the night is light underground

this is the subway at 3:30am.

everyone sleeps.

The night is light underground.

Underneath my feet, it is always bright. The day never falls into a dark night, and the light of morning never stops shining. Hundreds of bulbs illuminate a world of tunnels, rails and platforms, casting everything into eternal shadow and relief. There is no sense of time here, no shift from dusk into dawn, no sense of life's ceaseless forward marching pace. It is always day here underground. The night is one of light.

Millions of people congregate here. They come to catch subways that will take them to places of work, pleasure, sleep, dining, and worship. Women going off to work wear 'sensible' high heels, ones that don't turn them into human versions of the Leaning Towers of Pisa. The kids going to school haul backpacks with them, snapping gum and talking at full volume. Wall Street bankers look staid and bored in perfectly fitted suits.

They are always here, the people, even during the hours when only insomniacs and drunks are awake. Even then, during this phantom time of night, the people come to the false daytime of the subways. They bask in the lighting like revelers at Coney Island, the platforms their beaches.

It's during these strange hours when I love the subway the best. The 1am - 4am bracket of time seems the most mysterious, strange and charged time to ride the subway. Walking underground you lose the night sky and are immersed in a bath of cheap lighting, your nostrils confronted with the primitive odors of urine or unwashed hair.

Single men stand, casting furtive looks around them. There are always 1 or 2 females as well, looking worn out, tired and sometimes drunk. Couples paw at one another -- they always seem to be much more public in the evening -- and drunks more freely fall asleep on the benches and subway seats that dot the underground.

It's a good thing to do once in awhile. Hop on the subway late at night and observe humanity around you. You gain humility at seeing all the workers coming off their night shifts looking beaten down and ready to pass out in fatigue. You gain sympathy for the single girl riding by herself, looking around her every so often to make sure no one is going to bother or molest her. You laugh a little at the passed out drunks snoozing on the seats. (Not in a mean way, but in a comical one -- they sleep with their mouths open, expressions frozen in sleepy shock.)

The night is always light underground. If you haven't experienced it, you should. It's a strange world.

smelly subway

The folks at Gawker.com are working on a 'smells of the subway' map, and it looks like it's going to be pretty funny. I've already noted on this blog that Canal Street station is the fishiest smelling place in Manhattan (aside from Chinatown itself and fish markets), but Gawker is taking it to a whole new level. Rock on, I say!
Here is the link: http://www.gawker.com/news/maps/smell-something-say-something-193079.php

To New Yorkers: submit,submit, submit if you smell something!

bits and pieces

Today:

I saw ...
* a pair of butterflies floating around the roof of my apartment building.

* a middle aged couple sitting in a parked car, holding hands and looking at one another with smiles on their faces and eyes full of love.

I observed ...
* that Prime Dog Walking Time in Park Slope (not where I live, any would-be stalkers!) is between 5 - 6:30pm. More dogs on leashes than cars on the streets. Well, not really, but that's how I felt. Oh, and they're ALL CUTE.

Two days ago:

I got ...
* a free flower vase. It's painted blue and it was sitting out by someone's trash. Nothing was wrong with it except for one small chip in the paint at the bottom, so I took it. I stuffed it right into the bag I was carrying and marched my new vase home, where it has been sitting on a tabletop ever since. Happiness.

memories

february 11, '05 brooklyn

the man who wanted to collect my toes

I warn you now. This is a post about feet. Or, to be more precise, a post about toes. Toes and feet. Let me assure you that it isn't a subject I'd normally put much thought into, but, for once, I think I probably should. You see, my feet were recently the center of a very bizarre encounter I had in Manhattan, and it's one worth sharing with people, if only for the sake of a few laughs. (Or shudders, which ever.)

I can't go any further without mentioning a few facts about my feet. They are small, well arched and always pedicured. I don't like feet per se, but it's important to take care of them, since I'm always walking around in flip-flops. A lot of people seem to agree with me, too. I've had men (and yes, it's always guys) do everything from thank me for my 'pretty feet' to try to guess my shoe size. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's a little creepy, but most of the time I don't think anything at all of it.

With all this in mind, now try and picture me sitting in a park in downtown Manhattan a few weeks ago. It's sunny, warm, and the perfect weather for sandals -- which, of course, I'm wearing. I'm sitting on a bench studying notes for class, happily soaking up some sun and listening to the conversations of people walking by.

Now imagine a rotund little man shuffling up to me. He stops still in front of me and begins to stare pointedly at my toes. I'm looking a little put off and confused by this, and am startled when he tells me I have "nice feet." My first impulse is to ask something along the lines of 'What am I, a horse?' Instead, though, I just nod politely and say thanks.

The man takes this for an opening to talk to me, and informs me, yet again, that I have nice feet. He seems especially taken with my toes. "Cute toes!" he coos at me. At this point I want to tuck my feet up under me so he can't see them anymore, but I just lamely continue to sit in the same position I have been all afternoon.

"I collect toes," he goes on to say. "I have books and books of toes."

Now this, I think, is starting to get creepy. The man is staring at my feet like a lecherous pimp and smiling a strange, twisted little grin. He sits down next to me and starts his monologue all over again. "I like your toes. Pretty toes. Nice feet."

I've had enough at this point, so I tell him, point blank, "I'm really busy right now. I don't have time for this."

To my surprise he gets up. "Alright then, "he says, "I'll leave you alone now. But you keep taking care of those feet."

"Oh yeah. I will," I tell him.

And thus concludes my posting on feet.