Last day of July: how can that be?
Beautiful, light blue skies. 75 degrees.
Left the house at 8:14am.
N: Cloudless skies meant only a few "brave" commuters actually left the protection of the station's awning for the outer reaches of the platform and into the uninterrupted sunlight. I was enveloped by the marvelous solar warmth as I strolled slowly to the end of the practically-abandoned platform.
Then, as quickly as sparks emit from under a passing subway car, a clique of commuters encircled me. "Where the hell...?" I asked myself as I looked back to see not a single other person between the dark shadow being cast by the rusted station roof and the impromptu gathering huddled too close for comfort. Just as I tried to ignore the other bodies radiating early summer morning heat, the train came screaming around the bend and the Astorians scattered to position themselves infront of their favorite door on the train.
Rest of the ride was Harry Potter and the Deadly Hallows.
7: Train came after a few mintues on the platform. It was a little croweded, but filled with amusing kinds of people: A petite Latin woman stood easily one foot under the stretched-out arms of a bugged-eyed Middle Eastern man, a tiny Asian toddler bellowed mercilessly from the other end of the car, a sleepy, youthful blonde clutched her tote for balance.
G: To put it the nice way, morning G train riders are like water: they find the fastest escape route possible. Meaning, if you have a staircase bisected by a railing, creating 4 possible lanes of traffic (2 lanes up, 2 lanes down), morning G train riders will use all 4 lanes. This means those poor reverse commuters (a.k.a. myself) feel like salmon attempting to jump up the waterfall.
But, this little fishy has finally learned, after 5 months of facing this reverse commute, to stand my ground, remain in my lane and use my purse as defense...
Once on the train, the rest of the ride was Harry Potter and the Deadly Hallows.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Monday, July 30th
8:40 a.m. Nice morning breeze. 77 degrees. Easy sunshine.
All trains came right as I stepped onto the platform.
N: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince pg. 516-519
7: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince pg. 520
G: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince pg. 521-548
All trains came right as I stepped onto the platform.
N: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince pg. 516-519
7: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince pg. 520
G: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince pg. 521-548
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Thursday, July 26th
Before 9 am. Sunny, bright, kinda humid.
N: Came right away. Got a seat across from the driver's door, which was open! I got to watch him drive the train. It seems like it really only takes two levers. And you pump on of them to make the train go faster. I'm sure it's more complicated than that, but he seemed bored, so maybe not.
7: Train was waiting. There's a really rotund commuter who I think is a vet (maybe it's the black fatigues, maybe it's the cane), who I commute with sometimes. He bumped me out of the way to get onto the 7. Both trains were waiting, so I just kind of laughed. It felt like I was in the bumper cars.
G: Made the transfer as the doors were closing, smooth ride.
N: Came right away. Got a seat across from the driver's door, which was open! I got to watch him drive the train. It seems like it really only takes two levers. And you pump on of them to make the train go faster. I'm sure it's more complicated than that, but he seemed bored, so maybe not.
7: Train was waiting. There's a really rotund commuter who I think is a vet (maybe it's the black fatigues, maybe it's the cane), who I commute with sometimes. He bumped me out of the way to get onto the 7. Both trains were waiting, so I just kind of laughed. It felt like I was in the bumper cars.
G: Made the transfer as the doors were closing, smooth ride.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Wednesday, July 25th
8:53 am. Sunny, humid, 76 degrees.
N: New train came right away. Nothing to note except a homeless transvestite kept bumping into me when the train pulled out of the stations, but he/she was very sweet about apologizing.
7: Smooth transfer.
G: Fast, easy ride with Harry Potter 6 in tow (I'm rereading the book I hated so much, so I can appreciate the final installment). The only thing is, someone next to me kept farting. I think it was the tall Asian guy with the pony tail who kept fussing with his deli coffee. Eh.
N: New train came right away. Nothing to note except a homeless transvestite kept bumping into me when the train pulled out of the stations, but he/she was very sweet about apologizing.
7: Smooth transfer.
G: Fast, easy ride with Harry Potter 6 in tow (I'm rereading the book I hated so much, so I can appreciate the final installment). The only thing is, someone next to me kept farting. I think it was the tall Asian guy with the pony tail who kept fussing with his deli coffee. Eh.
Last Thursday, July 19th
Before 9am. Torrential down pour.
N: Slow on the tracks. Windows all fogged up.
7: Smooth transfer.
G: Eventless ride until Clinton-Washington (one-stop before Fulton). I looked up from my book, Lewis B. Cullman's inspiring autobiography, Can't Take it with You: The Art of Giving and Making Money, and noticed a very tall male rider, who was perched on the opposite side of the train, now suddenly positioned in front of me. I noted him before because he was drenched, from his sopping wet curls to his soggy Tevas, and clutched in his arms a flat, rectangular cardboard box with a folded, black garbage bag draped over the top.
I wondered what cargo that ill-prepared man might have inside that poorly-wrapped box. Lately, I’ve been trying to give people the benefit of the doubt, so in that spirit, I thought, “Maybe he made brightly frosted cupcakes for a mid-morning brunch with friends. Yes, cupcakes, that's it.” Satisfied, I returned to my book.
At Fulton, I popped off the train and began to climb the stairs to the street, when a voice behind me quipped, "I'm surprised you took it with you…"
I stopped with alarm: had I left something on the train that a fellow passenger was trying to tell me about? My brain did not quite put the words together. I turned and saw it was the man with the cupcakes!
He said again, "I'm surprised you took it with you." But, this time he gestured with his head towards the book in my hands.
Oh no he didn't.
Cupcake did NOT just try to use that as a pick up line. On the G train. In the pouring rain. At 9:30 in the morning. Before my morning cup of coffee.
To thwart another embarrassing, rather desperate, attempt to court me, I coldly said, "It's a book about fundraising."
"Wha…," I heard him say as I left him in my dust, taking two steps at a time.
"Oh! I’m a fundraiser! I'm having lunch with a billionaire this week," he hollered back, enlightened.
"That's great," I uttered absent-mindedly, as I emerged at street-level, opened my enormous, black golf umbrella and began walking quickly towards Le Bagel Delight, a neighborhood bagel shop run by former firemen, for an iced coffee and a bagel.
“I run a non-profit canoe launch,” he offered, hot on my trail.
Just as I reached the curb, the light turned red and cars blocked my escape route. Dammit, I sighed. I kept looking straight ahead. I could feel him standing next to me.
Fine, I resigned. Fine, fine, I will awknowledge you. Not like I have much of a choice, seeing as I don't particularly feel like being totally rude first thing in the morning. I turned towards him. He was grinning foolishly. I wondered whether or not this guy was really as much of a freak as the circumstances upon his introduction made him seem, of if he was just a crunchy, outdoorsy-type, unaccustomed to the ways of the big city.
Suddenly, he exclaimed, “I have a bird in my box!”
“A bird in your box?” I repeated dumbly.
“A baby sparrow!” he replied, eagerly. Without missing a beat, he told me how no vet wanted the tiny lost creature, so he was determined to nurse it back to health himself.
I warmed a little, “Well, I guess you’re doing your part in the Universe.”
Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, I thought. I’ll wait for just one more sign to confirm that…
Right on cue, a deafening clap of thunder exploded directly overhead, followed immediately by a very threatening, bright bolt of lightening that ripped across the sky—directly over Cupcake’s head.
Ok, Universe, I can take a hint.
“BYE!” I announced as I bounded off the curb towards refuge of Le Bag.
“So, what do you do…” I heard him trail off.
I didn’t even turn around, I couldn’t. Please don’t follow me, please don’t follow me, please don’t follow me.
He didn’t follow me.
Hope the sparrow makes it.
N: Slow on the tracks. Windows all fogged up.
7: Smooth transfer.
G: Eventless ride until Clinton-Washington (one-stop before Fulton). I looked up from my book, Lewis B. Cullman's inspiring autobiography, Can't Take it with You: The Art of Giving and Making Money, and noticed a very tall male rider, who was perched on the opposite side of the train, now suddenly positioned in front of me. I noted him before because he was drenched, from his sopping wet curls to his soggy Tevas, and clutched in his arms a flat, rectangular cardboard box with a folded, black garbage bag draped over the top.
I wondered what cargo that ill-prepared man might have inside that poorly-wrapped box. Lately, I’ve been trying to give people the benefit of the doubt, so in that spirit, I thought, “Maybe he made brightly frosted cupcakes for a mid-morning brunch with friends. Yes, cupcakes, that's it.” Satisfied, I returned to my book.
At Fulton, I popped off the train and began to climb the stairs to the street, when a voice behind me quipped, "I'm surprised you took it with you…"
I stopped with alarm: had I left something on the train that a fellow passenger was trying to tell me about? My brain did not quite put the words together. I turned and saw it was the man with the cupcakes!
He said again, "I'm surprised you took it with you." But, this time he gestured with his head towards the book in my hands.
Oh no he didn't.
Cupcake did NOT just try to use that as a pick up line. On the G train. In the pouring rain. At 9:30 in the morning. Before my morning cup of coffee.
To thwart another embarrassing, rather desperate, attempt to court me, I coldly said, "It's a book about fundraising."
"Wha…," I heard him say as I left him in my dust, taking two steps at a time.
"Oh! I’m a fundraiser! I'm having lunch with a billionaire this week," he hollered back, enlightened.
"That's great," I uttered absent-mindedly, as I emerged at street-level, opened my enormous, black golf umbrella and began walking quickly towards Le Bagel Delight, a neighborhood bagel shop run by former firemen, for an iced coffee and a bagel.
“I run a non-profit canoe launch,” he offered, hot on my trail.
Just as I reached the curb, the light turned red and cars blocked my escape route. Dammit, I sighed. I kept looking straight ahead. I could feel him standing next to me.
Fine, I resigned. Fine, fine, I will awknowledge you. Not like I have much of a choice, seeing as I don't particularly feel like being totally rude first thing in the morning. I turned towards him. He was grinning foolishly. I wondered whether or not this guy was really as much of a freak as the circumstances upon his introduction made him seem, of if he was just a crunchy, outdoorsy-type, unaccustomed to the ways of the big city.
Suddenly, he exclaimed, “I have a bird in my box!”
“A bird in your box?” I repeated dumbly.
“A baby sparrow!” he replied, eagerly. Without missing a beat, he told me how no vet wanted the tiny lost creature, so he was determined to nurse it back to health himself.
I warmed a little, “Well, I guess you’re doing your part in the Universe.”
Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all, I thought. I’ll wait for just one more sign to confirm that…
Right on cue, a deafening clap of thunder exploded directly overhead, followed immediately by a very threatening, bright bolt of lightening that ripped across the sky—directly over Cupcake’s head.
Ok, Universe, I can take a hint.
“BYE!” I announced as I bounded off the curb towards refuge of Le Bag.
“So, what do you do…” I heard him trail off.
I didn’t even turn around, I couldn’t. Please don’t follow me, please don’t follow me, please don’t follow me.
He didn’t follow me.
Hope the sparrow makes it.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
First Post
I live in Queens and work in Brooklyn.
This blog will be an account of my daily commute. It is from the suggestion of my boss who said, "You are funny and you have an awful commute. Please write a blog." So it is done.
It takes me 3 trains to get to work (the N/W* [my stop to Queensborough Plaza] to the 7 [Queensborough Plaza one stop to 45th Road-Court House Square] to the G [Court Square to Fulton Street]).
I'd like to dedicate this blog to the engineers of the subway of yester-year: the developers of the BRT, BMT, IRT, IND, and all the other acronym trainlines that make-up today's New York City subway system, the MTA. Consider this a shout out to those fearless men who created over 686 miles of track, all of which flows through Manhattan.
All except one.
Those men-of-the-future created one, single, solitary train to make the long haul between the "outer boroughs", the Brooklyn-Queens crosstown local train: the G. The G allowed for the working population residing in Queens and/or Brooklyn a convenient commute between the two.
However, in recent years, "convenient" has taken on a new definition: G train service has been cut in half, train length has been shortened from 6 cars to 4, the MTA frequently closes end-of-platform exits, and has severed access to other more reliable trains by terminating service half-way through the length of the line.
Please don't misunderstand, I am not complaining about riding the subway. I love public transportation. Hell, it's part of why I moved to New York (4 years ago, when I made the decision to move from Chicago to New York, the thought of being stuck in a car in traffic gave me a headache. Now I realize, the headaches were the result of the massive amounts of alcohol I was consuming. Regardless, the point remains.).
It's just, the subways, like the New York City streets above, are riddled with crazy people.
And I mean that term in the broadest sense of the word: from those struggling with varying degrees of mental illness to the drunk Broadway back-up dancer who refuses to stop performing his favorite part of that night's show... at 8:45am. And whenever you sprinkle a little crazy into the equation, it's time to "Publish Post."
So, enjoy, gentlemen.
This is the fruit of your labor.
*The W line tied for "Worst" of the 22 lines in the system by The Straphangers Campaign.
This blog will be an account of my daily commute. It is from the suggestion of my boss who said, "You are funny and you have an awful commute. Please write a blog." So it is done.
It takes me 3 trains to get to work (the N/W* [my stop to Queensborough Plaza] to the 7 [Queensborough Plaza one stop to 45th Road-Court House Square] to the G [Court Square to Fulton Street]).
I'd like to dedicate this blog to the engineers of the subway of yester-year: the developers of the BRT, BMT, IRT, IND, and all the other acronym trainlines that make-up today's New York City subway system, the MTA. Consider this a shout out to those fearless men who created over 686 miles of track, all of which flows through Manhattan.
All except one.
Those men-of-the-future created one, single, solitary train to make the long haul between the "outer boroughs", the Brooklyn-Queens crosstown local train: the G. The G allowed for the working population residing in Queens and/or Brooklyn a convenient commute between the two.
However, in recent years, "convenient" has taken on a new definition: G train service has been cut in half, train length has been shortened from 6 cars to 4, the MTA frequently closes end-of-platform exits, and has severed access to other more reliable trains by terminating service half-way through the length of the line.
Please don't misunderstand, I am not complaining about riding the subway. I love public transportation. Hell, it's part of why I moved to New York (4 years ago, when I made the decision to move from Chicago to New York, the thought of being stuck in a car in traffic gave me a headache. Now I realize, the headaches were the result of the massive amounts of alcohol I was consuming. Regardless, the point remains.).
It's just, the subways, like the New York City streets above, are riddled with crazy people.
And I mean that term in the broadest sense of the word: from those struggling with varying degrees of mental illness to the drunk Broadway back-up dancer who refuses to stop performing his favorite part of that night's show... at 8:45am. And whenever you sprinkle a little crazy into the equation, it's time to "Publish Post."
So, enjoy, gentlemen.
This is the fruit of your labor.
*The W line tied for "Worst" of the 22 lines in the system by The Straphangers Campaign.
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