Lesson #4,576: Find Your Own Crazy

The other night at a party, people were re-counting their drunken and sometimes, even sober (ha! who is ever sober anymore?) escapades through Manhattan.

Of course, these tales included the anecdotes from late night/early morning walks to the subway station and subway rides, which are inevitably (at that hour) filled with people who are the crazies. The loonies. The well-meaning, but slightly deranged. The chaps who are coo-coo for cocoa puffs.

At this point in our party's conversation, a question was raised: How do you get the crazies to ignore you? (Because nothing can kill a buzz faster than a homeless man sliding next to you, singing "You Are the Sunshine of My Life" (with a lisp), and then asking for money. And folks, that's a true story.)

"Well," one party-goer raised his glass and shrugged. "Just act crazy."

Our heads snapped to him in question.

He explained that when he finds himself alone in the city late at night, he takes on his crazy persona. "I zip up my hoodie," he explained. "shove my hands deep into my pockets, stare at the ground, and do this." He then proceeded to almost gallop around the room (with a quite purposeful stride), shake his head wildly from side to side, and incoherently mutter some type of argument that he and the voices inside his head were having.

It was quite an effect.

"You see?" He stopped and grinned at us. "When people see me doing this, they figure I'm crazy too! So not only do the crazies leave me alone, but normally I get a whole section of seats to myself on the subway." Fair enough.

So dear readers, I leave you with these two gems of advice:

First, refine your crazy talent. That way, the next time you find yourself in a precarious situation, you will be able to dig deep into your soul and bring out your own crazy (you know you have it) to ward off potential predators.

And second, when you next see a crazy, a looney, a gleefully odd person, do not be alarmed. Sit next to him, perhaps even extend a hand and make a friend. Sure, he might be insane. Yes, he may try to serenade you with a Frank Sinatra song. But chances are he's harmless, he's your average joe, and he's just trying to make it through the night.

Just like you.

Look Ma, no hands!

Goodness, I've left you all hungry for public transportation tales, haven't I! (At least, in my fabulously delirious world, you were....ahem). The week long absence is partially because I left the world of public transportation for a while, and had the delight of riding in a car for a few days. Yes, a car!

But alas, we must all return to our true selves. And for me, that means the Path, the subway, and the like. Of course, with routine, one falls into auto-pilot. During this past exhausting week, I especially felt like a zombie (or a really drugged out rocker).

Wake up. Get dressed. Walk to Path. Wait with crowd. Inch to front of crowd. Lean back as Path arrives. Walk into car. Nudge teetering high-heeled girl out of the way to get a seat. Sit. Fall asleep. Wake up at stop. Walk to subway. Wait with crowd.

And so it goes.

It takes very little to knock me from my routine. Even when the girl sitting four people down from me has her iPod on SO LOUD that I can hear it, even that doesn't annoy me. Really. It doesn't.

But today, something did knock me, did make me look up from my book, and focus on the scene before me. The reason?

Take Your Kid to Work Day.

In case you didn't know (or just have a general hatred/fear of small children, as many understandably do), today was the day when parents could take their wee ones to work. To show them real life. To explain what they will be doing in 10 years. To quietly whisper, "Stay in school for as long as you can, so you never have to enter this world."

As it was TYKTWD, children were on the Path. And in one in particular caught my eye. A cute kid, a boy, dressed in a striped blue and grey shirt, with a knapsack (labeled with his father's work logo) slung over his back. He stood with his dad in the center of the Path, holding onto a pole, his eyes large as he took in us weary travelers. The boy focused on all of us for a bit, and then, turned his attention to balancing.

As the train flew forward, he slowly let go of the pole with one hand. Then the other. He spread his hands out at his side, palms down, and braced his feet like a surfer. The boy stared at the ground, his brow furrowed. The train swerved this way and that, so he leaned this way and that. A few times, he lost his balance and stumbled, but quickly re-gained. Once he got the groove for about 15 solid seconds, he looked up with wide eyes.

And grinned right at me.

It was the glee he had, this child. He took the daily routine that we all blindly stumble through, and he found the magic in it. The thing that we all (decades ago) would have also found. And even though moments after he grinned at me, the train turned and subsequently threw him into the pole (eh, don't worry, he bounced back), for about ten seconds, he found pure joy in the mundane.

And, not to get sappy, but couldn't we all use a little more pure joy? A little nugget of glee (and no, I don't mean as in Sue Sylvester....though I would take a little Matthew Morrison) to carry with us for the day?

So do yourself a favor. Go out there and let go of the pole. Even if it's for five seconds.

Balance with no hands.

Need. Food. Now.

When it's 10:30pm, you're headed home on the Path, you haven't eaten since lunch (and thus, are STARVING), who do you always end up sitting next to?

A guy eating a very delicious, juicy, meaty sandwich.

I think I salivated the entire way home.

Food now, more blogging later.

Men, be aware of your shoes. We are judging them.

I know, I know. I'm supposed to spin my fabulous tale of the complimentary oxygen mask - but my Path ride home today was just too good to pass up.

I managed to get a seat (score!) coming home this evening - and even, lucky me, there was an empty seat next to me. Two stops in, a slender, bookish man and a taller, broader business man get on. Bookish sits next to me, Broader across the train. I looked up from my Kindle.

"Oh, do you two want to sit together?"

Bookish shakes his head loosely, and opens his mouth to speak. I can already smell the alcohol. "Thankss, but no." He smiles, pushing up glasses haphazardly. Bookish was in that wonderful early drunk phase, where one doesn't yet realize that when they speak, it sounds as if they are talking through a mouthful of cotton.

I smiled back, then return to my Kindle. A moment passes. Bookish nudges me on the shoulder, a faint lisp appears in his words. "That was sweet of you." Pause. "To offer." Pause. He leans in to me, flicking a wrist towards Broader. "That's my brother. We're just finishing up an argument, but we're fine now."

Broader shakes his head. "Way to tell her too much!" He's tipsy, but not a lightweight like his brother.

I blush for a moment, wondering if indeed they are brothers or actually lovers, and just playing with me. Broader has on wedding ring, I notice. And Bookish does not. Brothers, I decide.

I nod, smile, and go back to my book.

Bookish sighs. "Larry, where are getting off?"

"Third stop."

"Oh." Pause. "Do we have to switch trains?"

"Nope. Look at the map." Broader points upwards.

"Oh, oh, ohhh, I see!" Bookish's voice escalates a bit higher, landing in my own register. "I see....Larry, so we don't have switch trains?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

I should comment that this conversation was not annoying, as one would think, especially since they were talking loudly on a mostly silent (and packed) car. But it was also hardly entertaining. For the moment.

Bookish snorts. "Larry, where'd you get those shoes?"

"Come on." It's clear that Bookish is the fashionista of the family and has commented on this issue before.

"Yess. Those." Bookish's mouth is getting fuller of cotton every moment.

"Linda gave them to me."

"Hm. Linda. I don't care, even if she's a women. Tell Linda I don't approve." Bookish sniffs, then looks at me. "What do you think?"

I look. Black, with a little buckle. Eh, they're fine. "Eh, they're fine," I say.

Broader leans across the way and pumps my hand. "Thank you!"

"Just fine," I add.

"Thankss!!" Bookish exclaims. I smile. He takes this as a sign. "Now, I mean, what is up with men's shoes?" His mouth is basically all cotton now. "Men! Shoes! I mean, Larry, how old are those shoes."

"Four years."

"Pffft! Four years. See, see?" Bookish leans in to me. "Men. They just don't get shoes. The fashion goes out."

I cock my head. "Sometimes fashion comes back."

"Not those kind!!" Bookish pauses, looks at the man next to Broader. "Look at his!" The man politely puts his gym bag in front of his feet. Bookish moves on; he's on a roll. "See that man down there?" he stage whispers to me. The entire train is now fully aware of our conversation. They're trying to hide it, but amused glances bounce our way. "Why is he wearing those? No, no, no. Oh, but those are great. Mmhmm."

The conversation continues. Bookish critiques all of the shoes of the men riding the train. We commiserate how poor their choices are, and discuss the evolution of men's shoes' fashion. He points out that men always put comfort first. I point out that women rarely do. We decide that he should teach a course for men on how to pick shoes. Then we decide that really, if men have already gotten a girlfriend or partner and work in any area other than fashion, they're just fine in comfortable, unfashionable shoes. We triumphantly deliver our verdict to Broader.

He sighs with a smile. "Thanks."

Pause.

"Larry, is this our stop?"

"Yup."

Bookish rises and leans down to me. "Have a good night, hon."

He walks away. I realize that he is wearing flip-flops.

Somedays, I just wish I had a car. (Or a lot of money.)

Oh my dear readers, I've been absent the past few days (.....if there is anyone crazy enough out there to keep reading this blog, that is. I could just be writing for the voices in my head.)

Regardless, I have spent the past 24 hours flying to and from Pgh International Airport, yet again. And do I have a fabulous story (or two!) to tell all of you.

But that will have until tomorrow, when my brain is working a little better.

For now I will just say that there are moments - like this evening, when I got off the plane at LGA, totally fatigued, and had to schelp my way into the city to take the Path back to Jersey - when I desperately wish that I had a car. Or a lot of money to have a driver. How easy life could then be!

Alas, our struggles make us stronger.

Time for bed now. A teaser from tomorrow's story? Oxygen masks are complimentary.

An Old-Fashioned Tale of Chivalry

Once upon a time, in a kingdom that was settled on an island, a silver and blue chariot prepared itself to sweep its countrymen away from the island and to the faraway land of Jersey.

Menfolk and womenfolk boarded the chariot, tired from a day's work in the field. A handsome young gent happened to sit across from me. The chariot filled with people, all carrying their bushels, until no seats were left. Right before the chariot's conductor announced in a sublimely royal (and nasal) voice, "Doors are closing. Watch out," a young lass rushed on board.

She eyed the gent and let out a burst of glee, for you see, the lass had recently met the gent on a night out on the kingdom with fellow townsfolk. He spotted her and smiled graciously, then swiftly jumped to his seat, and out stretched his arm for her to sit down.

She do did, and the they talked and blushed the whole chariot ride home.

And so, another happily ever after ending find its beginning.

Find your own urban fairy!

May I start off by giving a big hello to our dear friend, Summer. She has arrived a bit early (and catching us completely off guard, as those early guests normally do), but she came with a gorgeous present of splashy sunshine, blue skies, and general happiness (and so, we forgive her).

Yesterday morning, dressed in an obligatory insanely bright sundress to celebrate Summer's arrival, I pranced through the Herald Square subway stop. The station was quiet for the morning rush - probably because everyone was already suffering from the thick, muggy air that was creeping its way into the belly of the station. But nevermind that! Summer was here, and New Yorkers were in full-on celebration mode.

Flowery skirts, halters, tube tops, flip-flops, short shorts (okay...no one should really ever wear those) - and all on April 7th! Madness, everyone is saying! Madness!

(....have we all never heard of global warming? Is Al Gore not sitting in a lawn chair somewhere, pina colada in hand, sunning himself, and humming to the tune of I told you so?)

But yes, even I jumped fully onto the welcome wagon for Summer. And as I shuffled along the quiet, pale-skinned riders (we all could use some perking up from the sun, that's for sure), the most beautiful sound tickled my ears.

A sweet chime, twinkling with hope and pinging with a zing of excitement, echoed around the dirt-encrusted subway pillars. I turned to see the installation musical art, Reach: An Urban Musical Instrument (an instrument that plays various tones when your hand is placed in front of it). It was erected in the 34th Street Subway Station in 1996 (for more info, click here), and thus, I've seen it for years.

But never until yesterday had I really paid attention to it. But yesterday, as we all floated around in our summer clothes, trying to soak up the warmth of the day, Reach sounded like little fairies, giving me a sense of other wordly-ness. (Yes, I know. What fairies would be found in New York in a dirty, cramped subway station? And why the hell am I talking about fairies? But go with me on this.)

It was unexpected, this urban fairy sound. It pinged out of nowhere with a flash, touching a smile to my face. And as I drifted past Reach, and got onto my subway car, that feeling stayed with me, my secret weapon for the rest of the day.

We all need one. A secret weapon to get us through the hot city, the sweating, the panting, the desperation that sneaks out as we try to keep up with life. And if the sound of little urban fairies is what gets me through, I'm not going to question it.

So go forth, dear reader! Find your own urban fairy and use it well. Use it well.

Wait a second, what's that expression on your face....

Today, I semi-stalked a fellow rider while he semi-stalked me. This tale involves two subway cars, a brochure for a nail spa, and a fruit stand. Intrigued, aren't you? Stay tuned for a story later.

I now need to remark on the oddity of this morning.

When I reached the subway platform, I noticed a man, dressed in a nice grey suit and a crisp blue shirt, sitting on a bench on the platform. Now this in itself is not odd (although, those benches are so dirty that I for one never sit on them.....unless I'm inebriated and need a steady place to land, and really, at that point, I figured all the alcohol on me washes off the bench germs).

What was odd is that he was smiling. Serenly. With his eyes closed. No headset on, not reading a wall ad for "How To Find Happiness" or "This Is The Ad That Will Change Your Life." He was just in his own head....and happy.

Several yards down, another fellow rider, this time a young woman, dressed in a peach sundress and holding her briefcase, was gazing down the track, and again, smiling.

Since when are New Yorkers so damn happy?

As I went on the rest of my morning route, I saw more and more people grinning softly to themselves. What was making them so joyful?! A job promotion? Or maybe heading into their final day at the workplace they hate? Perhaps it was hearing a significant other say that they love them? Finding out they are pregnant (or finding out that they are not pregnant)? Or perhaps it is just the spring air, ripe with possibilities and sweet with expectation.

Whatever the reason, it's a nice change from the morbidly cold winter months, when scowls and grimaces were the only expressions seen on subway platforms at 9am - and I plan to let go of any anxiety I have, and jump aboard this spring-lovin' train.

That is, until a few months from now, when we all start to complain about the stifling hot, thickening muggy weather.

But let's just forget about that for now, and enjoy this while it lasts.

Wine + Riding Subway = Awesomeness (Unless You Fall Asleep And Miss Your Stop)

That's really all I can manage to write tonight.

Oh, and a note to point out that I did not miss my stop. Though I did end up half-leaning on the poor soul next to me, and Jason Mraz was serenading me so loudly through my iPod that I couldn't hear their, "Miss, miss....miss!" and nudges to wake me.

Oh well. It was a great nap.

And now, time for real bed. 'Nite folks.

Even bunnies can fly.

To recap: Read my last blog entry.

To continue: After my out-of-body experience with the Air Tram (I’m still reeling in delight), I made my way to the correct terminal and in a matter of ten, simple (taking-off-shoes-and-jacket-and-pulling-out-laptop) minutes, I was on the air side. From there on out, I regret to say that nothing out of the ordinary happened. (Regret! As if you actually want something out of the ordinary to occur at an airport these days.) I boarded on time, I sat in my correct seat, and I turned off my electronic devices when told. And speaking of which, what happens if I don’t turn off my devices? Will they physically force me to do so? What possible harm could my Kindle (yes, I have one – I hate having to turn pages) do?

Fyi, that last train of thought was the most interesting thing that happened in my brain during the flight. Yes. It was a truly exhilarating flight.

The plane was one of those one-seat / aisle / two-seats planes - the type in which you can reach out both arms and touch each side of the plane. Thankfully, the one I’m on now is two-seats / aisle / two-seats.

That’s right, folks, the one I’m on now. I’m blogging in flight!

So let’s get to the down and dirty.

Who needs an in-flight movie when you can eavesdrop on the people sitting in front of you? Two men, one woman. From what I can tell, the one man lives in NYC and his mom’s friend and another close male friend (perhaps lover? I can’t quite tell – but he is Brazilian, that’s for sure. That’s for SURE.) are going to stay with him for a bit. All three travel often (the woman recently went to Vegas), enjoy beer (they went to a biergarten two days ago and had “a freaking blast!”), are Christian (or least, attended a very crowded Easter church service this morning that had a massive egg hunt), want to earn flight points (to go to Brazil), are obsessed with dieting (so far, the “Gwyneth Paltrow diet” and “three month fruit and veggie detox” have been discussed) and had homemade, delicious Cornish game hen last night.

That’s right, bitches. Someone is always listening.

In truth, they seem like a fun bunch. I decided this fact when they came on board, holding plastic cups (with their city’s hockey logo stamped on it) filled with beer. Is that even legal? “I feel like I’m tailgating,” the possibly gay Brazilian giggled. The other man toasted in agreement, “We kind of are!”

……..sure, why not.

At this point, around 9:15pm, our deep-voiced pilot came over the loud speaker (why do they always have deep voices and why do they always mumble?). After the typical welcome spiel, he cleared his throat. “Weather in New York is 52 degrees, clear and…..dark.” Hey, don’t judge. Maybe Easter is when the junior pilots get to try out their skills.

I have to wrap up this entry by getting a little sappy. Flying during the night is always a little incredible. Perhaps it’s the old “turn off the lights, burn some candles, and everything will look softer and nicer” adage, but looking down on cities and towns just glowing with soft burnt orange streetlamps is nothing but romantic. That is, of course, if you can see the streetlamps past the roaring airplane propeller that is right outside your window, threatening to break loose and create the beginning of a horror film. Other than that, it’s completely romantic.

Okay, it’s time to store our electronic devices – and I have a bagful of Easter chocolates calling my name (shout out to M, D, UR & AC for the sweets). And some eavesdropping to do.

As for you, go have a chocolate-covered Peep. You deserve it.

It's a bird! It's a plane! It's.....yeah, a plane.

Yes, dear readers, today, instead of using public transportation to go into the depths of the earth, I used it to soar above our planet (I use the term "soar" loosely. Also....is flying considered public transportation? I suppose not, but let's discuss it anyway.)

Now, I'm going to make this short, as it's been an uber-long day. For tonight, I will simply recap Part One of my travels - actually getting to the plane.

It began in the wee hours of the morning, with a black town car picking me up at my apartment, and whisking me to Newark International Airport.

(May I divulge for a moment and say that the glamour of having a fancy car with a driver will never be lost on me? Perhaps it comes from my mini-van childhood (for which I am grateful....damn, I loved that mini-van), but the idea of a driver just seems so.....cool. Sleek. Suave. Movie star-ish. Actually, to match the fame I feel when taking a car, I often take on a celebrity attitude. This morning for instance, I sauntered out to the town car, wearing sunglasses in the 5am light to presumably hide my morning-after-the-opening-night-movie-party-face from the paparazzi. Dear Lord, I wouldn't want to end up in US Weekly again!)

Back in the real world (where US Weekly only knows my name as their most enthusastic subscriber - you didn't even know they had subscribers, did you!), my driver dropped me at Newark Airport. Five minutes later, I discovered that I was in the wrong terminal. What to do, what to do.......well of course! Be blessed with the experience of the ride of the future, the space shuttle for earthlings, the end all and be all of public transportation: The Airtrain.

......okay, so yeah, it's just an airtrain. But still, I would be lying if I said I wasn't the teeniest bit thrilled. I don't actually think I've ever taken Newark's Airtrain - who knew that the cars were so tiny! Small enough that each individual/family had their own private car - oh, the delight of having privacy on public transportation! I had my iPod on and even busted a move or two as the Airtrain glided from Terminal A to B.

Soon enough, I made it to the correct terminal, and after arguing (and winning!) that my suitcase was indeed the correct carry-on size and did not have to be checked, I made it through security.

What will happen next? Will I make it on time for my plane? Will I get a window or an aisle seat? Will I choose to accept the free pretzels (for the love of God, why can't we ever get PEANUTS anymore?!)?

Tune in later for the next installment of the continuation of the travel log of today's journeys in this blog that chronicles the daily tales of a girl and her life with public transportation!

Grab your lucky rabbit foot.

Most people go through their morning routine with the typical, stream of consciousness thoughts running through their mind:

"What do I wear? It's raining, wear boots - the cute ones. Should I forget to pack that salad for lunch, and be forced (sigh) to go out and get a burger? The cute boots hurt my feet, damn it. I hope my boss is in a good mood - and if not, maybe he won't take it out on me. I sometimes hate him. I usually hate my coworkers. Why do I work in this place? I wish I were on a beach. Oh whatever, cute boots it is, they match my outfit. Maybe I should switch jobs, or careers. I never should have majored in creative writing. I like grapes."

(And yes, that last bit was an ode to Ellen Degeneres.)

But in my mind, the one thought that hits me as soon as I get out of bed, follows me as I get my shower and put on the cute boots, nags me as I prepare my salad and then forget it in the fridge, is: What side of the train will open first?

You must understand, at the Path station hub where I catch my train, there are three trains that come and go - two of them go into Manhattan. And riders can exit and enter trains on all three platforms that surround the trains.

So as the early morning hustle bustle takes place, individuals clutch their coffee cups and New York Daily News and (this week, at least) sopping umbrellas, take a deep wishful breath, and make the decision as to what platform they will wait.

Because you never know. You could be on Platform A, and the train pulls in next to Platform C. If this happens, my expert advice to is run. Fast. In your heels, your cute boots, whatever. Run upstairs, cross over to the Platform C and, if you're spry enough, you may just get there in time to rush on board as the doors open and grab a seat.

Oh, did I forget to mention the main goal? To get a seat.*

Now I know what you're wondering. What if you're on Platform A, the trains pulls in next to you (yay!), but the doors open on the Platform B side? Well then, you're screwed.

The best you can do is push all those other Jersey-ites aside to get to the front of the crowd that is gathering outside the Path doors, and as soon as the door opens, put your Available Seat Alert on high. If you see an open seat, run to it, tossing your handbag ahead of you to either a) land on the seat or b) knock out out competing riders who may be aiming for your seat. Then claim your seat in victory (a small seat victory dance is never proper, but a huge grin and sigh of "BEAT YA!" is entirely appropriate).

So, to wrap up today's lesson, how do you tell on which platform to stand, and which door will open first?

1) Pure luck.
2) Follow wherever the crowd is standing (yes, be a follower. jump off the bridge).
3) Give the station manager cookies every day, in exchange for train/platform info (that's right, my dears, bribery always works).

I prefer 1), pure luck. It gives the day a bit of mystery, a challenge to work for, a frustrating way to start the day.

And a chance to use my lucky rabbit foot.


--
*Though according to my boyfriend, one can actually burn 4 calories per minute (or something like that) by standing on the subway. Sweet, I won't have to go the gym in the morning!

Subway Anxiety

This is going to be quick, I promise.

As I rode the Path and subway this morning, I looked around and was surrounded by people reading newspapers with "MOSCOW SUBWAY BOMBING KILLS DOZENS" sprawled across the top.

This brings up the obvious question: As a person who uses public transportation on a regular basis, how does one deal with these bombings and the threat that it could happen in your city?

Well I will admit that I've asked many people, and I have yet to come across a single Path/subway rider who has not thought about their own potential of landing in such a situation, given the trains they take and at what time of day. They think about their escape route, should the threat of a bombing occur. Unfortunately, in our world, we have to consider these points.

But we don't have to let them control our lives.

We can analyze hypothetical situations, imagining escape routes and the like, but we do not have to act upon any of these thoughts. Because if we act upon them, our lives suddenly become not our own. They become the property of someone else, our actions controlled by the possibility of something that may never (probably won't) ever happen.

It took me a while to get to this point, I'll admit. And there are moments when I can't completely erase the fear from my mind. But every day that I step onto the Path or subway and don't let the numb feeling of fear enter my bones, I know that I'm fighting for something. I'm fighting for control of my own life, my thoughts, my feelings.

And that is something that's worth fighting for.

If you have crutches, just take my seat, damn it.

Apparently the universe heard that I was writing this blog, and decided to give me an adventure on wheels (or rather, adventure on electrified train tracks) today.

But before I launch into my story, I should pause for a moment and explain the various forms of transportation that I use. If for some reason you're insane enough to keep reading this blog (...or awesome enough to keep reading?), you'll need to know the following:

My main form is the Path - a subway-like system (actually it preceded the subway by about 40 years) that runs from New Jersey into Manhattan. For you Wikipedia nuts, check it out. My specific Path ride is approximately 15 minutes at the beginning and end of my daily journey. In between, I use the one and only New York City MTA subway system (shazam!). On rare occasions, I use the LIRR (Long Island Rail Road), NJ Tranist (trains to NJ), and so on.

Back to today.

This morning was its own hectic episode, which resulted in the fantastic montage of me running up to the subway doors, yelling, "Wait! Wait!" only to find the conductor staring at me blankly as the automatic doors slammed shut. "Wait?" I asked, pathetic and breathless. The conductor raised his eyebrows at me, turned his head, and the subway train sped away, leaving me in its dust.

And that was just this morning.

I was then hit by some jarring personal news in the middle of the day (thank goodness, all is mostly okay now), but it distracted me enough that by the time 6pm rolled around, I realized that I hadn't eaten a thing all day. So I broke my cardinal rule of eating on the subway (some day later, we'll get to that). I grabbed a bag of Sun Chips (really, are there any chips more delicious?) and off I went.

By the time I took the subway to the Path, I had half a bag left. With my mind still focused on the earlier drama, I absent-mindedly wedged myself between two broad-shouldered business men and munched on my Sun Chips. Munch, crunch, munch, crunch. The noise, I realized, in comparison to the post-Monday work day sedative, was defeaning. I chewed slower. Munch.....crunch.....munch....crunch. Softer. Munch......crunch.....munch. You cannot eat a bag of Sun Chips quietly. This, unfortunately, I seem to forget every time I have them.

I plowed my way through the remaining half a bag, and with a mouthful of those addictive, savory bits of heaven, I nearly sighed. I was done causing a slight scene.

Except, I still had the bag to put away.

Have you ever realized that it is impossible to scrunch up a plastic-y, sticky chip bag without making some type of noise? And even if you try to move slowly, folding it smaller, one crease at a time, it seems to be louder? I ended up just shoving it into the bottom of purse, Sun Chip crumbs falling everyone, I'm sure.

At this point, I figured that the remaining ten minutes could be serene, calm. And it was. Until a young woman with crutches got on the train. Immediately, five of us jumped up to offer her our seat. She smiled and politely refused. So we sat and stared at the girl on crutches.

We sat and stared at her as the train weaved and she wobbled from side to side. We sat and stared at her as the train came to a crashing halt and (as a small child shrieked, "WHY ARE WE STOPPED?") and her crutch went flying a few feet in front of her. No one picked it up. Hey, she said she didn't need a seat, she obviously didn't need our help.

(I joke - I'm not an entirerly mean person. I pushed the crutch back to her with my foot).

And we sat and stared at her as the train lurched to a start again, sending her stumbling backwards into a pole. When the train arrived to our destination, everyone jumped in front of her to get off.

It was a picturesque moment to end the day.

Well, I guess this is the first stop.

Public transportation.

To some, this phrase conjures up the image of the common man, shoved alongside hundreds of other down-on-their-luck folk, all exhausted from [enter your choice of gripe here], shuffling their way onto a crowded subway/train/bus that has already broken down twice today and will (of course) be delayed by at least another twenty minutes. These people squeeze together, their bodies pulsing into one other with each sudden turn, hands groping awkwardly (or sometimes hopefully, depending on what they're groping for) to reach a free handle or pole.

Somewhere amidst the mass, a mariachi band has set up and is playing lively, loudly, annoyingly. A homeless man or two wander the trains, asking for a handout for their kids, themselves or (the only beg to which I respond positively) a beer. Of course, a child is screaming, certain that they will never step on steady land again. And as if this were all not bad enough, there is the God-awful, completely horrific, constantly present, sinking-into-your-clothes-as-you-stand-there factor: the smell.


Yes, to some people, this is the dreadful definition of "public transportation."

To me, it's daily life. And it is just as it sounds. Grueling and dirty.....and slightly marvelous.

Yes, marvelous. Fascinating. Intriguing. When you step onto a public transportation vehicle, you're stepping into another world - one (usually) closed in on all sides, controlled by someone you (often times) cannot see, with a crowd of people with whom you have nothing in common but your time spent together at this very moment. And if anything happens, you are in it together, swiftly united with this group of strangers. (Now, who can't tell me that that is the beginning of a great movie plot? .....and by great, I mean horrendously bad.)

But truthfully, there are thousands of fascinating, strange (and yes, sometimes disturbing) stories to be found on public transportation. Which is why I am writing this blog.

The goal? To write (nearly) daily anecdotes, thoughts, musings, limericks and such about my escapades on public transportation - specifically in the New York City area.

I'm not promising them to be funny, or thought-provoking, or even well-written (.....are you still reading?), but they will be real. And in my belief, real is way better than fiction (unless it's that story where I win the lottery, am awarded an Oscar, and crowned queen all in the same day...that's way better than real life).

So with that, tomorrow will start my first written account. Until then, I wish you transportation free of mariachi bands.