I.
Above the ground on the island of Manhattan, I twist and turn with no direction. Google maps won’t load as I spin in circles on the streets of the city. People whizz past me as I try and get my bearings. It’s the lower east side and the streets crisscross diagonally, and I’ve lost the concept of north and south. I shift uncomfortably under the magnificent buildings as it begins to rain. New Yorkers take out their umbrellas as I stomp through the wet sidewalks, meandering into the foggy void.
II.
The smell of faded gasoline, urine, potent cologne, and weed wafts through the tunnels. It’s dark and gritty grays cover the walls over the tracks. It was once clean and white. Now the tiles tell the story of the people who have passed through: scratched letters “JS LOVES TE”, layers of advertisements and graffiti litter the walls, and what I'm hoping is ketchup smeared across the ornate mosaic of '23RD STREET'. It’s frigid on the surface but now I’m sweaty beneath in the dampness of the subway, bundled up in my sweater and scarf. The rumble of the trains screeches above and below, traversing in opposite directions as the express trains fly through. A gust of wind pushes up from across the tracks and it feels good on my sticky cheeks. Faces of bored commuters stand along the tracks, their banal expressions illuminated by the glow of their phones while a bucket drum beats somewhere in the distance. I breathe a sigh of relief.
III.
“You should go to Central Park. Have you been to Central Park?” This guy is talking to me like I’m a lost puppy in the big city. I tired explaining that I’ve lived in New York before, but he must not have heard me since this restaurant inexplicably has a DJ. There’s chatter coming from the tight tables with loud drinkers playing Jenga and Connect Four. I can’t help but think all these people are from the mid-west, here to find their purpose in the capital of the universe. “If you’re staying in Brooklyn, you should go to this pizza place. If you get there early enough you only have to wait 2 or 3 hours.” Did he suggest that I wait 2 hours for pizza in the city where there’s a pizza place on every corner? The group that I’ve found myself a part of is very nice, they laugh away talking about their day in the finance world. I understand the words they’re saying, but it’s not a language that I can figure out. Alienated, I sip more beer and ask for another. “Wow, you drink a lot” he says. Another concept in which we’re both lost in translation.
IV.
Tourists scratching their heads, looking down at maps and up to the signs. Little circles of orange, blue, green, red hang over the faded yellow platforms. It looks like a foreign language to some. D To Coney Island via 4 Av Express Skips DeKalb Av. A 8th Av Express Far Rockaway. PM Rush hrs Late nights A on local track. Q to 96 St/2 Av Late Nights Broadway Local. It’s terminology some will never understand, but it seems to be my language, speaking and reading fluently in the place where it all makes sense to me. I feel more comfort in the dark tunnels of the subway than I do on the surface. There, I feel like an outsider. Here, I feel at home.
V.
8am. It’s cold and raining. I try to look up at the towering structures from beneath my hood. Rain sprinkles onto my eyelashes and down my cheeks. Billowing steam from below the streets masks the architecture of lower Manhattan. The thing about New York is that I want to be in it all the time. I don’t necessarily want to live here. I just want to be here, soaking in the city, surrounded by ancient buildings. The history those walls have seen, the people who have walked these streets before, sights and sounds continually changing. I walk fast, but I have no destination. I want to see it all, but in a city that’s 300 square miles I feel defeated in the undertaking. I can’t decide if I’m a tourist or a true New Yorker at heart.
VI.
The floor is wet and squeaks as sneakers glide across the surface. We’re tussled back and forth, speeding through the shadows of the underground. Soft rhythms below us as the wheels glide over the rails. Buh-dud buh-chit, buh-dud buh-chit. I close my eyes within the darkness and open them to a new light. The train pushes forward over the East River. We pass the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty. The World Trade Center sparkles in the background. They seem so different from the train than they do in person. Not a tourist site crammed full of people with selfie sticks at the ready. They’re merely a part of the landscape, like a mountain that formed hundreds of years ago, etched into the city’s enduring portrait.
A little girl in a puffy pink coat wrestles away from her mother’s arms and runs to the window. She presses her nose up to the glass. A small circle of her breath appears while both of her hands pressed firmly on the door. Her eyes dart back and forth, staring out like Santa Claus himself is riding along right outside. Sleepy passengers open their eyes and begin to peer out the windows as graffitied buildings sneak out from the fog. No fewer than 8 million people rushing on the streets outside, but the busy sounds of the city are unheard from our silent train. All we can do is marvel at it from a distance. For a few minutes we’re all awake and in awe of this place, New York. Our heads slowly nod to the beat of the tracks below. As we begin to descend back into the dark, the little girl in the puffy pink coat doodles on the condensation left on the window. The last of the light disappears. Our heads are now slumped back down, eyes closed again as we reach Brooklyn.
VII.
In the depths of the city’s subway, you don’t have to be the person you think you are. The people on the train don’t care if you’re in disrepair in your life because they are too. They don’t care that you’re lost. It’s here that you can disappear and be found again. You can close your eyes and pretend to sleep so you don’t have to interact with anyone. You can unabashedly eat McDonald’s cheeseburgers and read steamy romance novels in public. You can pretend you’re annoyed with the break dancers that get on at 34th, but secretly you love it. You can stare out the window into the dark tunnels as you speed from station to station, pretending that you live here, the most magnificent city in the world, even though you think you don’t belong. With each passing ride, with each closing of the doors, you never have to be the same person. You get to write your life over and over until you are who you want to be.
In New York, you get to be whoever you want to be.