Arthur and Gustav.

If you want a quick little smile on your face, or something to add a little spring in your step, check out this delightfully charming bit of business about a young pair of brothers and their fondness for the NY Subway System.

Remember me to Herald Square.

Today while waiting to the Q Train at 34th Street an Uptown N Train passed.
It was packed to the gills.

I watched as car rolled through the sweltering heat towards 42nd Street and thought, "Yuck. All of those sweaty strangers on that steaming train. And most of them are standing. How miserable."
And then, in the 3rd or 4th car from the back, there was a man pressed, face against the window (with everyone else's back to his), grinning. Just GRINNING.

One NYer's "Yuck" is another NYer's "Whee!"

Clickity-Clack down the track

When I close my eyes I can hear the moment that the Q Train begins to cross over the Manhattan Bridge.
The sound riding along the rails sits higher in its register and vibrates with greater ease. Like it's been waiting for this thrill all day long.

The S stands for Simply Delightful.

Okay, so maybe the MTA isn't all bad. In its favor is the Franklin Avenue Shuttle.

It connects Bighead and I in the PLG to our wonderful and fabulous friends in Prospect Heights (especially the one that we will miss when she goes away to grad school next month) in a efficient and pleasant manner.

It allows its riders to go through (at least) three distinct neighborhoods in Brooklyn in a short but sweet span of time and track. And yet, there's something refreshingly small town about it.

I'm glad the the NYTimes.com did this little pictorial on it.

(Un)Fare hike

The fare hike news has people hopping mad.
Especially the knowledge that after the 8% increase next July, there will be another 3% increase 18 months later.

The NYTimes blog post about this features comments with a bevy of suggestions. Some in support of the fare increase and some in dissent.

What is the most striking to me is the sense of betrayal that I infer when I read the dissenters posts. I mean, there is anger to be sure, but mostly these commenters, these fellow riders, feel let down by the system that runs their day (if not their City). I share with them (as I’ve made plain before) the frustration that the increases in fares does not mean and increase in service or appearance; that the MTA has been known to keep two sets of books and lose million dollar surpluses overnight.
This isn’t right. That’s the root of the feeling. This isn’t right and no one is standing up for us.

Now, some of the supporters, the ones not calling people “Communists” (which, really? Is that really still used as an insult?) raise some interesting points that 1. the NYC subway system is (ostensibly) 24/7 no other system in the world keeps that kind of a schedule making those other systems easier to clean and run.
2. The NYC subway system is over a 100-years old and repairing something that old is always quite costly and time consuming and 3. it is a fallacy to assume that higher fares mean an increase in service –that’d be like expecting a HUGE Bigmac personally brought out to your car whenever Mickey D’s raises its prices.
And finally, 4. that because the MTA is not wholly privatized (and many of it’s executives are appointed) it is not able to raise the fares to the levels that it really needs to raise them to in order to get things done because if it did that it’d have to deal with a whole lot of political fallout.

I was impressed with these arguments but that doesn’t change my feeling that:

1. The subway system could remain 24/7 and still have cleaner cars/stations. All that is necessary is a clear change in policy as far as WHICH lines will be running all day and when. If riders knew that at suchandsuch time suchandsuch stations would be closed for cleaning, repair and train servicing and if they could SEE the results they would learn to make the adjustment. This requires something that that MTA has historically lacked and that is clear, accessible and consistent information.

2. Many riders, particularly those in the outer boroughs can appreciate the age of the subway system. They needn’t be lectured about it after they’ve probably just endured an uncomfortable hour-long commute. I don’t need some sometime-y rider telling me about the age of the system and about how it’s unrealistic of me to hope each and every day as I wait for the Manhattan-bound Q at Parkside that the cracks in the tunnel (helpfully outlined in day-glow orange spray paint) don’t decide to burst. Again, if riders could see what kind of maintenance was being performed they wouldn’t be as upset about it.
The fact that one gets on the train in Brooklyn where many stations stink and the tracks are laid too far away from the train causing huge (and dangerous gaps) and where stops are often skipped without so much as a whathadhappenedwas and then travels in Manhattan where many stations are clean and beautiful and the trains stop regularly and there are MTA employees actually being useful in the booths is grating. It makes a person feel like the shit, not the money, rolls downhill. Because, I would argue, that the tunnels and lines of rail in the outer boroughs not nearly as old as the olds in Manhattan proper, and therefore should be easier to service and repair. The fact that costly cosmetic changes are consistently being made to stations in Manhattan trumps the logic that the system is too old to easily do anything with.

3. I, for one, am not asking for an increase in service. Sure, I’d like to be able to sit down during my commute and I’d like to have a little bit of air circulating every now and then but that’s not what I would consider an increase. That’s what I’d consider a modicum of service. The MTA needn’t increase the number of trains if it actually committed itself to the effective management of the trains and buses and the schedules that it already has. I’d be happy to continue to stand if I knew that after my time packed in like a sardine I’d at least get to work on time. Better yet, I’d feel better knowing that I WASN’T going to get to work on time because an MTA employee let it be known about what was going on during the rush hour. The thing about the Bigmac analogy is that even though you’re paying more for the Bigmac you know what you’re going to get and you know that you’re going to like it. You also know that if you feel like Mickey D’s has really caused you grief you can lodge a formal complaint and get some sort of recompense. Straphangers don’t really have that option.

4. I think that the MTA had an opportunity to raise the fares where it needed them to be to move forward: the 70’s and 80’s and early 90’s when the system was for shit. It does not make good political or business sense just to raise them so-so to do so-so work. Frankly, I think that the MTA doesn’t make the dramatic fare hikes that it needs because it realizes that then it would be even more beholden to the consumer to give them their money’s worth. It’s awful convenient to be able to say, “Hey, you’re only paying $2 a swipe. That’s a great deal. Sit down and shut up.” If we were paying $5 a swipe would the MTA be able to guarantee us that anything would change? I’m going to bet, no. The MTA is not raising fares to cover increases in service. The MTA is not raising fares to really meet its day-to-day operating costs. The MTA is raising fares to cover bad business decisions made 20 to 30 years ago. Even at $5 a swipe we’d have to wade through 30 year old financial bullshit before we even began to address today’s/tomorrow’s needs.

My suggestions?
1. A thorough audit of the MTA’s books by 3 independent external agencies.
2. Experts from all of the major cities with comparable transit systems analyze the NYC system and make suggestions.
3. Public hearings about the different suggestions.
4. Search for a new transit authority.
5. New transit authority is not staffed by officials who are not appointed by the riders.

What’ve you got?

It's a family affair. And that's not good.

This evening on the Brooklyn bound Q a man got on the train at Canal Street with his three sons. He sang and strummed "Getting Better" with one of his sons on the bongos and another harmonized with him.

He solicited money from us and admonished us to help him feed his children while they sighed and sat upon the floor.

I was paralyzed.
I thought about how I was, in fact, just a couple of missed paychecks away from being in really dire straights. I thought about how my mother kept the three of us in house and home and occasionally kudos while making roughly what I make right now (and am j.u.s.t. pulling through on). I thought about the shame he must feel about needing us and about how angry he was with those of us who did not reach into our pockets.

I did not. I often do not (I am not not proud about this. I am not even resigned to this fact. I'm just not going to pretend that I do when I do not.). Usually it is simply because of the fact that I carry very little cash on me and that I need that cash to get through the day. Sometimes it's because I don't trust where my money is going. Sometimes it's because I'm just frustrated that I have to be presented with this scenario. It's kind of like how I feel slightly frustrated when traffic is held up because of a funeral -because it forces me to stop and contemplate my own mortality (but mostly because it forces me to stop and think and I end up thinking about that family and their loss and the pain that they must feel). And this is a scenario, especially with the housing and mortgage crises in The City, is increasing in its frequency. But this was the first time that I'd ever seen children.

I looked at the men sitting in the seats adjacent to mine. They were completely unfazed. I wasn't. I wanted to be anywhere but there. I wanted that family to be anywhere but there. No, that's not true. I wanted them to be in a home. Safe. With food to eat tonight and certainty about where it would come from tomorrow.
I wonder if that calm in the face of struggle happens in time. I'm not sure though, I've been in this city for years and it hasn't become easier for me yet. There's always a little bit of guilt (even if I give... there's always a feeling that I didn't give enough) and a lot of sorrow. As much as I love what The City has given me, I kind of hope that it never gives the the ability to remain unfazed so that I can recognize the tenuous bounty that I have.

I've got no upper body strength.

Today it occurred to me that NYC moms have a to be pretty strong after lifting their strollers up and down the subway stairs.

Note to the MTA: in a couple of months when you hike our fares again, how's about doing something so that these ladies don't have to get that intense a kind of work out.

Open Letter

Dear Gentleman on the Coney Island-bound Q Train yesterday circa 6:45PM:

Sir it is OK to use deodorant. More than OK it is the preferred choice of all of those around you who are sharing this cramped hot Sardinian space with you.

We do not share your love of the funk (unless that is the Parliament-Funkadelic and then, yes, and I believe that I can speak for all us of, we do). I you can’t do it for yourself, do it for The City. Do it for the children.

And me. Mostly do it for me.
Thank you.

Subway Surfing

I enjoy riding the subway. I enjoy standing and trying to ride for as long as I can without touching anything to brace me.

The roll of the train which causes me to shift my weight to compensate. I try to do so making the smallest movements necessary so as not to disturb others on the often crowed rush-hour trains. It’s what I think that surfing must be like. The ebb and flow of speed as the train makes its ways through the tunnels is thrilling beneath my feet.

Today as I was doing it I felt connected in a very profound way to The City. There was a moment as the train slid around the curves in the tunnel where I was very aware of being in NYC.

It was wonderful.

Unanswered questions.

So after spending a good portion of the day searching all that I've been able to find are vague references that the receptacles are there to collect the Metrocards for recycling.

So then I wondered: What are they being recycled into?
And then I started humming to the tune of Whitney Houston's "Where Do Broken Hearts Go?":

Where do Metrocards go?

Do they find their way home

to the pockets of straphangers

and the love that's waiting there?

And if somebody swipes you,

why can't they always swipe you?

For an easier ride

why can't I just refill you endlessly?

And... I stumbled across this.

Any way you swipe it.

This morning, as I deposited Bighead's expired MetroCard into the Metrocards receptacle, I got quite a bee in my bonnet.

Where do expired MetroCards go?

I’ve asked a couple of people and no one seems to know. Some people don’t even put their expired cards in the receptacle. They just throw them away in the big trashcans. So I asked myself, “Self, don’t you think that if the MTA just wanted you to throw the cards away they would dispense with the repositories? If the MetroCards were meant for the trashcans then why aren’t there trashcans near the vending machines as opposed to the leetle MetroCard Here bins?”

The fact that there are places specifically designed and designated for MetroCards leads me to believe that they are being collected and what I would like to know is: for what purpose?

I’ve spent a good part of the morning looking around on the Internet to see if it can provide me with an answer and I haven’t yet found anything that fits the bill.

I did, however, come across this. (There's more here.)
And I do fervently hope the this kind of thing is the answer.

It's not me. It's you.

Dear Tourist Family on the Uptown 1 at the Staten Island Ferry Stop,

I just wanted to clarify what transpired between us this afternoon. I am sure that you’ve gone on your way under the impression that what they say about NYers being rude is true and I didn’t want you to leave our fair city with such thoughts in your head.

Here are some important facts to remember and take with you in your travels.

1. You were on a crucial part of the public transportation here in The City. You were on the subway; a general admission, often standing-room only, subterranean train system that acts as sort of a through line to the various themes of this city. Thousands upon thousands of people us the subway each day to get to and from the various parts of their lives.
2. There are many doors to the subway and people enter them at will (stops permitting). It is our right as fare paying patrons of the MTA.
3. Similarly, it is our right as fare paying patrons of the MTA to sit wherever we can find a seat in which to (comfortably, but this is not always the case) fit ourselves.
4. You saw me enter the train. I could tell that you did. Each member of your family sized me up and transmitted the feelings about what you saw to each other on your faces. You judged me. It’s okay, it happens everyday. I judged you.
5. What was problematic was the fact that when you saw me enter the train and struggle to make my way to an available seat you did not bother to move your outstretched legs. Not a one of you. You all stared at me and did your best to let me know that this was YOUR section of the car that you reserved and that you didn’t take kindly to my trespassing. To which I reply: see 1 and 2.
6. You allowed the small child that was with you (I’d say aged 7-9) to use the train as a jungle gym simultaneously further blocking my progress.
7. You encouraged said child’s behavior by having Grandma snap pictures of him.
8. You reacted defensively when presented with the politely veiled contempt of the other passengers as they were similarly barred from free passage on the train and subjected to outside voice squeals.

I do not know how to further make you understand how inappropriate and patently impolite your behavior was. You looked like the kind of people who would raise a holy hell (heh! Holy. Hell. That’s what… an oxymoron?) if a person entered the house and forgot to take their shoes off. You struck me as the kind of people who’d be shockedSHOCKED if their “Thank You” was not countered with a “You’re Welcome.” In short, you appeared to be the type of people to whom manners and social appropriateness are very important.

I hope that you can understand that commandeering a busy subway car for your lounging and play-scaping desires is quite the faus pax as far as we NYC subway riders are concerned. I hope that you can understand that when I glared at you as you wouldn't move your legs and then said, "This is public transportation not a monorail at Disney," I wasn't being rude. I was responding to wanton breaches of etiquette.

Thanks for your visit.
Next time you should consider the taxi.

Sleeps with the fishes.

So today I learned that old Red Bird subway cars were being used to make an artificial reef off the coast of Delaware and other states.

Neat!

In the tunnels

On my ride to work on the R Line to Manhattan between Dekalb and Whitehall Street are REVS diaries. Those above are not the entries, but I wanted to have something to show.

We are going to quickly for me to read them but whenever I see those black letters against yellowish paint How did he get down here, in the tunnels? Did he sit and watch and time the trains? Did he do it in the wee hours of the morning? I feel strangely comforted. I feel like I’ve been given a gift by someone I don’t know but root for and look for. And I do look for his work. It’s all over the City. It’s bold and to the point. His point. It is as much a part of the landscape of NYC as are the high-rises and the grid. A crucial part of the tapestry of what makes this city so unique like the sudden flash as gold thread catches the light.

It’s these unexpected moments of beauty that make me so grateful to be here.

Big favors in small spaces

There is nothing like being in a crowded subway car and noticing a fellow rider utilizing the subway fold.

In the City kindness comes in fits and starts and in some of the simplest and most refreshing ways

There's always something...

...on the streets of NYC to marvel at.

On the R Train

Sometimes I just ride the subway to listen.
I don’t read a book or a magazine. I don’t listen to my iPod.

I sit and look at the other riders and make up stories about their lives. I wonder where the dust came from on that man’s boots and think about how in the weeks following 9-11 it wasn’t just the construction workers that had dust on their shoes and the bottom of their pants.
I look at the children turning to face the windows so that they can wave to people on the passing trains.
I look at the different colours of the different people and I am lulled, as ever, by the gentle rocking of the train as it speeds through the tunnels along the tracks.
I am comforted by the rushing clickandclack and feel great communion with the NYers around me.

Under my feet.

There are places on the stairs at the Union Street R stop that are worn down so smooth so as to be shiny as new pennies.

I look down when I walk and am always surprised by their near mirror sheen. I wonder how many steps it took to make this happen.