I am turning 25, and life is good. Work is fine for now and keeps the heavy wheels of responsibility turning. School is new again and begins to push the brain and creative juices out of hibernation. Personal interactions are frequent and increase the motivation to rise from the wonderful comforts of individual sleep. I am tired.
Life in New York began for me just over four years ago. When asked how I like it, I say a lot. Almost anything and everything I could want is right here, and possibly, only here. Love the diversity. Love the restaurants. Love the art. Love the music. Love the parks. Love the intellectual tension. Love that I don’t need a car. Love independence. Love the list, which goes on. Now that I am here, I could not live anywhere else (while I’m in my twenties at least). No, these ideas are not original or absolute, but yes, they are real and sometimes pump through my veins as if they have been a part of my DNA since I touched down in the Big Apple. And… I am tired.
On first thought, the assignment that says take a city busy ride, and write a response, seems like it could be simple, painless, and even enjoyable. I have considered it an opportunity that would allow me to stretch my senses and learn something new from a relatively common experience. Writing the little piece afterwards would be the chore, since I have been much more accustomed to writing emails versus papers in recent years. Maybe this chore would turn out to be a nice exercise for the mind, and I am definitely one to absorb the benefits of a good workout. Surprise #1: I actually looked forward to this task.
On second thought, as I found my note to self, “2 weeks until paper due,” somehow the assignment I initially anticipated with ease became an ugly weekend job. I would just do it. I would take the route, write some notes, construct some pages, and call it done. My prediction said I would glide through the ride and struggle through the writing. Surprise #2: My optimistic spin of the “chore” (on first thought) was correct. In fact, the ride was the worst part, and the analysis to follow, though time consuming and indeed a struggle, was a treat. If the reader is wondering, I am still tired.
Flip back to Houston and La Guardia Place. I just arrived, and here comes the M5. I am fed. I have my pen and pad. That window seat is mine. How perfect. As the bus starts to ease forward, George Washington seems light years away. There are many empty seats though, and the interior is comfortable enough. I am alert. My consciousness is flexed. I suspect the reader considers this a surprise.
This neighborhood is familiar to me, because my hours of business have been confined to its boundaries for more than two years, doing administrative work at NYU. There is construction outside. Initially, it does not appear necessary or even active, and it triggers some negative responses (i.e. it is visually and physically intrusive and causes delays). However, the next day brings a change of perspective that allows me to tolerate the gated orange installments without much difficulty. Some of these structures support the few and falling trees that strive to survive on the streets, while others protect areas of restoration of the foundation itself. A step further, and I am reminded of The Gates in Central Park last year. How odd that I celebrated the conceptual and aesthetic appeal of The Gates so easily, ignoring the absence of their functional value, while I immediately criticize the city’s construction sites, which are obvious sites of utility. Surprise #3: I forget how grumpy I can be without explanation.
As we pass the first handful of blocks, I begin to feel the exterior bustle, the friction, and the noise building. The M5 had slipped up the bottom of 6th Avenue nearly undetected, receiving mainly passengers born in earlier decades, for whom I noted the walking cane to be a popular technology. Now, as we reach 14th Street, the bus’s shield seems to fall, allowing the masses to surge on board, suffocate the interior, and strain my sensory muscles beyond comfort. I am tempted to activate my “Ipod armor,” but I refrain for the sake of maximizing my observation capabilities.
I normally bond with my music device and hold it as an extension of my physical self when traveling by train or foot. Not only is it a tool that continues to reward me with control and company, but it also transforms my routine commuting experience into anything from a dance party, to a slow, jazzy evening, to an outdoor spoken word performance. Personalized sound has the power to enhance my individual mood amongst a mass of unknown individuals, many of whom never acknowledge this shared enhancement. Surprise #4: I opt to deprive myself of the Ipod’s comforts throughout the trip. This does not seem so odd at the time, because I see very few Ipods in use, and I begin to consider how very different the New York bus and New York subway are.
While the bus and the subway are both MTA vehicles that serve New York’s commuters, their bus culture is not much like train culture. The bus lives above ground, while most subways live below. The bus’s irregular schedule is expected but rarely documented, whereas the train’s irregular schedule is expected but oftentimes announced. Most likely, any given bus and any given train will have a body of “regular” customers, if you will, but these customers are looking for and find differing experiences. Bus riders accept traffic and card swiping beeps in exchange for avoiding climbing many stairs and absorbing plenty of natural light. Train riders sacrifice convenient proximity for the sake of gaining speed, entertainment possibilities, some degree of regularity, and a sort of privacy. Surprise #5: The train and its benefits are much more suited to my needs and personality than the bus, which I oftentimes defend as a practical service.
Within twenty-five minutes from the start, at 34th Street, my personal space is gone, so I attempt to focus on the space above and beyond the vehicle that carries me. The buildings are too tall and block the sky. I remember some new luxury rental developments some blocks back. The rush of people on the sidewalk is the same. While we are in motion, they are a blur. There is so much commerce, so many tourists, and so much clutter. I cannot believe how tacky and common certain storefronts are, especially considering there are people who are paid salaries to design window displays. The sounds of the bus’s engine are nauseating, but nothing really, compared to the odors to come when we reach the Lincoln Center area. Let us avoid that thought for now. I would prefer to close my eyes and sleep, if the motion of the ship in isolation would not make my body upset. It is no surprise that my weak stomach for motion sickness has begun to set in.
As the consumer shuffle leaves the M5’s vicinity, the economic class of pedestrians seems to rise, and the structures in sight seem to morph into big banks. The left turn at the park has caused a halt, and our brother buses come together as we all try to squeeze through the westward shift. Darkness has overcome the day, and the lights of Central Park to the right are pretty. We are crawling over to Broadway, and misery finds me. A passenger drenched in cologne invades the interior, followed by a mischievous culprit who decides to use the MTA as a urinal. The decision to exit crosses my mind, but several factors dissuade me. How long will these odors last? How difficult will it be to push my way off this bus? How likely am I to find a seat on another, fresher M5? I choose to sit and try to refocus my attention and wish I could label this scenario surprise #6.
I transport my brain to another time. It is the summer of 2004 and my third summer living in New York. The neighborhood is familiar to me, again due to the physical borders of my employment. I am a stock boy at Pottery Barn on the Upper West Side, but I live in Brooklyn next to the Museum on Eastern Parkway. I have room to stretch out. I have an undergraduate degree. I have enough money to pay my rent, barely. Surprise #6: Two years from now I will be interviewing for my second salary position and gearing up to begin my first year of grad-school. I should be happy.
Back to the bus and a change of scenery. This flashback was quite necessary for my stomach. While the odors linger, the interior crowd dissipates, and we seem to have left the city. There is a highway, and families of trees are popping up from the shadows. We zoom ahead. I cannot read the identity of this mystical looking building, surrounded by quasi-woods and soft lights to the left. A mountain of stairs springs through the foliage to the right, and with its romantically lit beauty, gives me a smile inside. Surprise #7: I have never noticed these places before. I think we must be in the 90’s or early 100’s. How do these cane-using folks keep up with the cost of living in these residential castles, and could I join them, I wonder.
In the distance, the lights of George Washington appear, and my extreme sense of delight becomes surprise #8. I feel like we have come to the edge of the island for some fresh air; if we are to finish this journey, it is crucial. Look — we could be the lucky winner of 75 Mega Million Dollars. How exciting! We promptly turn right, and I find myself in yet another familiar neighborhood and the final leg of the trip. As we sit at 135th Street, the corner stores and fast food chains remind me of streets near my own apartment. The announcement of express service to 157th Street brings joy to my heart and we coast upward toward Washington (Dominican) Heights. Surprise #9: I know I am in New York, but a hopeful dream of sunny skies and warm sand fills my eyes. I am somewhat insane. My senses are down. We have stopped. It is a chilly night, but I am on solid ground. I drink a sigh of relief. Though I am still a trek from home, I have made it through the motion.
“Simplicity” can be tiring. I am tired, but I am living… Maybe I am actually dreaming, or maybe I am just living in the city of dreams, as they say. Whatever the case may be, life is good, and I offer a high-five to M5 as I embark on age 25 and look toward my next five. Surprise #10: My weird sense of humor will never ever die, and my growing sense of metaphor usage could use some stabilizers.