How to get to the Met

There really is no good idea to get from Harlem to the Upper East Side - you either have to take a crosstown bus (rarely a good idea) or walk through Central Park. Since it was a gorgeous November afternoon, my housemates and I opted for the walk, first taking the subway down to 86th St.

The trains run woefully slowly on the weekends, so I brought entertainment. Having mastered the art of knitting at least well enough for my own standards, I have moved on to the noble discipline of crocheting - taught, as always, by my faithful housemate, Rachel. So there we were, sitting on the platform of the 1 train. Rachel was teaching me how to double crochet, and I had just finally gotten the hang of it when the train came. It was a full, standing room only train, but I was so excited about my recently acquired skill that I decided to keep going. I should have known that doing any 2-hands activity on a moving - and frequently stopping - train was destined for catastrophe, but I, in my infinite naiveté thought that I had gained enough subway expertise to give it a shot.

Alas, no. As the train lurched into the 103rd St. station, I, unsurprisingly, lurched with it, falling on top of a highly affronted Hispanic grandmother. The crochet hook flew out of my hands, hit Rachel square in the forehead (causing her to issue an impressive squeal), and richocheted to the other end of the train, out of sight. This was clearly the most interesting spectacle that most of the people in this train had seen in a long time - seemingly every person in the car began eagerly participating in the search for the missing crochet hook, in total violation of the reigning NY social norm that it is Forbidden to interact with strangers on the subway. Meanwhile, I remained completely incapacited with laughter at my own ridiculousness and both of my housemates unsuccessfully pretended not to know me. Just as I was beginning to worry that our stop would come before the elusive crochet hook would reveal its hiding spot, a triumphant 8 year-old at the other end of the car proclaimed in Spanish: "I found it, I found it!" to resultant cheering. The hook was then passed along, assembly-line fashion, to where I was standing, still doubled over with laughter.

I guess all you need to break a norm is a crochet hook and an incredible propensity for clumsiness. Needless to say, the stunning artwork at the Met was rather anticlimactic after the process of getting there.