The Unparalleled Passengers of NYC Transit

Rewind about two and a half months ago. I was sitting at a high school student’s desk smiling at three wide-eyed Japanese students. Their social studies teacher stood to my right, silently urging on the students subliminally the way teachers do in Japan. Their task was to interview the foreigner about her opinions on Japan. “Do you feel discriminated against? Have you gotten used to your life in Japan? What things bother you?” The questions were all good ones, but obviously completely written by the curious teacher who nervously rocked back and forth, his arms crossed and eyes fixed intently on me, as the students squinted confusedly at their papers seeing these mysterious English words for the very first time.

“How… inconveniences … in … Japan…” a student with spiky hair ventured. He examined his paper again, decided he was finished and looked up at me expectantly with a grin.

“Oh god. The buses. The buses that come once an hour, if that. That has to be it. To negotiate time tables to match buses like that — just a terrible business. Buses. Inconvenient. In. The. Japanese. Countryside. Got that?”

He happily jotted down on his paper: “Buses!”

His next question: “But really, why?’

My impulse was to launch into a glowing recommendation speech about the New York City Public Transportation System. The amazing underground system that whirls you from point A to point B for a measly two dollars at any hour of the day or night, the intricate network that connects every desirable part of New York City– it just can’t be beat. Oh, New York, what innumerable pleasures you hold!

The students looked at me a bit quizzically. “Really? The subways? You love the subways? But aren’t they dirty, inconvenient, smelly and foul?” I saw the cogs turning in their heads.

Fast forward two and a half months. I stand on the F train from Queens shivering like a flower caught in a downpour. The train rattles forward towards Manhattan. The windows ajar, the clatter of the rails is overwhelming and my tender ears, long spoiled from the quiet solitude of the countryside, curl up inside themselves begging for sweet release. It is then I start to wonder, why exactly I was so enamored with the subways. What were all these fond memories I clutched to so desperately in my otherwise empty heart. Was it the mysterious substances that leaked from the ceiling, dribbled down my leg and possibly carried monkey diseases? Was it perhaps the lovable crazed schizophrenic who greedily claimed the seat next to me and chanted to himself? Was it maybe the overzealous ally of Jesus who marched up and down the car declaring us all minions of Satan and damned to hell? Or perhaps it was the deranged flasher in the trench coat who paced the length of the train waiting for someone to fall asleep so that he might position himself in front of them, awaiting for that pivotal moment when they jolt awake to the scenic view of his bits? Or maybe, simply, was it just that heartwarming, homey smell of urine?

These nostalgic memories all cloud my mind as people jostle by, and step on my feet without a word of apology.

I enter the 6 Train going downtown and manage to score a seat. The train is fairly crowded, but there are, happily, no Jesus Following Eager Beavers, nor exhibitionists. A young man sits down diagonally across from me. He could be an NYU student, or a young hipster trying to make it in the East Village who buys jeans that are one size too small and keeps his hair deliberately messy. He sits engrossed in an animated conversation. His right hand grips around a seemingly tiny cellphone, invisible to my eyes, that remains nestled closely to his cheek.

“Right. So then Aaron was like… and…. what? No. No. Emily HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT…. Right. Yeah…. I know. That’s what I’m saying. Yeah, so turns out it had to be something involving the proximal muscles. Right… right. Myasthenic syndrome. Yeah. Yeah…”

The thought then occurs to me that, hey, we’re underground. The New York City Transit system (thankfully) hasn’t quite yet implemented the technology that will allow most common, overly garrulous people to use their cellphones whilst on the train. Have they? With one eyebrow raised I quickly check my phone which flashes a red light at me confirming that yes, indeed, it is useless down here.

For the length of the journey the man keeps up a steady conversation. Medical terms are tossed around here and there and, after having lived in Japan for the past two years where I saw a person talking on a cellphone all of maybe two or three times on a train, I can’t help but watch utterly perplexed. Especially, since this man appears to be talking to absolutely no one at all. The train pulls into Union Square and the man informs his hand: “This is me. Gotta go.” Curious as to what sort of technology he might be carrying I peer very closely to see something that resembles either a credit or metro card. He shoves it roughly into his pocket and jets off the train.

People in Japan don’t talk at all on trains. People in New York talk to no one at all.