Subway, I love you and I despise you.
I love you when I see that one of my fellow riders has brought their ferrets along. Fortunately, they are caged because I hear ferrets are crafty. And who knows, they could be trained by a devious owner to pick-pocket. However, the ferrets of last Sunday evening were a delight to behold. I even saw one lady take a photo of them with her smart phone camera. I think she thought she was being sneaky, but that ridiculous artificial shutter sound went off when she captured the moment. I don't think she even realized it though, because she had headphones in.
Subway, I love you when I see babies eating pancakes in you. And when I see troupes of tourists taking selfies or plotting their next New York City excursion with their noses deep in travel guides. I even love you when your occupants are bold and brazen and act like the rod in the middle of the car is a stripper pole and take sexy pictures of their city sojourn. Even though they are loud and sort of obnoxious, I can appreciate that they are having a good time.
I love you when one of your riders exits, passes by an adjacent car, notices a friend, and runs in to fist bump the friend before continuing to the exit.
I love that a delivery boy for a floral shop had to transport a large, colorful funeral wreath from 68th Street to Bleeker in your cars. I love staring at "Beloved Grandmother" written in purple glitter on the ribbon and remembering that I need to call my grandmother. I also like smelling the flowers.
I love that when I ride you on a Saturday morning you are full of families.
I love you when someone gives up their seat for someone elderly or a pregnant lady.
Actually, subway, I love you a lot. I don't know why I said I despise you.
Except that sometimes I can't observe all these interesting people because my eyes are pressed into the cotton fleece covering someone's spine and I become part of one steaming human clot travelling through the veins of the underground.
That's when I hate you.
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