Standing on the subway platform J at Sutphin Boulevard Station, just below Jamaica Station. Smelling of piss. I feel happy in a way I haven't felt for ages.
Why? Just to be somewhere new? The small triumphs of figuring out which train to get, a MetroCard given by a departing visitor, the sun shining over a new city, the whole world gathering.
It's been a smooth journey, luxurious it feels. No hassles, no problems, barely any turbulence. Wine and beer on the flight, and a pleasant neighbour, whose son happened to be in the year above my husband at Pretoria Boys High. Of all things.
The metro carriage smells of piss too. I'm vaguely aware I'm the only tourist-looking person – the only person with a suitcase, the only white person, one of just a few women. There's no kids. I'm typing this on my phone, trying to look chill. I feel pretty chill. I don't mind travelling alone. The only thing stressing me was getting ready for the training tomorrow. I managed quite a bit of it on the flight, two or three hours and resisted the temptation to watch more than one of the very good films on offer. I went for the Big Short and didn't regret it. I loved the humour with which it was made. Showing an issue so serious yet so ridiculous you almost want to laugh. Except it's true. And millions of people lost their homes and jobs because of the lies and greed of bankers. Argh.
The Airtrain went past a load of houses, I need to check the area. The sun is shining but all the parks are empty. I saw no people. The houses looked sad, like once upon a time someone made an effort to make them look pretty but then stopped caring. Where is everyone? It's a sunny Sunday afternoon. The trees are still living in winter and casting skeletal shadows. Are these the people who's lives were ruined by the banks?
An aside: New York has so much water. That's what struck me from the plane. It's not what I think about when I think of New York. Who lives on those long long stretches of Atlantic beaches North of here? Who lives on the scattered islands and beside the frozen lakes?
The lady in the lift down to the metro announced loudly that New York is amazing. And that we should all pray to God, because you never know what's going to happen.
I have no idea where I am on this train, there's no maps on it. All I know from the screenshot I took of my route is that I get off at Marcy Av and it'll take 37 minutes (22 stops). That's a stop less than every two minutes. More faded glory on the rooves of the houses we pass. Cypress Hills. The b-girl of the past in me awakens.
All dreamy and smug I alight at Marcy Avenue, surprised at the rickety metal stairs that take me down to the street, where the first thing I see is blatant illegal exchanges in front of a bag stall. According to my phone it's just around the corner. I find the street: S 5th and see number 280. Then 285... It must be the other way. I'm looking for 241. It must be the other way. Except the other way is a park, a bus station and a bridge. I circumnavigate them, trying not to J-walk, whatever that means.
I'm the only person around here pulling along a suitcase. I rejoin the street, I think, I'm not too sure. I walk back and forth, trying to find numbers on the big blocks of apartments. They seem to be in their 800s. And then 100s. I'm so confused. I text and call my Air BnB host several times but there's no answer. I ask a man with a cigarette, a man with two dogs. Both are friendly and try to help but aren't too sure either. I linger outside the building I think it is until a women enters with her son. I follow, looking suspicious. And search the corridors for a likely looking door but to no avail.
That's the moment I stood on the corner as darkness gathered and the cold rose and my fingers went numb and I started to pray really hard. The woman in the 'elevator' was right – you never know what will happen. It was coming up to 8pm, too late to worry hubby in England with my lostness.
But, let's say Thank God for EE (for once!) for making it easy enough to connect to the internet. And for WhatsApp for enabling me to finally make contact with my host. Let's just say somehow 421 became 241 in my head even though I had it written down correctly, so I'd headed in the wrong direction from the start. And that lots of buildings have no numbers on them. And that my host had lost his phone so I couldn't get through to him. But finally got word reminding me that it was 421 and that I needed to walk (a not insignificant distance) back west. So I trekked back and I found it easily and Joey my host is nice. And so glad I didn't take that later flight. And bed bed bed. Ready for my NYC week to begin.
Why? Just to be somewhere new? The small triumphs of figuring out which train to get, a MetroCard given by a departing visitor, the sun shining over a new city, the whole world gathering.
It's been a smooth journey, luxurious it feels. No hassles, no problems, barely any turbulence. Wine and beer on the flight, and a pleasant neighbour, whose son happened to be in the year above my husband at Pretoria Boys High. Of all things.
The metro carriage smells of piss too. I'm vaguely aware I'm the only tourist-looking person – the only person with a suitcase, the only white person, one of just a few women. There's no kids. I'm typing this on my phone, trying to look chill. I feel pretty chill. I don't mind travelling alone. The only thing stressing me was getting ready for the training tomorrow. I managed quite a bit of it on the flight, two or three hours and resisted the temptation to watch more than one of the very good films on offer. I went for the Big Short and didn't regret it. I loved the humour with which it was made. Showing an issue so serious yet so ridiculous you almost want to laugh. Except it's true. And millions of people lost their homes and jobs because of the lies and greed of bankers. Argh.
The Airtrain went past a load of houses, I need to check the area. The sun is shining but all the parks are empty. I saw no people. The houses looked sad, like once upon a time someone made an effort to make them look pretty but then stopped caring. Where is everyone? It's a sunny Sunday afternoon. The trees are still living in winter and casting skeletal shadows. Are these the people who's lives were ruined by the banks?
An aside: New York has so much water. That's what struck me from the plane. It's not what I think about when I think of New York. Who lives on those long long stretches of Atlantic beaches North of here? Who lives on the scattered islands and beside the frozen lakes?
The lady in the lift down to the metro announced loudly that New York is amazing. And that we should all pray to God, because you never know what's going to happen.
I have no idea where I am on this train, there's no maps on it. All I know from the screenshot I took of my route is that I get off at Marcy Av and it'll take 37 minutes (22 stops). That's a stop less than every two minutes. More faded glory on the rooves of the houses we pass. Cypress Hills. The b-girl of the past in me awakens.
All dreamy and smug I alight at Marcy Avenue, surprised at the rickety metal stairs that take me down to the street, where the first thing I see is blatant illegal exchanges in front of a bag stall. According to my phone it's just around the corner. I find the street: S 5th and see number 280. Then 285... It must be the other way. I'm looking for 241. It must be the other way. Except the other way is a park, a bus station and a bridge. I circumnavigate them, trying not to J-walk, whatever that means.
I'm the only person around here pulling along a suitcase. I rejoin the street, I think, I'm not too sure. I walk back and forth, trying to find numbers on the big blocks of apartments. They seem to be in their 800s. And then 100s. I'm so confused. I text and call my Air BnB host several times but there's no answer. I ask a man with a cigarette, a man with two dogs. Both are friendly and try to help but aren't too sure either. I linger outside the building I think it is until a women enters with her son. I follow, looking suspicious. And search the corridors for a likely looking door but to no avail.That's the moment I stood on the corner as darkness gathered and the cold rose and my fingers went numb and I started to pray really hard. The woman in the 'elevator' was right – you never know what will happen. It was coming up to 8pm, too late to worry hubby in England with my lostness.
But, let's say Thank God for EE (for once!) for making it easy enough to connect to the internet. And for WhatsApp for enabling me to finally make contact with my host. Let's just say somehow 421 became 241 in my head even though I had it written down correctly, so I'd headed in the wrong direction from the start. And that lots of buildings have no numbers on them. And that my host had lost his phone so I couldn't get through to him. But finally got word reminding me that it was 421 and that I needed to walk (a not insignificant distance) back west. So I trekked back and I found it easily and Joey my host is nice. And so glad I didn't take that later flight. And bed bed bed. Ready for my NYC week to begin.
No comments:
Post a Comment