Nevertheless Oscar The Grouch segues beautifully into one recent run-in I had here.
A megopolis can’t help but be an impersonal place; London being a prime example of somewhere that literally embraces the cold shoulder, filthy look, don’t stare into my personal space attitude. Hell, even the latest edition of the Rough Guide to England has it in print: “Talking to strangers, in London especially, can be seen as tantamount to physical assault." I vowed to talk to as many strangers in London as I could when I came back from my extended travels last year – a resolution that, I’m ashamed to say, lasted three whole days.
On the surface it’s not so different in New York, in fact, I feel it’s a little more intimidating. There seems to be a whole lot of posturing about – larger guys, baggier trousers, puffier jackets, sterner frowns; and it’s all bigger too - the buildings, the roads, the pavements. It’s no different below ground where subway stations are the size of small towns, trains stretch for blocks and the rats bench-press steel girders. As a result you feel smaller, anonymous. Many people choose to take to the white sanctuary of their iPods when they’re on the move and, admittedly, that’s where I went for a while too. I know it’s the worst case of antisocialism you can portray and as such you’re in no position to complain about the breakdown of community or lack of civility in society but at the end of the day you’re carrying around 300 CDs in your pocket and that’s a novelty I’m still to get over. Having said that I have now made an effort to join the real world and boy what a crazy place it is. For one people talk here, to each other, to themselves, to anyone that will listen. You'll hear about Brandy's wedding preparations, how Joe isn't pulling his weight at the office but seems to get away with it, Nichelle's had a falling out with her homegirl, Ira's just moved out of Manhattan and loves the amount of newfound space, and there's Deion who's not talking to anyone but is quite happy to sing-a-long with his mp3 player.
There’s no social laboratory better than the subway - interactions abound, it's where the term “wacko” or “crazy” is liberally tossed about. But say what you like, it’s a colourful place. A guy stepped into my carriage today and found a pole to hold on to (not a Polish immigrant I should add). As the doors closed he straightened up, announced that he was homeless, would gladly accept any kind offerings we may be able to give and – at this point I would normally have turned up the volume on track 8 – began to sing a Lionel Ritchie song. At least, I think it was a Lionel Ritchie song. These "performances" usually last the duration of one stop, there’s the collection of a few coins, a thank you/God bless/have a good day and then a move to a new captive audience. As for the religious speakers – a chatty bunch, often they come bearing pamphlets and quotations. One passenger I saw obviously muttered something abhorrent as he was shot down with bolts from one particularly vocal shepherd, “You will meet Satan my friend. You do his work. Only our Lord Jeeeesus can save you. Hell is full of your kind, those who turned their back on saaaalvation;” just what you need to hear after a tough day at the office. One thing people are not afraid of is speaking out.
An average day can often bring a panhandler or two across your commute - mostly the performers, but there are those who carry cards with begging notes written in someone else’s English, and a few who carry hungry children – those are the jarring moments that force diverted looks and an uncomfortable interest in a spot on the floor. At that point those "300 CDs" in your pocket, new mobile phone and expensive watch all feel a little heavy.
Putting aside the nine-deep platform crush during rush hour, the inordinate amount of rubbish, the mysterious dripping roofs, the less-than-attractive stations, and Frankenstein's rats - I’ll stick my neck out and say that there are few short journeys more interesting than those under New York: the characters, the people-watching, the performances in the station, the tapestry of life you’ll intersect with. I continue to catch wrong trains with regular monotony (the signage in the stations is a rant for another post), but most of the time something interesting comes from it. One such deviation deposited me in Brooklyn around midnight last week, two locals at the station took pity on me and we were all in a bar ten minutes later. It may have a tough reputation but there is a congeniality to be found on the subway.
As for that Oscar the Grouch segue, well the “You will meet Satan” journey was one that took me to an apartment viewing uptown where, it transpired, the residence’s owner was a documentary film producer. There are many things I’ve tried to do before I turned 30 and here, less than six hours from that milestone, was one experience 
I never thought for a minute would make the list. There, displayed proudly before me in his living room, stood a very real Academy Award. The worn gold leafing from 33 years of handling didn’t take away any of the lustre from the statue. That 8lb Oscar felt every bit its weight and, as I contemplated ways to smuggle it away, I couldn’t help but think that there was only one city that could throw this experience at me on a random Wednesday night… and that my thirties had got a lot to live up to.
