Beirut boy and the New York subway

Over 2 years ago, I started writing here occasionally about random thoughts going through my mind. I was mostly fueled by fear of terrorism dawning on Beirut and inspired by being in my first ever psychiatry rotation. Today I am fueled by heartbreak, homesickness and generalized cynicism. It's bitter sweet how life can take you around in circles through all the possible emotional states and leave you too drained to write. I am not going to focus here on my heartache or list "prêt à porter" life wisdom set for Facebook like the rest of this blog ended up becoming.

Today, I want to just reflect on the New York subway.

I remember the first time I ever rode a subway train was in Paris. I was overwhelmed and panicking about being mugged the whole time let alone being stressed out by constant bickering about finding the right destination with my sister who ironically ended up becoming a resident of the city of lights. I dealt with multiple subway systems from then and till the first time I visited NYC 2 years ago. I remember being amazed by the totally different experience when riding on the subway that literally included faces from every spot on the globe. However I did and still do think it is one of the most inefficient systems I have seen.

I moved to Brooklyn in June and have been a daily subway user since. First thing I noticed change in my Lebanese paranoid self is the decrease in hypervigilance as I became less and less careful and aware of where my wallet was or how many of the Train strangers are trying to snatch it. Gradually my pretentious Beirut shoes gave way to Brooklyn flip-flops that slammed the train's floor. As Autumn took hold, I realized there is something about walking down the chilly streets of Brooklyn and grabbing that coffee in formal wear on my way to the hospital that just makes you feel grand. You feel like you are swallowed by the machine, as if the big city turned you into another pawn in its massive urban plan: you dress like them, rush like them and drink Starbucks just like they do. Well I also occasionally grab a coffee from the French truck with a Barista originating from Marseille; more of that cross cultural aspect I guess. The morning routine continues as I rush down the stairs till I have to make the first decision of the day: Stand or Sit? What are you in the mood for today? The overstressed mothers, the religiously dressed folks, the random dancers, the hospital staff you kind of know because you see their faces everyday on the train. You can try to observe the world or simply go through the motions. You can sit and read through your book silently (preferably some French existentialism), however most days, I tend to pace around despite my short commute, just to make sure I'm really here and not in my Beirut bed dreaming. Your sad thoughts travel with you all over the metro stops. They fill the empty seats and free handles. The melancholy tracks the trails and comes back to hide in the equally depressed features of strangers. Yet the empty seats only weep or laugh depending on how you feel inside. In the instances I was genuinely fully happy on a gloomy morning, the whole tube seemed to echo my euphoria. This keeps me going since I realize that once the urban beast is tamed, pleasant rides await. One of those instances translated in being free out here, the population changes so often that you could be dancing ridiculously and feeling no shame. Yet, that never stopped me before. I always danced around on the streets of my Beirut even if I knew everyone there. And just like that, Brooklyn underground tunnels now hear the soaring throats of Latifa, Fairuz and Marcel Khalife. I take my mood, state of mind and translate them into soundtracks for my trip. A stranger smiles at me, I smile back. Couples fill the train and the single people sit around wondering whether to make a move or stick to their books. You see it would make a great story to say that you met on a train, but how often does that happen? How often did people meet in a service cab back in Beirut? Probably more often.

The trip is grand but it is in no way near as intimate as the service I used to take from Salim Sleim down to Hamra every morning, but then again this is New York. It is never as intimate, never as one on one. It will always be the huge city trying to devour you with its massive loneliness, endless options and forever changing façades. It is never you, the cab driver and one more rider talking about the randomness of the world or him sharing his random theories on the use of apple fruit in treating cancer. There is no cigarette smoking, no suffocating traffic jams, no Fairuz mornings, no bargaining over where he will drop you off, no Sabah murals on the Hamra walls. Yet there is no need to despair, there are millions of faces, robots, walking to work yes, yet every now and then I get a moment of lucidity and oil up my cyborg mind, remember that I may not have the comforting Beirut accessories, yet I have something much more precious: I have the whole world at my fingertips. And so I keep riding till I find my ultimate destination, and if I don’t, I just ride the train uptown.