07th Oct 2003
For Exercise, Take The Subway
33rd and 9th Avenue. Cheyenne Diner. Pastrami. Yum and wow.
And I deserved it, having gone through the hustle and bustle of getting to B & H Photo, the best damn photography store in the country. Everything is on display at B & H, even little foam covers for ear buds. B & H is photo-nirvana.
Before I get into observations of all things Underground, I’ll mention
the reason for today’s pilgrimage: cleaning swabs. Yeah, I have one
of those digital SLRs that gets dust on the CCD (the image sensor).
It’s a drag. I can only tell so many people “oh that? That’s a
seagull!”, when in fact, the black specks are dust that’s got all
sneaky-weaky into my Nikon D1. $40+ for cleaning swabs! Yikes.
Note to Nikon: Design Design Design! It shouldn’t be so easy to get the CCD dirty. I have my phonecam and Nikon 950 with me, but nothing else can let me shift into creative mode like the D1. No film, but all the SLR lenses. Only cost is time. Love the images. Hate the dust.
The Subway. The Other City is subterranean. One of the strangest
transfers I’ve seen was Queens Court House Square to 23rd Street
(#7 to the E). Check out of one elevated station, walk 75 feet
on the sidewalk at street level, and down into another station.
Proceed as if you were making your way through Chicago’s O’Hare
Airport Tunnel. They almost need a train between the trains.
But I like it all, or most. The Times Square Station is a hub of humanity, one buzz underneath another. There must be subway geniuses out there that have that station Wired. I look up at the signs, keep walking like I know what the heck I’m doing, and magically end up on a platform. Most of the time it’s the one I want.
You can tell it’s a patchwork. Somehow, everyone gets to where they’re going. I get exercise. The subway takes you over long distances, but you spend almost as much time transferring and bounding around as you do on the train. Up down Up down. What, you don’t like this hallway? Try this one over here. You’ll be back, Mister.
Falling tiles. Dirty gum spots on top of older gum. Every 4th announcer is intelligible. The rest are a Saturday Night Skit ringing oh so true. London is Mind The Gap (SouthKen Dreamin’), New York is Watch Your $70 Unlimited MetroCard.
There’s the Seekers of the Ultimate Seat, forever making their way from one car to the next. Nope, not enough seats on this car. Gotta have 2 clear seats on each side. Go to the next car. Repeat. Sometimes they make their
way to the end of the train, consider their options, and head back the other way. Perhaps it’s a new workout I haven’t seen Spamvertised, coming soon to mailboxes everywhere.
There are the Sleepers, the Talkers, the SleepTalkers, iPod Rockers
like the all-grown-up 40ish Party Girl I saw yesterday; blond mane
flying around to some half-remembered concert 20 years ago - anything
to tune out the bubble beyond personal space.
Young Asian Girls, paper bags neatly wrapped around cans of beer -
attention to detail for every aspect of getting buzzes while getting there.
Tired old men wearing fashionable hats, not to be caught dead with
a backwards baseball cap. Dashers, Shufflers, and Strutters.
Every borough in a hurry to get to another.
The real UN isn’t on the East River. It’s in the 20 different
languages flying around underground. Most of Society is down there, for the most part getting along. Streetside divisions evaporating in concrete tunnel town.
