Our Urban Odyssey » on the subway

The birds are back

Nova — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 13:49:27 +0000

It’s been awhile, but worth noting (for those who notice such things…) that the 59th street birds are back! When the Columbus Circle subway got its renovation, they uprooted the bushes by the entrance that was like a sparrow colony, probably the source of those grimy birds that resembled coal miners that you’d see while waiting for A,B, C, D or 1 or 9 train. But they planted new bushes and it seems the tenants did not waste time moving back in (more likely scenario- it’s a new wave of gentrifiers who took up this fabulous slice of real estate now that all the hard work has been put into renovating the neighborhood).

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Riding in the Dark

Nova — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 00:35:42 +0000

How many of you remember riding the trains in the 80’s (and I’m sure the 70’s) when most of the time the subway cars went dark as they caroused the tunnels? We’ve come a long way since then, but this morning passengers were reminded of those gritty subway days on a morning rush hour A train. Now, it’s probably not that good of an idea to get excited about the lights going out when you’re in a tin can with strangers, traveling through holes fairies (or other magical engineering beings) drilled underground oh-so-long ago. But given that this subway car was not too packed, I think it was exciting. We were forced to abandon our books and magazines (the gadget-people were still looking at the screens, I’m sure) and remember where we were. A view of the tunnels is so much more clear when the lights are off. It makes the ride more of an adventure. There was no epileptic flickering of the lights (the lights back then never really completely went out without first flickering), just cold darkness for about 3 stops. Then the lights came on and everyone dug their noses back into their private bubbles. Still, it was like being a kid again, staring out into the tracks in the dark, hearing the roar of the tracks because the car doors keep opening and closing with the heavy swaying of the train… when life seemed more tangible and less digital.

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Urban Leg Warmers

Nova — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 01:28:50 +0000

During this horrendous winter, thought to share a little urban tip on one way to stay warm while you’re underground. The C train. The C train’s heating system seems to work on these little radiators hidden behind a steel fence with holes that run directly under your legs. It’s one roasty-toasty way to travel and worth all those local stops if you’re frozen. And it’s not simply warm. It’s heat you can feel seeping up, that’ll probably get you hot if you stay there too long. It’s bliss for the Antarctic weather of 2011.

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Stolen Images

Nova — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 20:29:42 +0000

Apologies if this was already covered by Seinfeld on Nueva-Centric living. Among the abundant subway characters that pack into our steel cars twenty-four hours a day lurks a silent being that can be viewed in two different ways, depending on your mood: When you’re not in an exactly “collective love New York state of mind”, these people are like little stalking Gollums slithering through the tunnels on a mission to possess something. It aint a ring. In better moods, they serve as a flattering mirror; you might immediately fix your hair when you lock eyes with them, smile, or even give a bashful blink. I’m not talking about Shutterbugs, the people who steal an image of you with a camera’s lens, then scuttle away like a Peeping Tom. Hard to justify that type of image mugging. I’m talking about the person in the seat diagonally across from you with penetrating eyes that switch every five seconds or so from a soul-gripping lock on your face and the small pad and pencil cuddled atop their knapsack. When a sketch artist, art student, artist–whatever it is you want to call these subway characters–chooses you out of the rest of the sardine gang commuting alongside you, it’s sort of flattering. Unless of course they chose you because you just look so darn strange, but hey you’ll never know the truth. But the act also evokes a level of intimacy that was never asked for and requires nothing from you except submission. Suddenly you’re aware that someone is taking in all the fine details of your face, a beauty mark on your cheek, they way a strand of hair curls along your neck. You begin to feel their pencil tracing the contour of your nose, outlining the shape of your lips. What probably makes the experience a little confusing (do I sit still, do I smile, do I wickedly roll my tongue across my upper lip?) is that you were never introduced, never did you give permission to sit for a portrait that can stay locked in a drawing pad, be part of a stalker series, be displayed in a classroom or serve as some inspiration for something that hangs in a museum (did I mention how flattering it can be?) It is both a wicked and innocent act. Should they catch you in a not-so-loving mood, then your solace is remembering this: Some things aren’t owned- people’s impressions of you are not yours, though you may exert influence. They are something people take with them, sometimes in number two pencil on the pages of a sketch book.

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Dante’s Inferno, Perhaps Third Cirlce: The Gross Man

ouo — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 21:15:12 +0000

For those who don’t remember, the Dante’s Inferno series are reserved for rants and the literary banishment of those who offend Urban Odyssey bloggers. Watch out, because this post comes from the fury of Bianca. Only mildly censored so as not to ignite an internet riot.

“Dear God,
Why? Why I ask, why do certain people exist?

Picture it, a muggy Spring morning in late May. The 6:00am 2 train. Abnormally packed train for this early in the morning. Seating is limited. As I go into my usual morning trance during my 90 minute commute I am rudely interrupted by foul play. That foul play my friends is Body Odor. A 6′ 5″ inch male, approximately 40 years old, still rockin fubu hard as if they were ever cool or like they ever made anything of quality…or perhaps his Asian themed button down is a “Dragon Ball-Z” shirt. Nonetheless his shirt sucks. His jeans are visibly filthy and 2 inches too short. He is wearing crew cut socks (do they even make those anymore?) and his new balance sneakers look like his lawn mowing sneakers however somehow I doubt he has a lawn to mow. Too harsh? Well you try sitting down wind from this motherfucker standing over you with what I believe to be 2 days worth of underarm body odor. There is no escaping this. I tried plugging my nose, burying my face in my arm then my bag. Shallow breaths from my mouth did not do the trick. “Ding!” The train doors open after this 15 minute violation. He takes two steps toward what I believe will be my freedom to breath. NOPE sits right next to me. I thought for a moment the smell would die down since I was no longer right beneath his armpit. 5-4-3-2-NOPE.

A long day of work and running around on a hot day justifies why he might not be so fresh… but it is 6am.

What made him leave the house without a shower? A few swipes of deodorant? Some cheap cologne to mask this odor?
Time? No time was on his side because he had the time to put on his tarnished rhinestone bracelet that looks like some shit from an old lady’s garage sale that he probably got for a steal still pondering the possibility that it could be real.
The gentleman enjoyed several games on his iPhone and bopped to the beat of whatever music he appeared to be too old to be listening too.

“Ding!” He gets off at 125th in Harlem which allows me to drawn one conclusion for a man not dressed for work traveling this early. Off to the DMV to stand in line to pay off his 64 parking tickets for his car that he has found himself behind 5 months on his car note because he couldn’t afford it o begin with. It was either this or jail time.

So God I ask you why. Why does this human exist? What purpose does he have on this earth? Answer me this.

Sincerely violated,

Bianca”

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Life along the Railroad Tracks

Nova — Sat, 01 May 2010 02:42:52 +0000

One doesn’t need a television, book, or laptop when your odyssey takes you on the lines of Amtrack. Amtrack affords you not the traumatizing experience of a greyhound bus or the 24 hour day-long military-like operation of airline flying. It is more low-key and has better views that you can actually enjoy.

Railroads cut through some interesting places, unlike the terrifying view of clouds above a very-far-away earth, or the monotony of a never-ending concrete highway with spotted lines (that will hypnotize you if you stare at them too long). On the train, you cut through some pretty amazing places of nature, cross over rivers, fields… and see the scars of human habitation and time.

Lest you leave with a romanticized view of the railroad, it is when your eyes are above the railroad horizon that all seems serene. Lower your eyes to what lives right beside the railroad track and you begin to wonder when the great comet of the apocalypse will come raining down on us as punishment for being born human.

Life along the railroad tracks is pretty grim. It is as if humans can’t resist throwing all their waste down any type of slope or cliff. Though I am willing to consider that floods of water may also be the culprit, the evidence is pretty convincing; the household garbage that splays out from the houses along the railroad all seem to carry the fingerprint of the litterer. You can see it in how the shreds of plastic, tattered clothes, fast food containers all hang from the sides like someone’s squeezed out shit.

There are so many houses abandoned by the railroads.

There are so many graffiti murals on the railroad track walls that block the garbage from the tracks- it is like a 3 hour journey through an art museum. It reminds me of when we had those mini-murals in the tunnels of the D train. Are they still there?

How many factories do you see? Dated machinery from an industrial age that is leaving behind now only skeletons?

Looking out the window of an Amtrack train is like reading a book, or writing one in your mind.

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Tis the Season for Scum Bombs

Nova — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 15:21:52 +0000

Those urbanites who have subways and elevated train stations know the gross factor that cometh with melting snow. It’s the slowly dripping, murky droplets of liquid substances that drop onto your head (or life-ending incidents of landing in your eye) from the beams and ceilings of an aging rail system. Unlike the drops that fall with rain, these scum bombs are highly concentrated with grossness: the filth of the subway and all that hath accumulated in the old snow. What are they made of? Who knows? Human feces, dirt, rodent excrement, spit, toxic waste….? Survival tactics: Avoid the wet spots you see on the floor. They are usually the ground zero of falling globs. Tread like Indian Jones in a Peruvian ancient temple to avoid any unpleasant surprises.

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Underground talent

ouo — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 03:24:08 +0000

JPLogan asks…

Whatever happened to street performers?

“It only takes a great musician, battery powered amp, eye seeing dog and a banjo. Subway music Boston style.”

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Nipples on the A train

Nova — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 15:23:20 +0000

Armani Exchange might be playing a trick on your eyes. I walked onto the subway car of the A train and while scanning for a seat my eyes were pulled to the sight of two nipples hoovering above my head. Double take. I see these two breasts glaring at me but then I’m able to see the torso it’s attached to: muscular and male. But still, something looks feminine about it and after a few moments I have concluded (with C-mixto concurring as a male) that the breasts seem too pendulous, the shading under them dark so as to shape them as circular as in curvaceous. The lighting on them looks enhanced too, so that they seem to bulge out softly (not hard like a muscle). So coupled with the fact that there is no head, I conclude that Armani is playing on using the female body, sex and hermaphroditism via photoshop in its ad. No surprise, just noting it struck me in this ad. You judge.

Further reading: Camile Paglia, Sexual Personae.

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The Accordion Player at Broadway-Lafayette

Nova — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 03:57:12 +0000

photo taken at...?

There is an accordion player whom I see on Sunday afternoons at the Broadway-Lafayette subway stop. She is young, has white skin with almost a talcum powder glow. Her hair is raven black. The music coming out of her accordion sounds so old… as though she channels an old Eastern European soul from its wooden frame by pressing its white keys.

When I descend the stairs into the underworld of the MTA and hear her accordion cry, I freeze. I am chilled by its misplaced melody, as though someone opened up a jewelry box somewhere and its notes are echoing through the labrynth of tunnels. I feel I am suddenly being haunted by a ghost. The accordion player smiles if you smile at her. I often wonder her story, and indeed took a card should I want to end the mystery. Her song makes you think you have time traveled back to the cobblestone streets of early 20th century Prague. Seeing her as the source of the music is just as unexpected as first hearing the notes; her modern image jolts you back into the present. I see her as an unlikely historian, a priestess of an old craft, keeping what’s dead in history alive in our memories.

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