn bonus points.

Reading a history textbook, The New Yorker, and Huysmans's Against Nature, respectively.

When I returned from my visit to New York last Autumn, I returned with a glowing memory of the subway.  In this day and age of smartphones and technology and twitter, in this city of innovation and business and capitalism, people read!  Voraciously!  And they read literature!  It’s not just fad-reads like The Hunger Games or book club favorites like The Help, though they have merit; I've seen people reading Thoreau. Kierkegaard. Pamuk. O’Connor.  Faulkner. Huxley. Nabokov. Dostoevsky!

And...Tina Fey.  Last week, I stood next to a twenty-something man in a casual blazer and jeans, stylishly eccentric knit cap, carefully planned colorful socks, nice facial hair – he was quite attractive, to be frank.  But he was not the kind of guy I thought would be reading Tina Fey’s book. I observed him reading, enjoying the uncontainable silent laughter that lit up his face every few minutes. I fear that I’ve become a bit of a creeper, staring at everybody with a book on the subway, trying to see what they’re reading.  I’ve been in more than one situation where I’m so intent about discovering the title of the work in their hands that I miss their transition from absorption in their reading to staring back at me in offense.  Whoops.  But it also gives me ideas; I constantly think, “I want to read that!”  At least I know of some good bookstores where I can buy the book…

Right now, I’ve finally gotten around to reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay that has been on my bookshelf for a good five years.  I had just finished reading some essays by Michael Chabon, so I figured it was time. Next week…who knows? (Actually, I already finished it and moved on already thanks, in part, to some unexpected subway construction this past weekend.)

This guy was reading music.

Consequences of the Stairmaster

In addition to keeping up with running in the city, I’ve also joined the local YMCA. Suffice it to say, I really miss TRecs at UT and The Rush; I was so spoiled by plenty of space, up-to-date and available equipment, challenging yet effective classes and instructors, and generally pleasant (well, as pleasant as possible) workout experiences.  But it has led me to a realization:

When working out and living in the city, one must adopt a different mindset when approaching a weights or cardio agenda.  For instance, from recent experience, I have come to the conclusion that the Stairmaster is never a good idea when living in New York.  After all, you should always expect that the escalator from that really deeply-dug subway platform will be broken. And if you have used the Stairmaster that morning...your legs will hate you.

On the other hand, it’s useful to consider the subway ride itself as a bit of a workout.  After all, sometimes in the rush hour crowd or in the company of pole-hogs, or when besieged by a condition of shortness that makes reaching up to the ceiling bar an uncomfortable strain, you are forced to balance, to surf the subway and to anticipate the driving habits and mood of the conductor.  Like any surfer will tell you (I would guess…I don’t know that I’ve ever met one, and I’ve certainly never surfed on water…), the proper stance is wide, knees-bent, ready to accommodate any tricky movement and to quickly redistribute your weight; you will get those leg muscles to work.  Even when you do have a pole to cling to, it takes effort to stay upright in the midst of a lurch, and that bicep comes in handy.

It’s important to develop these muscles (though preferably without the assistance of the Stairmaster) to avoid the subway stumble that everybody does and everybody laughs at.  And God forbid that you might stumble and – gasp! – touch someone.   

Packed Like Sardine-Cattle

Since a significant portion of my day is spent in transit and in public*, I have decided to devote a new section of this blog for my legion of followers (last time I checked, there were 8.  But hey, I’ve always said that’s my lucky number since my birthday is 8/8**.  So that works.) Originally, I was going to call the short vignettes that have been piling up in my mind “Subway Stories,” but I’ve also recently begun to appreciate the wonders of the bus, so that was a bit too limiting.  Therefore, I’ve settled on “Transit Tales” because alliteration is catchy (read: easy and lazy).  I also considered “Conveyance Considerations” and “Pedestrian Passages,” and I might get more inventive and get rid of the alliteration altogether…

Not that any of this titling discussion matters***.  But feel free to weigh in on titles.

The point is that walking and riding around the city by cab, bus, or (especially) subway, provokes much hilarity, concern, and general thought. The experience is at times mundane, at times profound, and often ridiculous. 

So I’ll start with this brief yet painfully obvious observation upon which anyone who has ever ridden an express train into Manhattan at rush hour could remark:

Nowhere has the expression about being “packed like a herd of cattle” (or some variation) resonated so clearly with me or been so apparent as on the A train heading into Manhattan in the 9 AM hour.  I know how Bessie feels.  If anyone has ever wondered what it feels like to have your nose thrust into a stranger’s armpit, praying the desperate prayer that he or she has used deodorant that day, all one needs to do is ride the subway. 

Even when it’s that crowded, people doggedly adhere to that New York priority of isolation (or, perhaps, independence is a kinder, more positive word to use).  As much as possible (and it’s often not), they struggle to avoid contact with the people on the train – that is, trying to avoid contact with their fellow sardines.  Or cattle.  Choose your metaphor.  This results in interesting displays of balance; often, it’s too crowded to reach the pole, and as the train lurches forward, back, or to the side (somehow, inexplicably, I think it manages all three directions simultaneously), commuters fall into the people around them, their weight transferring to a stranger’s arm, back, bag.  Granted, with the crowd, they don’t fall far, but in an effort to avoid contact, New Yorkers on express trains have developed the most amazing reflexes.  They jump back to their standing position, once again vainly attempting to avoid contact with others until the next lurch…or, gratefully, the doors open and travelers disembark.  But then…a bigger mass of people is waiting to push in. Indeed, “crushing mass of humanity” takes on new meaning.

The “Isolation M.O.” + crowd scenario also develops impressing feats of contortionism.  As more people pile onto the train and miraculously create standing space ex nihilo, people fight to keep reading their books, and I include myself as a soldier in this battle****. I’ve held my book up above my head, giving my arm a little workout as I try holding it steady; I’ve held it down against my stomach, trying to read in the shadow of my own head; I’ve held it out to my side, under the arm of somebody else, twisting my neck to see over their arm as they hold on to the pole; I’ve held it directly in front of my eyes as only the nearly-blind have been known to do.  That’s dedication.

*I think there’s a profound difference in labeling this traveling portion of my day as “in transit and in public” rather than “public transportation.”  The latter implies only a mode of travel, akin to “pedestrian traffic” or “commercial jet” or “makeshift raft à la Huck and Jim.” Separating the terms emphasizes that you are, indeed, traveling with the public eye on you…and your eye on the incredible variety and surprising characters of the public.

**Notice how I casually threw in the birthday so that you will all get out your smartphones or old school calendars and mark that glorious occasion. 

***I mean, seriously, the title of this blog is…well, a bit uninspired.  I will also take suggestions for changing that.

****Given the circumstances, the ability to maintain not only focus but absorption in a book is quite impressive, and I’m rather pleased with this developing talent.