How to ride the subway

You have no doubt realized by now that I am rather obsessed with the NY public transportation system. It’s an extremely fortunate obsession to have, since I spend an appreciable amount of time each day in transit. By now, I am a reasonably experienced subway rider – somewhere in between the natives, who have the entire 5 borough map memorized, and the tourists, who don’t know the difference between uptown and downtown. I like the intricacies of the system, yes (I can amuse myself for ages by scrutinizing a subway map), but what interests me far more is the anthropology of riding the train. It didn’t take me long to realize that riding the subway isn’t just a fact of daily life; it’s an art. And, as with all arts, this one requires practice.

To even get to your local subway stop, you first need to learn how to walk in the city. It’s amazing how NY demands that its denizens relearn even the most basic skills, but it’s true – if you don’t walk like a local, you’ll never get anywhere. To function in Manhattan, you need to know how to move against a human traffic stream without getting trampled, how to bust through a clump of jabbering West Harlem-ites without being rude, how to avoid getting hit when people start beating each other up on the sidewalk. Believe you me, those are all acquired skills, and I’m only just beginning to master them. To expedite my learning process, I invent exercises for myself at times when I don’t actually happen to be in a rush: how long will it take me to cross from the A to the S at Times Square during rush hour, can I fit through that gap in the crowd without knocking someone over, can I avoid those aggressive Greenpeace recruiters by shoving my way to the other side of the sidewalk? It is endlessly fascinating to me.

Unfortunately, walking well isn’t anywhere near enough to get you where you want to go. Next on the list of skills to master: the art of the metrocard swipe. Locals (and wannabe locals…) stomp their feet and sigh with impatience if they have the distinct misfortune of being behind a subway rider who doesn’t grasp this nuanced concept. Under no circumstances do you fish around for your card while you’re already standing at the turnstile (unless you want to flaunt your identity as a tourist); you deftly do it in advance – while you’re navigating your way through the crowds in the station. I can’t overstate how tricky this is: it mandates that you both intuit where you’re going, so as not to cause a collision, and whip out your wallet discreetly enough so that you’re not asking to be mugged. And then there’s the art of actually getting through the turnstile – making sure you swipe at the right speed, making sure your bag doesn’t get stuck, and above all, making sure that you don’t commit the embarrassing faux-pas of crashing into the gate before the swipe has been registered.

Having successfully entered the station (no mean feat!), your next challenge is to find the right platform without looking too lost (the consequence of bewilderment is…trampling. A recurring theme). The difficulty factor of this greatly depends on the station – I, for instance, remain thoroughly mystified by Grand Central Station, which is particularly poorly labeled, but can navigate the 125 St. ABCD station in my sleep. But even once you’ve landed yourself in the correct location, your difficulties still aren’t over. The next step is to position yourself strategically on the platform– perhaps the most difficult part of all. Inexperienced subway riders are, I’ve discovered, inclined to wait for the train at the foot of whichever stairs they descended, therein causing a distinct clumping effect, both on the platform and within the cars. If you want a seat (and I usually do), you need to cleverly wind your way through the crowds (all the while trying not to fall onto the tracks…) to find an empty spot – preferably one that will correspond to an open train door. Easier said than done, since each platform is different, and they’re often crowded with difficult to navigate obstacles like strollers and subway musicians.

And then there’s the art of getting on the train. This essential skill demands walking the line between outward aggression and passive aggression. You don’t want to push your way into the car before people have gotten out (that violates an unspoken NY social norm , which is fascinating), but you absolutely, without any question, want to be the first person in so that you can race your way towards that lone, empty seat. You also want, as much as possible, to insist on a bubble of personal space so that the creepy people on the C train don’t have an excuse to get too friendly. If there is more than one empty seat, never, never sit immediately next to someone. They will, in all likelihood, shoot you a death stare and move to a different spot.

If you have the misfortune of being seat-less, you have a whole new set of skills to master, chief among them: how not to fall over. When the trains are at their most packed, you’re damn lucky if you even have access to a handhold, which means you need to learn the surfer-like standing position that affords you the best chance of not lurching into someone’s lap or accidentally touching a fellow passenger inappropriately.

All of these unspoken social norms are an unending source of fascination for me. On the weekends, I often experiment with different routes, even if they’re not the most efficient, just so I can get a feel for the demographics of different stations and lines (fortunately, NYIP pays for our unlimited monthly metro cards…). As for the more banal weekdays – sometimes I read or study Hindi, but more often than not I’m content to just observe the perfect microcosm of this city that exists underground.