back on track

One year, one month and one day. 397 days. That's how long I went between subway rides.

On March 4, 2020, I took the subway to work and then took it home again. I didn't realize how long it would be before I went underground again. The pandemic was underway, and we had some concerns. At the office the WeWork staff were constantly wiping down surfaces, and the communal snack dispensers were empty. Blair was expressing fear regarding my daily commute, and suggesting I avoid touching the stanchions on the trains, and maybe adjust my schedule so that I'd be commuting in less-crowded trains. But as I headed home that night, I was still fully expecting to be coming back in the morning.

But the company contacted us that night -- one of our coworkers had been exposed to someone who had caught COVID, so we were to work from home on the fifth. At that point, we were still expecting this be a short interruption. I don't remember the exact sequence of decisions and communications. Suffice to say that originally we were expecting to be back in the office in less than a week. More than a year later I don't believe there's any clear timetable. I'm still working from home five days a week. and have not been back to the office.*

We have made trips into Manhattan since then -- mostly for dental appointments. In normal times, we would take the subway into Manhattan. But since the pandemic hit we've driven in. Aside from the risk of getting COVID, we've heard that it had become harder to avoid unstable and/or dangerous people on the subway. So, if Blair has an appointment, I'd drive her in, and sit in the car by a hydrant while she goes to the office. And she does the same for me.

And, as time marched on, we got used to this new way of doing things. On March 4, I sadly noted the anniversary of my last subway ride, without a change in sight.

To most people, this wouldn't be a big deal or a bad thing. But when I was a kid, there was a stretch where I took the subway to school every day. And I became enamored of it. I studied the maps, the history of the system, anything. In high school, I had to take the train to and from school, and my interest in the system intensified. I was in the school's subway club. I set aside one afternoon a week to ride a line that I hadn't before. There was a stretch of time that I had my bedroom set up like a museum, with all my subway memorabilia on display. Well, most of my memorabilia, anyway -- the huge "125th Street" sign that had once hung from the ceiling of the 125th Street (and Eighth Avenue) station was too big and heavy for my room, and so was hanging on a fence in the backyard. My parents refused my request that they let me buy a vintage R-1 car and store it in the backyard.

I was a bout a year old when my family moved to New York. Except for the aforementioned year or two where I rode the subway to elementary school,  I wasn't a regular on the trains until high school. So I'm sure this wasn't the first time I went a year without riding the trains, but you'd have to go back at least as far as the 1970s to find such a stretch.

Today marked my return.

I had a dental checkup. Blair offered to drive me in as usual, but she would have had to change her physical therapy schedule. So, appreciating her willingness to drive in with me, I decided to go back to the train. I should note two facts that played a big role in the decision: 1) I got my first COVID vaccine last week, and my understanding is that leaves me much less vulnerable to the virus than when I was unvaccinated; and 2) My understanding from people who are riding the subway again is that it's tamed down quite a bit.

My return to the underground was familiar yet strange. It was also much more of an emotional event than I would have expected. The ride seemed much quieter than I remember. Perhaps people were deferring to the multitude of signs advising people not to talk. It seemed that there was much less crowding as the doors opened and closed. And people were much more very aware of distance, as they chose whether to sit -- they left empty spaces between each other.

Grand Central seemed eerie in its quiet. It wasn't empty or deserted, but the energy was all off. And most of the vendors were absent. I couldn't simply stop and gab a black and white cookie, despite this being Frank Gorshin's birthday.

And let's not forget Mitu Busuioc. Busuioc is a fixture of the passage between the F and 7 trains at 42nd Street. An accordianist, he's part of the Transit Authority's "Music Under New York" program, which I guess means he's an officially sanctioned busker. I've walked by him numerous times over the years, and as far as I can recall, he was always playing fast happy tunes. Today he was playing a dirge.

But what struck me the most was how much of my subway memory was gone. If I'm going to transfer from the F to the 7 at 42nd Street, which end of the F do I want to be on? If I'm taking the 7 train Eastbound, what end do I want to be on to get out into Grand Central Terminal. These and similar questions were second nature to me a year ago. But today I had to stop and think. And I got some of them wrong.

I don't like being so out of touch with a system that is such a part of me.

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*As a side note, I won't be returning to the same office. The WeWork space was intended to be temporary, as they refurbished our "real" office.