New York City Mass Transit: You Beat Me Because You Love Me
Um. It's been one of THOSE kinds of days. I don't know if it was because I put on the pink clogs that hurt my feet or if it was the sore throat I woke up with? Either way, it. SUCKED.
The one moment of peace came when I took my Pilates class at noon. Except when I realized I don't have any abs? It's more just like a blob that sits around my middle and since Pilates is all about CORE STRENGTH (read: 6 pack abs) I am horrible at it. Granted, I've been taking it pretty regularly (read: once a week) and so I keep wondering why I'm not getting any better. (Once a week?) It can be lovely and fluid and relaxing or it can drive me nuts and lead me to slap my neck and head down to the floor because, really, I can't FLATTEN my abs or SCOOP THEM OUT or PULL MY NAVAL TO MY SPINE because unlike perfect Kate Moss, I have a pooch. OY THE POOCH!!!!
I'm off to pick up Gabriel from kindergarten. He's amazingly in a somewhat good mood and he waves goodbye to Mr. Gonzales and we're off. I got in trouble for buying him Mr. Softee after school every day (it's parked in front of the playground!!!!) and so when he asks for an ice cream cone, I have to say no. He is upset. Visibly. I start to think FAST. I say OH didn't I tell you!? We're going to MAKE A SNACK today!!! He perks up.
"Ice cream?"
"No."
"What then?"
"Um. Do you like apples?"
"I don't want apples."
"No I mean we can make CARAMEL APPLES!"
"I don't like caramel."
Deep Sigh. Pink clogs were a poor choice this morning. I feel the blisters coming on. Finally I say that we're going to make a SURPRISE for snack. This keeps him interested all the way across Amsterdam, Columbus and into the deli where I buy 3 bars of Hershey's chocolate and then two pints of strawberries from the fruit man on the corner of 72nd.
He, being 5, still cannot guess what we're having for snack.
I, being 22 and figuring it was OBVIOUS, feel secret glee that I am smarter than him.
Gabe's dad, a hardcore musician, is playing jazz standards on the piano when we arrive home. I show Gabriel how to melt chocolate in a pot (a concept foreign to this family as they assume "cooking" means throwing something frozen in a microwave). We later dip the strawberries in the chocolate and AH HA I have kept the child occupied for quite some time. His dad keeps butting in about what a brilliant idea it was. Um. Duh?
Gabriel is NOT happy when I inform him that we can't eat the strawberries for awhile as we put them in the fridge to harden. Cue: Visible Disappointment. I take him for a bike ride, our usual loop all the way up to the museum and around. Today he wants to ride his bike with a muffin in one hand and a toy dinosaur in the other. I tell him he needs to keep both hands on the handlebars. He argues. Parents stare at me as I argue back. I'm sure they think I'm a terrible person but damnit, when I'm right, I'm right, I don't care if you're 5, you will HURT YOURSELF IF YOU TRY TO EAT A MUFFIN AND RIDE YOUR BIKE AT THE SAME TIME EVEN IF IT HAS TRAINING WHEELS.
I tell him this.
He tells me it is not a muffin, it is a brioche. Touché.
If you are not a New Yorker, I apologize for the rest of this entry. If you are, you know EXACTLY WHAT THE HELL I'M TALKING ABOUT.
I am on 72nd Street. I take the 1 train down to 59th Street, planning to catch the N/W train home to Queens on 57th/7th Ave. I am down in the HOT SWEATY subway terminal and there is no sign of an N or a W train. None. An R train!!! A Q train!! It's like Sesame Street!! But no N/W. Oh N/W, where could you be? A lady with an irritatingly shrill voice comes on and says BLAH BLAH STALL BLAH BLAH ASTORIA BLAH NO DOWN TOWN TRAINS. I'm like oh that's okay, I'm going UP TOWN!
Sure enough, an uptown N arrives. Good thing 'cuz my feet are HURTIN'!!
Oh wait, it's SARDINE PACKED FULL OF PEOPLE. I'm standing next to an Asian man who says that when it gets full like this, you have to be careful of molesters. Hmmm. Good point. The subway train makes 2 more stops in Manhattan before it goes on to Astoria. Lucky for me, I'm standing next to the door for those stops. Luckier still for me, nobody gets OFF the train, since it's RUSH HOUR and we're all going home to Queens, so they all PILE IN MORE. I start to breathe deeply, fearful of a panic attack/claustrophobia nightmare. We stop at 59th and Lex. SWEET! I think. Next stop is Queensborough Plaza and most people will get off and head home. OH WAIT. AN ANNOUNCEMENT.
"This N train is NOT GOING ON TO ASTORIA. It is going back DOWN TO BROOKLYN. There are TOO MANY TRAINS IN ASTORIA."
Uh. Subway conductor? MTA peeps? I HATE YOU.
The 8,000,000 people on the train get OFF and pile on the platform.
And stand there.
No train comes. No sign. It is hot, I am going to FLIP OUT. I take a deep breath and decide to take the 4/5/6 train down to Grand Central and hop on the 7 train to Queensborough. There, I can take one of the apparent NUMEROUS trains back to Ditmars.
The 4 train is quick, Grand Central, BOOM! I transfer to the 7, a few stops later, I am above ground in Queens. BOOM! This is LOOKIN' UP!!!!!!!!!! Until I step onto the platform and see A MILLION PEOPLE. This means that either a) the pope and/or D-list celebrity is in town or b) there are no N/W trains in sight. Since there are no signs of either the pope or Anna Nicole Smith, I grab a seat and begin to stare vacantly into space.
Another 7 train comes to pile more people on the platform.
And another.
I count six 7 trains that keep piling more people on the platform. (Are we following this? six, 7 trains. Ah. Sesame Street!) I realize that no N/W trains are ever coming and that this is indeed, the end of the world.
I go down and attempt to hail a cab but EVERYONE is hailing a cab and so I give up and stare down the street in a feeble attempt to be picked up by a) a car service b) a limosine c) the pope.
Finally a gypsy cab (read: shady) comes by and 4 of us jump in it, all headed to Ditmars. It is an Asian woman who only can manage to shout out 31ST AND BROADWAY !! 31st AND BROADWAY!!!!!, a Greek woman, myself in the middle, and a Greek young gentleman from Athens named Serafin.
We make it home in one piece, all of us dropped at Ditmars, except for the woman who made sure to shout out her stop when we got close, 31ST AND BROADWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! The gypsy dude charged us each $5 which was fine with me 'cuz HEY I LOVE TAKING 2 HOURS TO GET HOME! Serafin tells me that in Greece, cabbies don't take just one person. They drive around Greece and people scream where they're going and they read lips and pick up people all going to the same place.
I say that I traveled to Olympia and Athens and do not recall that ever happening. But I trust him because he's Greek, he should know. I realize that this could be why, when we were trying to hail a cab earlier, Serafin kept shouting maniacally at every passing car. "DITMARS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" he would cry in heavily accented English, "DITMAAAAAAAAAAAARS!" It took awhile for people to stop. I told him that in NYC, it's usually one person per cab and screaming is entirely unnecessary.
He asks if I want to go get a Greek salad.
I say no, my pink clogs are killing me. He nods as if he understands.
I walk 5 blocks to my apartment, collapse onto the floor, finally peel myself up, get a glass of seltzer, a pita with hummus and a cupcake and watch the 5th DVD of "Band of Brothers", just so I can feel that someone had a worse day than me. Surely, when Ron Livingston was fighting in World War II, he felt EXACTLY how I feel, if not worse.
It's the power of cinema, y'all.
Peace.
The one moment of peace came when I took my Pilates class at noon. Except when I realized I don't have any abs? It's more just like a blob that sits around my middle and since Pilates is all about CORE STRENGTH (read: 6 pack abs) I am horrible at it. Granted, I've been taking it pretty regularly (read: once a week) and so I keep wondering why I'm not getting any better. (Once a week?) It can be lovely and fluid and relaxing or it can drive me nuts and lead me to slap my neck and head down to the floor because, really, I can't FLATTEN my abs or SCOOP THEM OUT or PULL MY NAVAL TO MY SPINE because unlike perfect Kate Moss, I have a pooch. OY THE POOCH!!!!
I'm off to pick up Gabriel from kindergarten. He's amazingly in a somewhat good mood and he waves goodbye to Mr. Gonzales and we're off. I got in trouble for buying him Mr. Softee after school every day (it's parked in front of the playground!!!!) and so when he asks for an ice cream cone, I have to say no. He is upset. Visibly. I start to think FAST. I say OH didn't I tell you!? We're going to MAKE A SNACK today!!! He perks up.
"Ice cream?"
"No."
"What then?"
"Um. Do you like apples?"
"I don't want apples."
"No I mean we can make CARAMEL APPLES!"
"I don't like caramel."
Deep Sigh. Pink clogs were a poor choice this morning. I feel the blisters coming on. Finally I say that we're going to make a SURPRISE for snack. This keeps him interested all the way across Amsterdam, Columbus and into the deli where I buy 3 bars of Hershey's chocolate and then two pints of strawberries from the fruit man on the corner of 72nd.
He, being 5, still cannot guess what we're having for snack.
I, being 22 and figuring it was OBVIOUS, feel secret glee that I am smarter than him.
Gabe's dad, a hardcore musician, is playing jazz standards on the piano when we arrive home. I show Gabriel how to melt chocolate in a pot (a concept foreign to this family as they assume "cooking" means throwing something frozen in a microwave). We later dip the strawberries in the chocolate and AH HA I have kept the child occupied for quite some time. His dad keeps butting in about what a brilliant idea it was. Um. Duh?
Gabriel is NOT happy when I inform him that we can't eat the strawberries for awhile as we put them in the fridge to harden. Cue: Visible Disappointment. I take him for a bike ride, our usual loop all the way up to the museum and around. Today he wants to ride his bike with a muffin in one hand and a toy dinosaur in the other. I tell him he needs to keep both hands on the handlebars. He argues. Parents stare at me as I argue back. I'm sure they think I'm a terrible person but damnit, when I'm right, I'm right, I don't care if you're 5, you will HURT YOURSELF IF YOU TRY TO EAT A MUFFIN AND RIDE YOUR BIKE AT THE SAME TIME EVEN IF IT HAS TRAINING WHEELS.
I tell him this.
He tells me it is not a muffin, it is a brioche. Touché.
If you are not a New Yorker, I apologize for the rest of this entry. If you are, you know EXACTLY WHAT THE HELL I'M TALKING ABOUT.
I am on 72nd Street. I take the 1 train down to 59th Street, planning to catch the N/W train home to Queens on 57th/7th Ave. I am down in the HOT SWEATY subway terminal and there is no sign of an N or a W train. None. An R train!!! A Q train!! It's like Sesame Street!! But no N/W. Oh N/W, where could you be? A lady with an irritatingly shrill voice comes on and says BLAH BLAH STALL BLAH BLAH ASTORIA BLAH NO DOWN TOWN TRAINS. I'm like oh that's okay, I'm going UP TOWN!
Sure enough, an uptown N arrives. Good thing 'cuz my feet are HURTIN'!!
Oh wait, it's SARDINE PACKED FULL OF PEOPLE. I'm standing next to an Asian man who says that when it gets full like this, you have to be careful of molesters. Hmmm. Good point. The subway train makes 2 more stops in Manhattan before it goes on to Astoria. Lucky for me, I'm standing next to the door for those stops. Luckier still for me, nobody gets OFF the train, since it's RUSH HOUR and we're all going home to Queens, so they all PILE IN MORE. I start to breathe deeply, fearful of a panic attack/claustrophobia nightmare. We stop at 59th and Lex. SWEET! I think. Next stop is Queensborough Plaza and most people will get off and head home. OH WAIT. AN ANNOUNCEMENT.
"This N train is NOT GOING ON TO ASTORIA. It is going back DOWN TO BROOKLYN. There are TOO MANY TRAINS IN ASTORIA."
Uh. Subway conductor? MTA peeps? I HATE YOU.
The 8,000,000 people on the train get OFF and pile on the platform.
And stand there.
No train comes. No sign. It is hot, I am going to FLIP OUT. I take a deep breath and decide to take the 4/5/6 train down to Grand Central and hop on the 7 train to Queensborough. There, I can take one of the apparent NUMEROUS trains back to Ditmars.
The 4 train is quick, Grand Central, BOOM! I transfer to the 7, a few stops later, I am above ground in Queens. BOOM! This is LOOKIN' UP!!!!!!!!!! Until I step onto the platform and see A MILLION PEOPLE. This means that either a) the pope and/or D-list celebrity is in town or b) there are no N/W trains in sight. Since there are no signs of either the pope or Anna Nicole Smith, I grab a seat and begin to stare vacantly into space.
Another 7 train comes to pile more people on the platform.
And another.
I count six 7 trains that keep piling more people on the platform. (Are we following this? six, 7 trains. Ah. Sesame Street!) I realize that no N/W trains are ever coming and that this is indeed, the end of the world.
I go down and attempt to hail a cab but EVERYONE is hailing a cab and so I give up and stare down the street in a feeble attempt to be picked up by a) a car service b) a limosine c) the pope.
Finally a gypsy cab (read: shady) comes by and 4 of us jump in it, all headed to Ditmars. It is an Asian woman who only can manage to shout out 31ST AND BROADWAY !! 31st AND BROADWAY!!!!!, a Greek woman, myself in the middle, and a Greek young gentleman from Athens named Serafin.
We make it home in one piece, all of us dropped at Ditmars, except for the woman who made sure to shout out her stop when we got close, 31ST AND BROADWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! The gypsy dude charged us each $5 which was fine with me 'cuz HEY I LOVE TAKING 2 HOURS TO GET HOME! Serafin tells me that in Greece, cabbies don't take just one person. They drive around Greece and people scream where they're going and they read lips and pick up people all going to the same place.
I say that I traveled to Olympia and Athens and do not recall that ever happening. But I trust him because he's Greek, he should know. I realize that this could be why, when we were trying to hail a cab earlier, Serafin kept shouting maniacally at every passing car. "DITMARS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" he would cry in heavily accented English, "DITMAAAAAAAAAAAARS!" It took awhile for people to stop. I told him that in NYC, it's usually one person per cab and screaming is entirely unnecessary.
He asks if I want to go get a Greek salad.
I say no, my pink clogs are killing me. He nods as if he understands.
I walk 5 blocks to my apartment, collapse onto the floor, finally peel myself up, get a glass of seltzer, a pita with hummus and a cupcake and watch the 5th DVD of "Band of Brothers", just so I can feel that someone had a worse day than me. Surely, when Ron Livingston was fighting in World War II, he felt EXACTLY how I feel, if not worse.
It's the power of cinema, y'all.
Peace.
