This past weekend I spent most of the day on a round trip into the city to get my sister’s car to borrow for a few weeks for reasons that don’t matter right now. I took a 9am train, then a subway, then her car keys, and that was that. At two and a half hours away I think it’s only still “the city” because that’s what it still is to me. (Yes last Saturday was 9/11 but this isn’t about that.)
The Amtrak train, now 18 years later, is still about college to me, so I guess it always will be. At first it was strange to sit down (always on the south-facing window, the window facing the water as you head down the Connecticut coast) with no homework to do or ignore. I looked at my phone for a little while, still instinctively worrying about the train wifi flickering in and out, even though I was on a phone now and not a hefty Dell laptop. But soon enough I found myself relaxing my gaze out the window, soon enough looking through the ebooks on my phone and choosing not easy distraction (lately no book has been easy!) but my early copy of Isaac’s book, The Method, a cultural history of, per its brilliant subtitle, "how the 20th century learned to act." I texted him about how much I loved the introduction, and told him, “Know that when I stop live-blogging my reactions it’s not because I started hating the book but because I stopped having time to read it.” He has a kid (and wrote a book!), he understands.
(Two years ago, timehop recently told me, I texted Isaac something like “wtf I’m supposed to just write a book now???” And asked if that ever stopped seeming so impossibly daunting. Having a friend two steps ahead of me in this process this whole time has been precious.)
I read for a while; eventually, as we came into the city and trundled over the Bronx and Astoria on our way, I lost myself to out the window again, the two-story houses of Queens out my window, the bizarre new skyscrapers piercing the skyline on the other side. Those seem like a bad idea, precarious and ugly, but I guess every advance in skyscrapers once seemed too tall. I was excited to see the new train hall, but came up on an escalator into old Penn Station. I walked over to the new train hall; it was indeed lovely. Though the arrows to the subway preposterously took you back outside.
I felt like an obvious visitor—backpack, fanny pack across my chest, overalls; either a visitor or a large toddler—but two women asked me, before the train came, for directions, and of course I could give them. I wasn’t even in a neighborhood I liked, was on one of my less liked subway platforms (the express and locals being on separate platforms always frustrates me, it’s crowded with tourists and businessmen), but the lightness from the Amtrak train stayed with me. The soothing rhythm and rocking of the rails was gone (I get nauseous on every other mode of transportation, but it’s like this motion is the one my body not only doesn’t reject but clicks into), replaced, I guess, with a different kind of movement I still click into: across intersections, down sidewalks, though turnstiles. The backpack and overalls didn’t change that.
When I come back to the city I’m always on alert. How does this feel? Do I like this? Do I want this? Previously I haven’t (liked it or wanted it again)—it’s been a weird homecoming, beautiful and delicious (seriously the food is so much better) but still clearly not the life that’s best for me right now. But on that C-tier subway platform, I did that inventory and had to admit: it felt good. The city felt good to me that day. I felt good in the city. And I knew right away it was because I was alone, unencumbered, slipped back a few years into a past life, where when I got uptown I could take two laps of the farmers market, no rush, buy six rugelach that I would eat by myself in the car and not share with anyone. My backpack was almost empty, just snacks (all for me!) and coffee and two library books I was finally returning to Columbia after two years and an interstate move. The city felt good because I wasn’t trying to live in it the way I am now, the city felt good because, for a few minutes, I was borrowing a life I used to live. It wasn’t better, but it was easier.
When I talk (to Tanner, to friends, to myself in need of reassurance) about why the suburbs are right for me now, I always come back to that: the ease. I don’t know if this is what I need forever or just what I need during a pandemic, but this version of life is just easier. There is so much less schlepping and lugging and figuring out how to make the simplest things work. Now I just put the baby and/or the groceries in the car and drive them home. I never sweat on a subway platform. The park isn’t 15 minutes away now, it’s my back yard and across the street. I can let the dog out without the hallway-elevator-lobby. Without a leash! We have a whole entire room for our desks and computers.
The farmers markets here are surprisingly terrible. I thought they’d be good when you’re so close to the farms, but maybe that’s actually the problem.
I drove my sister’s car back to the middle of Connecticut, and even though I hit traffic it was so much easier without a toddler in the backseat, without anyone to worry about but myself for at least a couple more hours. (I still fell asleep on the couch at 8pm though.)
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