Subway Fail

I never mastered the art of reading a newspaper on the train. I’ve mastered the fold — I can get the thing down to a sliver — but it’s the opening, the folding of the front page to access page two, that stumps me.

Today, as I tried to make that first fold, my arms got carried away, as if they were commanded by a different brain. I nearly punched the man seated next to me in the face. He flinched, withdrawing from my newsweapon.

“Sorry!” I squawked. He smiled; all was well.

But I was embarrassed. Real New Yorkers can read the newspaper on the subway. As I got off, I apologized again.

“No worries,” he said. “It was funny.”

“I have depth perception problems,” I said.

Depth perception problems?

Bottom line: I need to practice the first-page fold. Maybe even in front of a mirror. (And never say “depth perception problems” again.)

The Case of the Gym Cookie

I’d just bonded with the elliptical for 40 minutes and was walking out of the gym when a man in a hat embroidered with “Caffe Noi” stopped me. He was guarding a table heaped with free food. In the middle was a giant plate of cookies.

Cookies? At the New York Sports Club? At 8:30 on a Wednesday morning?

“Why are you serving cookies at the gym? In the morning?” I asked. I meant to inquire with polite curiosity — I really was baffled — but it came out as an accusation.

“You’re going to eat something anyway, aren’t you?” he retorted.

Well, yes, I was going to eat something: cereal, not a pile of chocolate rugaluch. Why the obsession with early-morning sugar highs?

Luckily, our cookie-table friend understood my will was not ill and gave me a present: a free coffee coupon. Plug for Caffe Noi!

Brucepack

A couple of Trader Joe’s trips ago, I spied a man with a backpack. That’s cool; I, too, carry my groceries in a backback. (I also try to wear boots and sweatpants so I can feel outdoorsy and hardcore.)

But his was no normal backpack: it was a Brucepack. That is, the word “Bruce” — presumably his name — was etched onto his bag.

Parents are warned not to give their children accessories that announce their identities, which would make them good prey for strangers. But shouldn’t the same go for adults? In fact, I bet adults would be especially susceptible to a kidnapping, because they’d never expect it! Even the word “kidnapping” assumes you’re a baby-faced Oshkosh-wearer.

Stranger: Hey, Bruce!

Bruce: Oh…uh, hey?

Stranger: What’s doing, my man? Great to see you and the wife at that cocktail party last month!

Bruce: Uh, yeah! The cocktail party! Great to see you too.

Stranger: Hey, you know, I’m heading home — want a lift with that huge bag of groceries? Sure must suck to take the bus with that thing. Give us some time to catch up, too…

Didn’t happen. But it could’ve.

Bus Blooper

At 3:00a.m. on Friday night (technically, Saturday morning), I hopped on the uptown M15 to head home from a party — my friend’s roommate’s boyfriend’s party. (Whew.) My roommate, on hearing what I’d done, chastised me. “The bus? At three in the morning? You’re insane.”

But I wasn’t: there were a few friendly folks aboard my trusty vessel. One guy yelled to his friend as he boarded, in a thick New York accent: “Call me at home!” (“Cawl me at home!”)

The bus’s microphone picked up his voice. “CAWL ME AT HOME!” The guy looked out at the four of us passengers, smiling. “I guess everyone heard that.” And, as he sat behind me, “I’m on here til 83rd Street!”

So, my two points: (1) the bus is safer than you think, and (2) even on public transportation, you can make a new friend. You just might have to embarrass yourself first.

Stop Requested

If you’ve never ridden a New York City bus, let me induct you into our elite circle with some info about protocol. Unlike our underground friend, the subway, the bus does not pull over at every stop along its route. No siree! If there are people at the bus stop, yeah, it’ll let them on. But if no one is waiting, something special has to happen.

Are you on the edge of your seat? I present you with the magic formula: to ensure that the bus will let you off, you’ve got to press the tape.

Huh? What’s the tape? Oh, silly you. Along the walls of the bus, at two-seat intervals, are sensor-filled strips, colored yellow or black. When you push on these pieces of “tape,” the bus driver is alerted that you’d like to get off at the next stop. That way, if no one’s waiting and no one needs to get off, the bus can sail right by the stop without wasting time.

It’s a brilliant system. As I mused about it today on the M79, something odd struck me: people usually don’t wait until the last minute to press the tape, hoping that someone will do it before them. With regularity, passengers request each stop way before the bus has reached it.

Why did this surprise me? For one, I’m not one of the responsible passengers: I often do wait for someone else to push the tape. And, whenever I wait, someone else takes action.

“You Must Have Been Hungry!”

My friend from pre-school (oldest friendship!) and I went to dinner at the Bar at Etats-Unis on Saturday. (Side note: delightful, but pricey. I loved my duck salad.) The bartender took a liking to us and gave us a complimentary molten chocolate cake and dessert wine at the end of the meal.

Free chocolate cake? This couldn’t be real. We looked at the cake; we looked at each other. Cake; each other. Cake. We dug in.

This cake oozed molten chocolate. I wanted to jump inside and take a swim. We finished it, scraping the plate.

The bartender came to clear our dishes and gaped at us, the gluttonous mutants, shaking his head. “Remind me not to go up against you,” he said, in mock horror.

I get comments like this at least a third of the times that I go out to eat. (My favorite, at a restaurant in DC last month: “You did such a GOOD job!” It was a sandwich.) My friend is one of the skinnier people I know, and I’m a small girl. Are waiters just baffled that a little person can actually consume food? Or is it that, in looks-conscious cities like New York and DC, it’s unusual to find any female finishing her dish?

Excuse Me, You’re in My Picture

A friend and I stood outside the Cloisters, admiring the sparkly Hudson from our castle. Next to us stood a camera-wielding group of three, also peering over the wall.

Except they were staring at us, not the river. We half-smiled; turned back to the Hudson. They continued to stare. My friend wondered if they wanted us to take their picture.

We continued to look sidelong at each other for some minutes before they told us that we were in the way of their picture. Oh. We walked out of the way.

And, on discovering that the short path led to a dead end, we were forced to relive the awkwardness on our way back.

On a side note, though, if you haven’t been to the Cloisters, go. It’s an offshoot of the Met way up on the West side. The Medieval European art is good, but what’s memorable is the view — an expansive one, since the museum is on a big hill. Memorable, that is, if you can get a picture without two goofs idling in the background.

Only on the UES

On the Blackberry of the woman sitting next to me on the M86 crosstown bus:

“Oh, I know — I’d (almost) rather do my own taxes than watch that.”

The Difference Between Dogs and People

You can pet a stranger’s dog. You can’t pet a stranger’s child.

Man in front of me on the bus, who said “Hey, Buddy!” to two frightened children while giving them noogies, I hope you’re reading this.

Spying at the Gym

On the gym mat at my New York Sports Club, I often end up next to the same guy. He exercises maniacally — I’d estimate three push-ups per second — and wears a black unitard.

In fact, it’s not a coincidence. As he works out, he mutters to himself, and I’m determined to hear what he says. Today, I strained my ears throughout my sit-up routine.

For the first time in months of auditory research, I deciphered part of his monologue:

“Wedgie!”

The Boogie Pole

You’ve touched a boogie pole.

Last night, my roommate told me a horror story. As she waited for the subway, she saw a guy pick a huge booger out of his nose and wipe it on his pants. She prayed silently that she could squeeze into a part of the car far away from the boogie monster.

Of course, she was shoved right next to him. The only pole within reach was the one he grasped. She determined she’d go hands-free.

He moved his hand and gestured to her, offering her a place on the pole.

Where there’s one metal rod covered in snot, there are thousands. Use this stuff.

Awkward Communications

Saturday night, I went to a great bar (King’s Head Tavern, near Union Square — it has shelves full of books and a working fireplace!). It was a birthday party where I knew a small percentage of people, so I was in intro mode.

“Hi, have we met before?” I extended my hand toward a woman who’d just joined my circle.

My friends gaped at me. “That’s the waitress,” one whispered.

The rest of the night, everyone mocked me: “Jess introduced herself to the waitress!” they chortled. But really, what’s so weird about that?

Admittedly, I didn’t realize she was the waitress. But still, doesn’t this say something about social boundaries? If the same woman had attended the party, no one would have commented on my introduction. But because she was serving us, the conversation had to account for some distance between us. It’s a muted, modern-day version of a caste system — only the castes are often more fluid, based on the roles we’re playing in the moment.

Going Stroller-Walking

On a run in Central Park yesterday afternoon, I spied a woman pushing a stroller. I slowed down to get a good look at her cherubic child.

But there was no child. She was pushing a stroller full of mittens.

Was she practicing for an impending birth? Using the stroller as a walker? Doing a social experiment?

Or did she actually think the mittens were a baby?

Post your ideas in comments.

Giving Up Your Seat

On the subway, the woman sitting next to me was kinder than I. A lady with wispy, light blonde hair and a lined face came on board and stood in front of us.

“Do you want to sit down?” my seatmate asked, as I spread my newspaper over my lap.

The standing lady laughed. “That’s okay — I’m not as old as I look!”

There isn’t a better place to observe American social norms than subway-seat offerings. A girl offering a guy a seat is akin to slapping him in the face. A guy can offer a girl his age a seat, but a girl offering another girl her age a seat would get funny looks.

The real judgment call comes with the almost-elderly. Is it an insult to offer someone on the cusp a seat? — Is it like asking a round woman when the baby is due? Or should the seat-offering be a default question for anyone in the vicinity of old?

The Long Line

Yesterday, a friend and I spotted a long line of people, starting at 34th Street and stretching up Seventh Avenue.

“It’s a Miley Cyrus concert,” my friend quipped.

We approached the line to investigate. The people in line were middle-aged. “Not Miley Cyrus,” I said. “Too old.”

“Harry Connick, Jr.?”

We followed the line up Seventh and around the corner. It extended halfway down 35th Street toward Eighth and ended at a sign. My friend spotted it first:

Class Action Claims
Macy’s

Welcome Back

I just returned to New York from a five-day trip to D.C., where I was one of the two million crazies who stood in the cold to watch President Barack H. Obama take the oath of office (it was so freezing, and so worth it). I took the bus home, and I’d only walked an avenue when a man stopped me.

“Excuse me, Miss?” he asked, with a faint accent I couldn’t place.

Directions! Of course I could help — back, as I was, in my home city. I stopped and paused.

“Have you ever heard of the Mother of God in the Bible?”

New York. Oh, New York. I guess this was my official “welcome back.”

The Big Apple Circus

Yesterday, my dad took my brother, 20, and me, 23, to the Big Apple Circus. It was his birthday present to himself.

On a Sunday afternoon, the place was teeming with children. I’d seen August: Osage County the weekend before and the culture difference was stark. It wasn’t just the kids’ presence (they gasped and oohed at every circus trick), but also the adults’ behavior. Having children all around made it okay to use normal speaking voices, and to stand up, in the middle of the performances.

I wondered if this bothered the circus performers, especially the musicians. The horse trainer, I imagined, had looked forward to running the horses around the rink since she started training. But was this the trumpeter’s end goal, or did he aim to join a Broadway show’s pit orchestra? I spent the entire first act thinking about how I wanted to ask the band members how they got involved in the Big Apple.

The Brownie of Doom

At 8:16 this morning, a girl, about 10 years old, munched a six-inch-by-six-inch brownie on her way to school with her mother.

There are so many problems with this scenario. It is not normal to eat 17 grams of fat (and that’s for a 100-gram brownie, smaller than this girl’s) for breakfast. How about some tasty cereal or yogurt — foods that are less likely to give kids spare tires? Childhood obesity isn’t just a buzzword — it’s threatening to plague the one in three American children who are overweight with diabetes, joint problems, gallstones, and worse.

Plus, I pity the teacher who inherited that sugar-high girl from her mother.

Free(ish) Fun!

What costs one MetroCard swipe and flies over the East River?

Presenting: the Roosevelt Island Tram! This is my new favorite transport mechanism. It’s a gondola that takes you from Midtown East (60th and 2nd), over the river, to Roosevelt Island. It soars alongside the Queensboro Bridge like a fun little airplane. Once you’re on Roosevelt Island, you can take the Tramway, a tiny bus, all around the island — for only 25 cents! I felt like I was in the olden days.

Coffee: The New Alcohol

I wasn’t into coffee when I moved to New York. I was the anti-addict.

Now, I’m the addict. And I don’t know one person in New York who isn’t.

Drinking alcohol has long been a bragging right for New Yorkers, as for college students. It’s cool to drink, and it’s cool to drink expensively.

Recently, coffee has gained that type of status. It was always an obsession for the sleep-deprived, but now it’s a thing to do. It’s social (though meeting for coffee is often, as a friend pointed out, a way to avoid an awkward dinner). It’s an art form: not just caffeine, but something that should be done right. It’s art. And, like alcohol, if you don’t drink it, people bug you. (“You don’t drink coffee? I mean — why?”)

Central Park Clarinetists

I know two data points don’t count as a pattern. But on a run through Central Park this morning, I saw two dads walking with young children carrying clarinets. I needed to know where they were going.

The most reasonable assumption is that there’s some elementary school near Central Park, and these kids are in the band. But I really hope it’s something crazy! As I ran, I made up possibilities:

• The children are members of the premier Youth Orchestra of New York City (if that’s a real thing, I just took a very good guess).
• There are millions of little children who flock to a cave beneath Central Park the Monday after Thanksgiving every year to play clarinet tunes.
• The clarinets are actually tiny suitcases. The children are being shipped off to be space combatants, Ender’s Game-style.

Any actual, i.e. non-fiction, leads? Comment.

Subway Kids

Last night, two women boarded the uptown 1 with twin boys, aged seven. (I’m bad at guessing age, so i call any kid between five and 11 a seven-year-old.) These were raucous children. They wanted “window seats,” which apparently means the seats underneath the subway windows, which have no view 90 percent of the time. They also repeatedly threatened to bite their mother’s hands. She laughed.

The second woman, aware of other passengers’ scorn, tried to joke. “Anyone want two boys?” she asked the rest of the car. “Twins, very quiet.” No response.

Trader Joe’s Gripe

The Union Square Trader Joe’s staff members are helpful and cheerful. The customers are often less than pleasant.

Some background: I love Trader Joe’s. I’m a walking ad — I talk up Trader Joe’s about as much as I blab about my current top-five ranking of ice cream flavors (a lot). I brave the lines, the chaos, and the mean shoppers for the staff, the prices, and the high-quality food. But I have to tell you a story.

Bus Driver Buddies

Yesterday morning, at the intersection of York and 68th, our M31 bus driver laughed and waved.

I looked out the window to see who he was waving to. It was another MTA driver making a right onto York, in front of our bus.

Did they see each other at this intersection every morning? I wondered if they looked forward to the daily meet-and-greet.

But wait — did they know each other outside of these waving sessions? Maybe they’d never actually spoken, but had just seen each other at this intersection so many times they’d become familiar from afar! I imagined their eventual meeting after so many silent hellos:

The Police

Not these guys! Ha ha!

Last night I was waiting for the bus at 14th and 1st, and noticed a line of at least 10 police cars sitting on 1st Avenue. What were they doing there? At first I was nonchalant. After five minutes of pondering I had to figure out what they were up to.

I sidled up to a police car with its window cracked open. I was about to ask, “What are you guys doing here?” but, at the last minute, decided that sounded threatening, and these people had guns. “Do the police always hang out here?” (Smooth.)

“No, we’re not hanging out,” said the policewoman in the passenger seat.

Hmm. “Are you…on a call?” I tried.

“No.”

As punishment, all 10 police cars lit their blindy lights, damaging my retinas. Then they left.

Mystery unsolved. Any clues? Comment.

Aliens.

Just when I thought New York could shock me no more, a man preached to my subway car about aliens. Apparently they are controlling our government.

He then picked a fight with a woman guarding her baby in its stroller.

What’s News?

When I sat down on the bus this morning, the man next to me asked, “What’s in the news?”

He was joking, of course: I was carrying this.

Voting Confusion

I moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan in August, but I forgot to change my address with the Board of Elections until a week ago (read: too late). Not a big deal; I’ll go to Brooklyn to vote. And also, not surprising, because I’m the type who would forget to change my address, or not know how to do it.

But is it just me? A few of the smarter people I know have had issues, too. One, who graduated from college in June and works at Goldman, thought he could change his address on voting day. He’ll either have to go back to New Jersey to vote or forget it. Another, who lives in New York but is from LA, sent in his papers requesting an absentee ballot on time. But last week, he got a letter informing him that there wasn’t time to process his papers and mail him an absentee ballot, so he’d have to vote in LA. (Of course, he can’t be there, which is why he wanted to vote absentee.)

Clever?

On the back of a seat on the Long Island Rail Road:

McCain = Right
Obama = Rev. Wright

Creepy Subway Singing

Three times this week, the person sitting next to me on the subway has started singing. I don’t mean singing along with music. I don’t mean singing for money. I mean singing a soft, creepy tune, as if to themselves, except not.

This isn’t okay. When I’m on the subway, reading my book, and a stranger launches into one of these ditties, I feel (a) distracted, (b) irritated, and then (c) afraid. I repeatedly jump to the conclusion that the person is haunted. Logical?

Halloween in New York

Last year was my first NYC Halloween, and I acted the part of newcomer: I went to the Halloween Parade. Big mistake. In an attempt to cross the street, I was pressed between one man’s butt and another’s stomach. The stomach pressed into my chest so forcefully that I thought I might pass out from lack of oxygen. Do not try this.

Since I was otherwise occupied, I didn’t answer my biggest question: what does trick-or-treating look like in New York City? Do the kids buzz random apartments to get into buildings? Do they just trick-or-treat in their own buildings? Or…is there no trick-or-treating?

Medical Mishap: A Subway Story

As told by my coworker and paraphrased by myself:

This morning, on the train, there was a commotion on my car. A woman in her 50s, well dressed, reading The Times, was falling all over herself. She was twitching; people had to stabilize her. They called doctors — apparently she was on all types of meds.

She was like, Listen — I have a friend waiting for me, just let me get off this train. The EMTs came and took her to the hospital.

Do you know where she was going on the train? To her private practice psychotherapy office.

Self-Conscious New York

On the subway, I peered down at a lucky, seated girl (my face was pressed against the wall). She had on a giant ring. I examined the giant ring. I admired it.

She noticed me staring at her hands and looked at them. Suddenly she was picking at the chipped polish on her fingernails. She looked distressed.

She saw me staring, figured I must be judging something, and took it as a cue to judge herself.

In my brain: “Sweet ring.” In her brain: “My nails look gross! Ugh, embarrassing. I definitely need to repaint those.”

Quotable

“But be careful,” said a father, arm-in-arm with his elementary-school son. “Write what you want to write, not what she wants you to write.”

No, THIS is the Cutest Thing Ever

An adorable baby sat next to his mom on the bus. He was a happy baby! He smiled at the other passengers and made big O shapes with his mouth. Then he found a toy: his mother’s MetroCard, which he repeatedly took out of and slipped back into its thin plastic case.

Fitting the card into the case was a challenge. When the baby succeeded, he beamed and yelled “Yay!” This prompted the woman across the bus aisle to yell “Yay!” and clap her hands.

A few successes later, the entire front half of the bus was playing. Every time the card went into its home, everyone clapped and hoorayed. I was laughing aloud. Babies!

Didn’t I say bus people were nicer?

Overheard on the Subway

Mother: Open your mouth!

Five-year-old kid (shaking head): Mm-mm!

Mother: I said, open your mouth!

Kid: Mm-mm!

Mother: I know you swallowed that gum.

No response.

Mother: I’m not playing! I’m gonna slap you!

Kid opens his mouth. There is no gum.

Mother: You swallowed that cum! — I mean, gum!

Kid: I love you, Mommy.

Mother: I love you, too. Here — have another piece of gum. And don’t swallow it. You hear me?

Cute Alert

I was approaching a street corner on a run this morning when a father and his toddler daughter jumped onto the curb. They’d just sprinted across the street and were panting and thrilled.

The father looked up at me from where he was crouching, cueing his daughter to do the same. “Look, she’s running, too!” he said. I laughed.

They get my Cutest Thing I’ve Seen Today award.

The Lost Doll

This morning, on the way from the 6 train to the turnstyle, I spied a doll lying on the ground. She was yellow, with pretty yarn hair. She was also dirty, as she’d been mashed by the soles of many shoes.

I tried to make myself walk through the turnstyle. But I couldn’t! I kept picturing a kid realizing the doll was lost and shrieking in mourning. I turned around and picked up the stinky doll with two outstretched fingers. I was a hero!

Dolly and I turnstyled. I approached the ticket booth. “Hi, I found this doll on the floor,” I said. “Is there a lost and found?”

“It’s on 34th Street,” she said. She didn’t swoon at the sight of the stuffed child.

Rich Kids

Every morning as I walk on the Upper East Side, I swoon at the children on their way to school. They cover the sidewalks. But these aren’t ordinary children: these are rich children. And they dress the part.

I have a fetish for shoes — teeny, tiny shoes. (This sounds like the pedophiliac version of Sarah Jessica Parker. Pretend it doesn’t.) So when I see a little girl sporting a plaid skirt, gray tights and little patent-leather Mary Janes, I have to refrain from swooping her up and running away.

The logic doesn’t apply to adults. Kid in a Burberry coat: adorable! Parent in a Burberry coat: greedy.

Never mind that these children have an 83 percent chance of maturing into spoiled teens who say “Whatevs.”

Hidden Behind Plexiglass

A woman in a taxi’s backseat picked her nose today. I know because she hunted for squishy treasure while the cab was stopped at the crosswalk where I stood.

Why do passengers think car windows are one-way mirrors? They’re not. If you can see out, people can see in.

The misconception makes for hilarious people-watching, though. People rock out. They change their clothes. They do unmentionable things. They see how long they can flare their nostrils before their nose muscles reach exhaustion.

Best sighting? Report in comments.

Quotable

A seven-year-old with her hair clipped back in a barrette turned to her mother, who was chattering in the seat next to her. The kid raised her eyebrows, put her finger to her lips, and said, “Shhh.”

It’s not always cute when kids become their parents.

Overheard at the Gym

Awkward story.

Time: morning. Location: gym weights room. I’m doing crunches in the corner, spying on an academic-looking guy working with his muscular, attractive trainer.

The guy, Books, started working out before the trainer, Buff, arrived. This was a big problem.

Buff: It’s like you’re mad at me. You’re acting all pissy.

Books: No! I’m not. I’m not mad at you.

Apple Purity

A guy in the elevator was eating an apple. I caught myself wincing: he wasn’t good enough for that apple.

Background: I am beyond an apple aficionado. I’m obsessed with apples — I eat at least two a day. Granny Smith are my preferred variety. The crispness, the acidic bite: is there anything purer?

So I caught myself judging this apple eater and I stepped back to analyze why. The guy was smacking his lips. His belly hung over his pants and stretched the buttons of his shirt. He brought the words “sleazy businessman” to mind. Here he was, holding this symbol of purity — ingesting it, even — and emitting sleazy rays throughout the elevator. It was incongruous!

Sidewalk Rage

This morning, I caught a rampage. A woman who had just crossed the street turned around and screamed at a driver, “You could’ve said excuse me!”

Do people understand that if drivers’ windows are closed, they can’t hear you? Also, “excuse me”? Sounds like a case of misdirected aggression to me, composed pedestrian.

Then again, when someone slows down to let me cross the street, I pip, “Thank you!” Any chance that makes it through the glass windshield?

Hiding in the Crowds

There’s no privacy in New York. But I consider some places “private” because, even though I’m surrounded by people, I don’t know any of them. Privacy via anonymity.

On the bus this morning, I was being anonymous and antisocial, peering over the top of my newspaper at the other passengers. Another woman (“Janice”), across the aisle, was doing the same. A few stops along, a hefty woman (“Franny”) boarded and made it apparent to the rest of the bus that she and Janice were comrades. Janice faked pleasure. Franny didn’t get the fake vibes and wiggled in next to Janice, striking up a conversation that lasted until they both got off at the same stop.

As I watched, I grew frightened that I might run into my own fake friend and slouched further behind my paper. I rarely run into people I know in my public-space hideaways. But then, I only moved into my apartment and started using these transportation routes a month ago. What if I’d lived on the Upper East Side for years and had a community there? Where would I hide? No escape!

Quotable

“I’m jealous of myself.”

- A locksmith on the farm he owns in upstate New York

Overheard in New York

In a doctor’s office waiting room, two strangers made friends over our economic collapse.

“People have become divorced from the value of money,” one declared. “Do you really need a three million dollar house? No. But you need that bonus.”

Discuss.

The Point of Commonality

On Friday, my father took me on a dinner cruise around Manhattan. When we got to the Statue of Liberty, the band played America the Beautiful and the whole cruise emptied onto the deck to take pictures. I scoffed at the multitudes snapping digital shots of the big green lady (“Do you think this is what it was like coming in to Ellis Island?” someone joked).

As I tried to overcome my hokeyness aversion and appreciate the statue’s symbolic power, another ship passed by. Everyone on our boat started waving at the strangers on the other one. My brother, who was standing next to me, commented on how weird this was. “It’s like, the farther away you are from the point of commonality, the less you need to have in common,” he said.

The Way We Sit

In a women’s studies class in college, I read a decade-old article by Jocelyn Hollander comparing men’s and women’s style of sitting. In the article, which isn’t available online, Hollander notes that men usually sit with their legs spread wide open while women sit with their legs crossed. Why? Because women are supposed to be diminutive and take up less space, and men are encouraged to take up space — not just physically, but in the professional, social, and domestic realms, too.

During a meeting in my office today, I did some investigating. Props to Hollander: many more women than men were crossing their legs, and more men had their legs spread apart. But a couple of guys had their legs crossed, and a couple of girls had one ankle on the opposite knee in a stereotypical guys’ pose. On other investigations, too, I’ve noticed men crossing their legs: in subways, on buses, lounging in restaurant chairs. Is this a new trend? A New York trend? Or do I just notice the leg-crossers because I’m looking for them?

And what does it all mean?

Do some investigating of your own. Report back in comments.

Jaywalking

No, not this, this.

New Yorkers with children never jaywalk. Even when the street is carless, they stand at the crosswalk, straining their ears for any sign of wheels. When the walking man appears, they grab their children’s hands and say, “Okay! Ready?” in a voice full of saccharine sunshine. Are they really worried that if they jaywalked, they’d lead their kids to fatality? Or are they instilling good street-crossing habits?

I find this atrocious. Jaywalking is a passion of mine. The thrill of running across the street, of breaking the law! How could a person deny children this pleasure?

And where does the jaywalking ban for children put me? If I dart across like a felon, it probably ruins the parents’ gig. But I can’t live my life in kiddie-rules jail!

Newspaper Moochers

I have an old-fashioned subscription to The New York Times, and I read it at the gym. Sometimes, as I’m tossing my just-read paper, a sweaty stranger asks for it. This morning, a chunky guy huffing away on the Stairmaster yelled out.

Stairmaster man: [unintelligible garble]!

Me: What?

Stairmaster man: [unintelligible garble]!

Me: What?

Stairmaster man (annoyed): I was asking if you could save your paper.

Me: Oh. (I place the newspaper on a bike seat and scurry away.)

New York One-Liners

Last night I talked to an NYC woman who got married in Las Vegas a couple of months ago. She described the pink courthouse and the woman whose bright red dress matched her highlights. “Las Vegas is where tacky goes to get new ideas,” she said.

Superb. I started thinking of one-liners for New York. A few:

• New York is where culture goes to get more pretentious.
• New York is where dogs go to get clothes.
• New York is where crazy people go. Period.

Post your own in comments.

Scary Subway Times

I descended onto the subway platform just as a train was leaving this morning, so I knew I had enough time to sit on a bench. One had two people separated by three seats, so I sat in the middle. (NEVER sit next to someone if you don’t have to. Everyone in New York has personal space issues.) I put my lunch bag on the seat to my right, in between me and another woman. As soon as I set it down, the lady erupted like a crazy jack-in-the box: “Get that off me! Get that off me, you moron! Get that off me!”

Note that the bag was not on her, but next to her — a foot away, really. I thought pointing this out was unwise, so I lifted the bag from the seat and put it on the floor. As I sat there, my thoughts went through this progression:

Reading Big Books on the Subway

I’ve been reading Atlas Shrugged for the past few months. (I am a slow reader.) My copy of this book is about a foot tall and five pounds. At first, when I read it on the subway, I was embarrassed — what was I trying to do, prove something? “Hey, passengers! I bet you thought I was illiterate. But I’m not!” I tried to be inconspicuous by laying the book on my lap and hunching over it like a dying person.

But as the months passed, I grew proud of the feat I was accomplishing. Yeah, I was reading Ayn Rand! Check me out, subway! I started whipping it out while standing, right in other passengers’ faces. This was even better, because I was reading while balancing.

Backpacks.

Since elementary school, I’ve been a fan of the backpack. (In fifth grade, I even sported the uni-shoulder look, until my second-grade brother adopted it and usurped my coolness.) I saw swarms of children festooned with these dorky sacks on a run this morning. My heart swelled. Then I saw the offender: the backpack on wheels.

In my youth, the rolly backpack was a big no-no. Its use prompted wincing, even groaning. But the child doing the rolling today didn’t look outcastish. He looked like an incast, in fact — good posture, purposeful gait, spiffy clothes. His presentation said, “Yeah, I’m a seven-year-old with a rolly backpack. What of it?”

So is the backpack-on-wheels in vogue these days? Or does it just take an overconfident child to make it legit?

Refusing to Be Social

Two women, strangers, were walking their dogs on the Upper East Side. As they passed each other, their dogs sniffed each other and said hello. The women did not make eye contact. They stood there for a full minute, refusing to acknowledge that there was another person present. It’s all about the dogs.

But it’s not just an obsession with dogs. It’s an obsession with being antisocial. New Yorkers refuse to speak to strangers. I’ve smiled at people on the street, I’ve said hello, I’ve waved, and the ratio of “Good morning!” responses to startled faces is one to 43. I don’t think it’s fear — I think it’s a cultural norm. If you’re from the Midwest, you think saying howdy-doody is super-friendly and cool. But true New Yorkers? They know it’s a loser thing to do.

Seriously, though. If your dog is slobbering on another dog’s face, can’t you at least smile at the other leash-holder?

Hogging the Stall

Back to bathroom etiquette.

In a restaurant restroom with two stalls, I was waiting in line. I was not waiting patiently. I made throat-clearing noises to notify the pee-ers that I was there. Minutes passed.

Then I saw it: a shadow of two hands texting on a Blackberry on the floor of one of the stalls. This woman wasn’t even going to the bathroom — she was texting! Texting!

Dog Crap

This morning I saw a woman picking up a piece of squishy, hot dog crap with a grocery store bag. I see this at least once a day. But today, for the first time, I had a revelation:

That is revolting.

Why are New Yorkers not horrified to touch just-excreted feces with only a thin piece of plastic between the shit and their manicured fingers? One-centimeter bug: shriek! Hair in a restaurant’s entree: shriek! Fetid brown smears on your hand: eh. Dogs are family.

Buying Chunks of Air

There aren’t just too many people for New York’s sidewalks. There are too many people in New York, period. It’s unnatural.

Most of Manhattan is living in space. As a coworker put it, people here don’t buy land — they buy chunks of air. Think of it this way: there’s a piece of land. If everyone lives on the ground, they have the same amount of space whether they’re in their houses, on the bus or walking around. But once you start stacking apartments like pogs, people lose all the space they own once they descend to the ground. It’s mayhem! Were people meant to be up in each other’s grills like this? No.

But now that we’ve invented skyscrapers, it’s kind of fun to be pressed up against a fat man’s belly in the subway. Am I right?

Touristism

We all know tourists walk slowly. We know tourists stop on the sidewalk and take pictures. We know they say ooh; we know they say ahh.

But why do New Yorkers hate tourists?

Superficially, I get it: you have to make it to work on time and these people with dumb twangy accents are standing in your path. They don’t understand! They must stand to the side! Move, foreigners, move!

But listen. These people are admiring your city, the place you’ve chosen to live. They are paying massive amounts of money to stay in its hotels and eat its food. Sure, they haven’t “earned it” by learning subway routes or paying rent, but shouldn’t a city serve its visitors as well as its residents? Shouldn’t somebody appreciate Times Square?

Contentious, I presume. So comment.

Bumper People

There are too many people for New York’s sidewalks.

The first few months, when strangers bumped my shoulder, I chirped “Sorry!” and silently cursed them. Now, I hardly notice, and never apologize. It just happens too often.

I was explaining this to a couple of friends yesterday when a man rounded the corner, almost crashed into us, and yelled, “a-WHOOPS!”

Newcomer.

Mapping the Subway

My first apartment in New York City was in Brooklyn. A week after I moved in, I pulled out my subway map as I descended into the MTA depths. A man brushed past me in a leather jacket and tats, wheeled around, and barked, “You better put that away or you’re gonna get robbed.”

This was startling, but I had an in: Tats could tell me where to go! Which he did, naming a two-transfer route that was in fact the most direct way to get there. (I checked my map on the subway.)

To be a New Yorker, you must have memorized the subway map. You can’t just know how to read it. You must never look at it. Never.

The question: how many boroughs does a New Yorker have to memorize? Even a friend of mine who’s lived in Manhattan for five years doesn’t know Brooklyn for beans. Just Manhattan? The borough you live in?

Vote in comments.

Bathroom Etiquette

In a Starbucks bathroom:

Someone yanks on door.

Me: Someone’s in here.

More yanking on door.

Me (louder): Somebody is IN here!

This continues for several rounds. When I realize I’m screaming, I bang on the door, since the yanker either cannot hear me or is alerting me of fire. “Sorry, it says vacant,” she says. Curious, since the door is locked.

“You Need to Make Money to Say You Don’t Want Money”

I volunteer at a place called God’s Love We Deliver — an ironically non-religious organization that makes meals for people with AIDS (this is a plug). Tonight, I wrapped bagels in cellophane and eavesdropped on my bagel-wrapping neighbors. One told her coworker about her idealism when she graduated from college — she worked for the Elie Wiesel Foundation pursuing “acceptance, understanding and equality.” Then she realized how many loans she had to pay back. Now she works for an IT company.

“You need to make money to say you don’t want money,” her coworker responded.

The Dating Game

No, not this one. In my version, you spy on couples and guess how long they’ve been dating. This is particularly entertaining if you play with friends and compare your estimates. Once three of us each came up with four months. Joyous convergence!

Examples:

1. This weekend, at an adjacent dinner table: a guy with a stylish baseball cap and t-shirt sitting caddy-corner from a girl in a swanky black top and gold jewelry, both early 20s. Each ordered two or three drinks. By dessert, she was flipping her hair and putting her hand on his arm with every comment. The verdict? Third date. (And their meeting story, invented: they went to the same college and joined brother-sister frats and sororities.)

Middle-Aged (Spider)man

A man, 45-ish, boarded my bus last night sporting khakis, a blue raincoat, and a Spiderman umbrella. This umbrella was serious, with Spiderman-themed fabric and a tiny, plastic, Spiderman handle.

There are two options:

(a) The man has children, including a Spido-fan. These children pile their umbrellas in a heap next to the door. As he was running out into the rainstorm, in a rush to make his appointment, the man grabbed the first umbrella he could find. Spidobrella.

(b) The man loves Spiderman.

Not for Beginners: Juggling Knives and Torches

Last night, I met a guy who moonlights as an actor, magician and juggler. I implored him to show me a trick, and he did some ridiculous thing with rubber bands. I made high-pitched squealing noises. Then I asked him all I’ve ever wondered about juggling.

This guy is legit: he juggles knives and torches and can balance a chair on his chin. What I’ve never understood is how one learns to juggle knives and torches. When you first ride a bike and start tipping to the side, you stick your foot out — or your parent or guardian (P.C.) props you back up. But if you catch the flaming side of a fire stick by mistake, you burn your skin off.

Mass Production Woes

In fourth grade on Long Island, one of my classmates saw another was wearing the same purple shirt. “Ugh! Britney is wearing my shirt,” she whined. One of the glasses-wearers raised her eyebrows and peered over her rims. “It’s called mass production,” she said.

In the adult world, women still are mortified to find that other consumers have bought the same, factory-made garb. Stereotypically, as seen in movies, the conversation starts with an accusation (“That woman is wearing my dress”), and ends with a reaffirmation (“Well, it looks much better on you”). But it’s not just a movie thing. The other day, as I stood waiting for the bus (why do all of my posts feature the MTA?), I saw another passenger-to-be wearing the same short-sleeved black shirt and silver skirt. I hid behind the bus shelter so she wouldn’t see me. For fifteen minutes.

A Word about Bats

New Yorkers own dogs. Apparently, Austinites own bats. A friend of mine, who recently moved from NYC to Texas, reports that Austin houses “the world’s largest bat colony.”

The bats live under a bridge. At night, they flee their home in swarms. Residents watch the bats, make sculptures of the bats, and wear bat-themed garments.

Monologue of an Austinite watching bats: “Whee!” Monologue of a New Yorker watching bats: “Why the hell are there bats under this bridge? Harry, call somebody! Call somebody about the bats!”

Then again, if an Austinite saw a rat-sized dog wearing booties, she’d probably react the same way.

What’s in the Name of a Book?

The scene: crowded subway car. I’m standing with my back against the door. To my left: a girl, reading. To my right: the reader’s friends.

Friend (loudly, over passengers’ heads): What’re you reading?

Reader: Rectangle of Sins.

I look down at the book.

Friend: Mmm, sounds good.

Really?

The Bus People

Today was momentous. Today was my first Bus Day.

I just moved to an apartment between York and East End in Manhattan. Read: very far from the subway. “Hey, I like to walk!” I thought. “This will be jolly!” By this morning (not yet a week after my move), my thoughts had shifted. They more closely resembled, “Hell’s if I’m going to walk fifteen minutes to the six train.” So I did the unthinkable: I took the bus.

The Beginning

It started out meta.

I toted my computer to Bryant Park, yuppily, to write my first post. The guy at the next table was engrossed in a book — so engrossed that, as I sat down, he looked up just long enough to give me a distainful eyebrow-raise. I’d decided to just sit as I ate my sandwich, but after I saw this Look, I coincidentally remembered that I had an issue of The New York Times Magazine in my bag. I have never read The New York Times Magazine. I also cannot read and eat at the same time. But after glimpsing my neighbor, I decided it would benefit me to learn about Obamanomics and eat chicken salad, simultaneously.