Gone are the days when an unintelligible torrent of words and garbled warnings were shouted incoherently at a random stop, prompting bored looks from commuters but frantic looks from tourists and infrequent travelers, as they wondered what the words were. Wait, what?! Was it a warning? An important announcement? An explanation for the delay?
Recorded announcements now tell you clearly and concisely what stop is next, if it is ‘accessible’ and what trains you can transfer to at that stop. Each car is equipped with a large digital screen, posted above the seats. No more hanging over a fellow passenger’s head while trying to decipher your route on the wall map, as the red, green and blue lines curve across the map like spaghetti strands. The subways are cleaner than I remember, and better lit. Less trash and litter.
While staying in Brooklyn with my granddaughter, I found myself on the subway twice in one week. Used to hopping in my car upstate, I found navigating the blocks, avenues and subway lines a challenge. I’m easily distracted, so seeing a thousand people per nano second, powerfully gob smacks my visual senses. I mustn’t gawk, but oh, the brownstones, standing proud after a hundred and twenty years, and the bright eye catching signage; corner delis, outdoor tables and stalls with an array of foods that keep my nose busy as I walk: Jerk chicken, Thai, the corner spice store, coffee, coffee, coffee, and sweets everywhere. Conversations float freely in the air like the fragrance of fresh fruits and vegetables arranged in outdoor bins, as throngs of people walk with phones held in close proximity to their faces. A smart city dog walks proudly unleashed and stops at the corner to wait for a red light.
The Metro card is mostly outdated. At the turnstile, I hold my phone out and air- swipe the fare of $2.90.
Fun Fact: The fare was a nickel when the NYC subway began operation on October 27, 1904. Today, the trains carry about 3.6 million passengers each day.

I recall the dime sized subway token worth twenty cents, as an early memory and my first subway forays with my dad, who read the Journal American, folded vertically in a complicated origami fashion (as I remember it), and didn’t need to hold on as the F train hurtled through the dark tunnels. Waiting for the train, he would give me pennies to get small Hershey chocolates out of a vending machine on the platform. But when he leaned over the edge of the platform to look for the train, I pulled on his coat to step back. Now I wonder why he needed to look for the train? Weren’t the loud rumblings and smells enough to know the train was coming into the station?
My grey hair earned me the gracious offering of a seat each time I rode the train into Manhattan. I especially liked the teenaged boy who stood up so promptly and gestured me over to his seat. As I settled in, I had a stark realization…not a newspaper in sight. Not one actual book either.
No men in suits and ties, shined shoes, no women in smart outfits, heels and hose,
Seven out of ten people wear sneakers.
Phones, phones, phones, but not much talking. Busy thumbs. Ear buds. The stations are still alive with crowds rushing this way and that, vendors hawking their wares, and live music performers. People with a purpose, coming, going, living their lives.
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