New York Transit

For my part, I usually travel with my headphones on, as I had done earlier in the morning. Even though the world that we create for ourselves listening to headphones is not nearly as interesting as the world we isolate ourselves from by constantly listening to music, somehow I always seem to find something inspiring to set the mood en route to wherever I'm going. Earlier in the day it was Broken Social Scene on the Long Island Rail Road and later on MC Solaar on the G line while I danced and lip-sang in my seat. Looking at the people filtering in and out though, I counted, a dad playing with his son, a random assortment of hipsters, one of whom was seven feet tall, the other of whom had on a pair of interesting but awkward pilgrim shoes, some guys in dark hoods and a chinese man asking for directions. After awhile I turned off my headphones to eavesdrop.

Everybody had a purpose in that subway scene.

In the afternoon, I again took the subway from Brooklyn to Woodside to hop on the Long Island Rail Road and get hopefully get home for dinner at my grandparents place without putting on headphones. On the elevated 7 train heading to Woodside there were a lot of people speaking Spanish and a father who walked on with his young child who was asking the whole time if the train was express. The father said that the boy always wanted an express ride; I said that at least the subway was an inexpensive form of entertainment. Everyone smiled.

Now, Woodside is subway stop and a local stop on the Long Island Rail Road heading to and from Manhattan. As such, all the trains that go to all points east on Long Island have to pass through the terminal. This can get especially confusing if you know what train you HAVE TO take and know that it won't technically be coming for awhile, knowing full well that there are indeed others that you could take.

I met Debbie on the Long Island Rail Road platform when I had my headphones off.

She was an older woman, modestly dressed, with a gentle disposition. She was coming back from the US Open, which consequently was rained out that day, and was traveling by herself.

We met as I was frantically checking and re-checking the train schedule posted on the wall. The train schedule to Babylon often has and in that case had a green label. Debbie walked by and asked me for directions. Her schedule was red, it was a special schedule for the US Open but would've eventually landed her in Port Washington instead of Babylon like me. She seemed a bit lost and courteously asked if she could follow me as we navigated through the complexities of the public transport system in the New York Metropolitan area. I agreed.

So, being that we would somehow eventually hop on a train headed to Ronkonkoma at 6:28, changed at Jamaica and wouldn't be arriving until 7:58 in Babylon, we became travel buddies.

She lives in a small cottage in Sayville, owned in part by her neice and nephew in law. She helps raising their kids and seems to be open to new adventures. Instead of going to Florida on vacation, her family ended up going to New York City for four days, to hopefully do some proper exploring of Manhattan. Debbie though, said that she would like to eventually do a yoga retreat in Costa Rica. She was by far more interested in new adventures than laying on the beach with a cocktail. Nature and the outdoors seemed important to her. She was happy to move back home to Long Island from Rochester to be close to her family and to the ocean.

So, we talked. A lot. We talked about the city, the horrible weather for the US Open, planning on Long Island and the need for more walking space, how horribly inconsiderate Long Island drivers can be, the solidarity that comes from living in colder climes, how ridiculously expensive it can be to try to move to Long Island, downtown Rochester, Montreal winter fashion, accepting lateness, cycling in the suburbs and her family.

The time passed much quicker than it would have, had I been myself on that horrendously local train home that even stopped in Saint Albans. For her, having someone else that was heading in the same direction must've been promising and reassuring. In the end, our paths parted. She was heading east to Patchogue and her double decker train was waiting across the platform as we were getting off our train at Babylon. We both said goodbye, good luck and thanked each other warmly and courteously for the pleasant conversation.

What happened next I couldn't explain. I thought I had extended my hand to shake hers, but somehow must've opened up a bit more. She, instead of shaking my hand, gave me a hug. Whether or not that was by some subconscious gravitation or by her initiative, I couldn't really tell. A hug from a stranger though is a fairly powerful gesture and there's really no other word to describe what happened but nice.

In the end we shared no more than the confusion of a journey home, a few words and a unexpected act of warm kindness, all courtesy of the Metropolitan Transit Authority and of random circumstance in a city full of a fascinating people. What more is there to say than just that.