It’s back to the subway, courageously, optimistically 

By Maricar Tangonan

Since the pandemic lockdown, I switched and relocated my career to the suburbs. I now rarely take trips using the subway. Somehow I miss the feeling of being part and center of the daily NYC bustle. NYC transport system is an impressive combination of trains, buses, ferries, shuttles, tramway and underground tunnels and overhead bridges that all operate 24/7.

So tonight, I again dared dear life by courageously standing a foot away from a train running at 45 mph, my face and body perilously close and fanned by the wind the speed generates, knowing full well that it only takes one lunatic to shove me down the tracks and end all, including this rather nostalgic reunion with my fellow straphangers. Ironically, I felt safe in the 12 inches of distance from the platform edge because behind me was a solid stairwell wall, effectively working as a personal fort. The only chance I can fall onto the tracks is if someone pulls me in. The lunatic has to go in first, then pull me into the tracks. On this perfect winter night in the city, what are the chances! I’m that optimistic. I had to be because I was never wrong about my feelings about NYC. And for this ride, the subway door stopped right in front of me! For a New Yorker, that’s like winning our daily subway roulette. It’s a good omen.

As the express train sped away, I stood with one sweaty hand anchored onto the cold subway railing, a piece of thin tissue paper in between. I am a slight germophobe. For short subway rides, I wouldn’t sit. I do not want my jacket to be unnecessarily exposed to unseen colonies of organisms that we battle daily at work as healthcare workers.

I chuckled as the charismatic voice of the subway PA filled the train: “A crowded subway is not an excuse for an unlawful sexual conduct …” By the end of the public announcement, as if on cue, my attention was caught by this affectionate couple seated to my front right, the lady’s hand secretly, or so she thought, groping something under the winter coat and inside the man’s pants. I didn’t want to pry so I closed my eyes, slowly breathing in the enclosed train air, noting the intermingling smell of acrid urine, expensive perfume and collective scent of humans coming in from every direction. I was thinking how one sense quickly compensates in the absence of another.

Then finally it was time to change trains. The required walk to transfer from Queens-bound R train to uptown A train at Times Square was more than half a mile of confusing subterranean stairs, crowded platforms and century-old grimy tiles. Being a new nurse, I’m still fascinated by the littlest medical changes in my body as I perform mundane activities like walking. Using my smart watch, I tracked my own heartbeat while I expertly zigzagged my way to the next train. The heart beat started at 66 and shot up to 110 beats per minute. Suddenly, it felt hot. I stopped to remove the first layer of winter clothing. I muttered, “You still got it, MerryCar!” Despite the thick crowd and slow-moving tourists, I transferred fast like I was 27 years young once again.

The next and last train ride was a chance to recover. I sat literally half-assed on the subway seat. I was already tired, but still careful not to expose too much of my pants fabric. I started writing this lengthy post on my iPhone. Each word releasing the day’s accumulated stress, my way to calm the midlife nerves. Time passed quickly. Tonight on this train ride, and from that very first time my plane landed at JFK Airport more than 20 years ago.

My destination, a large gothic cathedral on Amsterdam Avenue, was a half mile of uphill walk from my last stop. I went past a man who animatedly talked on his phone as he sat on his double-parked truck, probably to deliver goods to the bodega right across. He spoke fast in Spanish. I can only understand the part when he cursed President Biden. His voice was so impassioned and angry it pierced through at least three blocks of the gentrifying Upper West Side neighborhood. I had to scurry away. I voted for Biden.

I arrived 30 minutes late for the 7 p.m. concert of a friend. It rarely happens that I’m late. In this instance, my unintended tardiness was fortuitous. There was no line at the box office. Almost immediately, I was inside the cathedral. I threaded the long nave to the gothic altar where the choir was, my thoughts swallowed by a harmony of voices. The cathedral ceiling was extraordinarily high. It was so high I craned my neck to admire the vaulted ceilings, so common in Europe, but a rarity in ultra-modern New York.

Eventually, I sat. And listened. Minutes later, as I continued typing this, I heard my friend’s solo voice singing a song in a language I couldn’t understand, in a melody I am not familiar with. His trained voice sounded calm and steady, a welcome treat after an hour of my chaotic commute. I enjoy the experience of this polarity. I am addicted to this contrast. This is New York. I want more of it.

Maricar Primero Tangonan, a former educator in the Philippines-turned-healthcare worker, is an avowed lover of culturally diverse New York City. She enjoys the city’s unparalleled art scene, diversity and abundance of opportunities for career enrichment, and amazing stories. This piece originally appeared on Facebook and is being republished here with permission. To share your story, you may contact her at ilocanoyork@gmail.com.