When people talk about why they live in New York City, they inevitably invoke the museums. Repeatedly. In near-manic tones.
“The museums!” They tell their far-flung friends and family who can’t imagine why they’d want to deal with the grime; the cramped, expensive spaces; the non-proximity to friends and family. “The museums are just unparalleled!” Then they add, breathlessly: “And the theater! The theater is just fantastic.”
Leaving aside the fact that this “I live here for the museums” stuff is a bunch of bullshit we’re all guilty of perpetuating at some point, it’s not the high art that drew me to (and potentially keeps me in) New York. Nope. For me, it’s the subways. Many of you will call me a liar, and more of you will question my sanity, reminding me of my many subway-related complaints (including one I made just a few days ago). But I have a lot of love for the ability to get around with relative convenience and frugality (without having to deal with parking, or, god forbid, valets), and to simultaneously observe humanity in all its failings and beauty.
The theater of the subway is far more varied and true-to-life (because it is life) than anything I’ve seen on the stage — even the embarrassing and “edgy” genitalia-baring off-broadway stuff. And sure, the Rembrandts and Hoppers are pretty magnificent, but those paintings are always the same; static, no matter how many times or how lengthily you stare at them, Ferris Bueller-at-the-museum-style.
Over the course of a few stops, you can witness performances both intentional and unintentional: Couples courting, dancers dancing, mariachis mariachi-ing. Not every performance is welcome. Your otherwise peaceful ride will certainly be ruined at some point by some loudmouth amateur preacher who insists he knows the only way to redemption, and he’s not going to shut up until you’re converted. But, hey, maybe you’ll learn something new about the Bible.
Interruptions notwithstanding, on the subway I can read a book (take that, podcast-and XM-dependent commuters in other cities!). I’d always claimed to be a Book Person, but it wasn’t until I had time to read on the train that I became a True Reader. And if I ever forget my book, I can dream up fictions based on the observations of people I’d never encounter were I speeding around in a discrete, four-wheeled sardine can: “This lady carrying an overpriced handbag lives in a brownstone with two over-educated toddlers and a philandering-writer husband; that too-handsome, early-20s guy is on his way to an audition for a play he’d rather not be in, but, hey, it’s a stepping stone; the tired woman in Winnie The Pooh nurse scrubs is contemplating the conversation she needs to have with her boss about overtime pay.”
Of course, tomorrow, when we descend into the hell that is the weekend-construction-addled subway commute, I’ll disown everything nice I’ve said about the trains. My relationship with the New York City subway isn’t a simple one. But I’ll tell you this: My trusty, pre-New York Honda Civic never inspired affectionate ramblings. So that’s something.
