I rushed past that spot again today on my way home from work. It was probably about the 10th or 11th time since, but it was only today that I realized it as I walked by, heels clicking quickly where they once were content to stand perfectly still.

It felt like fallout; space imbued with so much weight. The rush of dizziness and heat as intense as the moment rising, then disappearing just as suddenly.

It didn't even look the same. A mass of people: police officers, officeworkers, shouting prophets, highschool kids with low-slung backpacks. A little boy tried to jump the turnstile--his dad stopped him.

That night felt silent, but this seems more familiar--less terrifying. This I understand. I swipe my card. I lift my purse to pass.

The dizziness comes and goes, and (as the facts fade into memory) I wonder if perhaps it wasn't ever really even that strong to begin with.

Labels: memories, Moments, New York, The Subway

There are some mornings when I sit, paperback in hand, just one among thousands of sleepy passengers careening through the ancient tunnels of New York City, and I find myself wishing an impossible wish. I hold my breath and—eyes focused on the blurred mosaics outside the window—I wish that my train would just keep going… Going and going, past my Union Square stop, past Canal all the way down, down, through all of Brooklyn, past Coney Island and Stillwell, crashing right into the icy waters of the Atlantic and beyond...

I’ve always been a bit of an escapist. I slip into the pages I read. I get lost in thought. I sleep to dream.

I often wonder if there are many like me: for whom the reality and the fantasy can also meld so easily. I stare at the faces in my car—the man rustling through the sports page, the NYU girls gossiping in their legwarmers, the young mother calming her screaming child—they all seem so here. They all seem so present. Almost as if that's all there is. And with a mix of fear and pride, I suspect that I’m destined to spend a life weaving fantasies, bridging one world to the other.

My eyes settle on the elderly woman across from me. Her thin hair is pulled back tightly; her face is creased by the years. We stare at each other—two women at opposite ends of a subway car, two women at opposite ends of our lives. And I wonder if she ever has mornings like I did the other day, where she wakes up throbbing and damp, pulling herself away from a dream that was just too vivid…just too good. Does she dream of vodka or the color red or the backseat of a blurry yellow cab? Does she ever find herself invaded by thoughts of a remembered kiss, a breath on her neck, a strong hand pulling at her thighs. I wonder for a moment if this is a part of me that will fade as the years pass. And then I close my eyes, I bite my lip, and I feel the goose bumps beneath the heavy layers of wool and silk as I lose myself in pair of absent arms.

“It’s your imagination that turns me on,” I told him once. Or maybe I never actually said it; perhaps I only dreamt that I did. Either way, it’s true. I seek others like me. Others for whom a word can stretch into a story, for whom a line can bend into a work of art. I want to surround myself with the minds that race ahead while others sit complacently and with the ones who stand still amid the roar. I ache for the comfort of understanding, for that safe, rare place where raised eyebrows are replaced by knowing nods.

The train stops and I’m forced to get out. I’m swept along in the sea of students and office workers each battling to shave seconds off their commute. It’s on these mornings when I pause outside the station, turning down the fliers and newspapers that are pushed my way. I light a cigarette and take deep, deliberate drags, watching the paper burn and the smoke dance and hang in the air above me. And for just a moment, I am that smoke, floating high and dissolving into the day. I love this city. I love my job and the friends that I’ve met since I’ve moved back. I don’t even mind living at home that much. But there are moments when all that I want is to lose myself in the familiar warmth of my dreams.

The ember in my hand goes out and I toss the remains into a puddle. As I walk towards my office, I feel the rumble in the vents beneath my feet, and I realize that though I’ve stepped off for a while, that train has not stopped. I can get off and on as I please, and that, perhaps, is the beauty of this gift.

Labels: Imagination, New York, The Subway, Writing

I still remember my first time on the DC Metro. It was the first week of my freshman year at GW and I had somehow managed to convince a couple guys I’d met during orientation to accompany me to Linens n’ Things to help me carry shelves back to my dorm. I suspected (and later confirmed) that the taller one—a corn-fed Oklahoma boy with brown hair and blue eyes—had the beginnings of a crush on me, but I preferred his roommate—a smart-alecky Jersey boy with a crooked nose and a Jewish last name. It was one of those fast, but temporary friendships—the kind forged out of necessity and loneliness rather than actual compatibility. Looking back now, I don’t think I spoke to either one of them again after that week…

But on that morning in late August there was nothing but possibility ahead of us as we excitedly set off for the Foggy Bottom station, Metro map in hand. The plan was to take the blue line to Pentagon City where our RA had informed us we’d find a few helpful stores. A life-long vertigo sufferer with a secret fear of escalators, I clung to the handrail and wedged myself in between Jersey and Oklahoma for added safety. I still remember the gasp I let out as the escalator led us slowly down onto the platform.

“Oh,” I sighed excitedly. “It’s like Gattaca!”

Neither one of the boys had seen the movie, but it didn’t matter. I was amazed by the open vaulted ceilings that curved high above the station like a giant concrete wave. It felt open, clean, and futuristic. I loved the way the floor lights blinked as the trains approached, sliding into the station like quite little bullets. Until then, my only subway experience had been in NY and this seemed like such a stark contrast to those dirty, musty stations.

“I love this city,” I thought as I heard the oddly seductive “Doors Opening” message come over the loudspeaker.

Over the years, I grew increasingly familiar with Metro’s many shortcomings—the limited access to places around the city, the 12 AM closing time on weekdays, the lack of a monthly pass and varying fares—but I still felt a tinge of excitement each time I descended the stairs and caught a glimpse of those vaulted ceilings.

When the time came to design a header for my blog template, I knew that I wanted to capture that feeling with something that would be instantly recognizable to a native, but still aesthetically appealing to a stranger. Those ceilings, for me, represented something that was both quintessentially DC and universally beautiful. A few Photoshop clicks and crops on a picture from my collection quickly proved to be the perfect image for my DC-inspired template.

But now I’ve left the District, and the time has come for something new to represent this next chapter in my life. Again, I wanted something that would combine familiarity with aesthetics. I pored over my photograph collection, spent hours searching through Flickr and stock images, and I even took dozens of new photos this week—statues, store fronts, pigeons on cobblestones. I cropped and tinted. Cut and pasted, but nothing seemed right.

Until Friday, when it finally hit me. I was standing on the platform at 42nd Street staring at the tiled numbers on the wall and impatiently waiting for my train. “A Mosaic!” I thought to myself, suddenly feeling my brain race the way it does when I get an idea. I started picturing it in my head and could hardly wait to get home to open up Illustrator and start working on it. There is something about those mosaics that I just love—an unexpected dose of beauty within the grimy rush. Some are new...some have been there forever, but they all seem to perfectly capture that classic NY feel… You know, that Duke Ellington “Take the A Train,” jazzy, classy, perfect slice, if you can make it here, horse-drawn carriages in Central Park kinda thing--which is exactly what I was going for...

And while I quickly learned that a graphic mosaic is just as—if not more—complicated to create than an actual one, I am pretty satisfied with the results. I may have to tweak it a little over the next few days, but for now I think I’ve found my perfect NY-inspired blog template.

Labels: blogging, DC, New York, The Subway

She stepped into the train at Times Square just a second before the doors shut. Wrinkled, obviously tired, and bundled in a heavy coat and scarf she headed straight for the open seat next to mine. In one fluid motion I placed my giant tweed bag on the seat and held up my left hand.

“Actually,” I said. “This seat is taken. My friend is just checking the map…”

She stared at me. Too shocked to register any emotion at first, her eyes slowly darkened. I matched her withering look with one of my own and kept my bag on the seat. She opened her mouth to say something, but instead moved on to the back of the car from where she continued to shoot me dirty looks and mutter under her breath. I summoned up my best “I was born in the Bronx and will cut you” look (not so easy when you’re dressed like a librarian) and stared at her until she stopped.

Vanessa came back from the map and sat down. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she said. “You realize that’s unheard of in this city…”

I burst out laughing. “Well, you said save your seat. So I did.”

“Very impressive,” said the man sitting to my left. Two guys sitting across from us shook their heads and laughed.

“Whatever,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, all the while feeling very pleased with myself.

Labels: friends, New York, The Subway