Subterranean Airsick Blues
*No Bob Dylan songs were harmed in writing this blog post.
There’s no place like New York City.
Except for Toronto which, by Hollywood standards, can stand in for NYC and pretty much any other major city, for that matter. Or any one of the ‘new‘ New Yorks touted by travel agents and bedbug-phobes alike.
To me, one of the simultaneously fascinating and grotesque aspects to living in New York City is the subway system. You can get from almost every section of New York (except Northeast Queens and Staten Island) and back – over 200 miles of traveling at the ready. Amazing. Then there’s the smell.
I’m sure there’s a list of the most frequently urinated-in subway stations (I’m thinking the J/Z platform at Brooklyn Bridge is in the Top 10), and the subway lines most frequented by weekend revelers and their long, drunken rides home.
But really, there’s nothing more character-building than getting into a non-air conditioned subway car during rush hour. It’s truly a true test of one’s will, fortitude, and digestive constitution, to step into the train with the moist warmth of humanity bathing you in its odoriferous splendor.
Someday, I’ll tire of it. Until then, as with most New Yorkers, I’ll endure it, wielding my MetroCard as a badge of honor.