My headphones died on the 1 train somewhere around 42nd Street and I had a whole hour of it left, uptown, no charge, no book, just me and my thoughts, which is a genuinely terrifying combination.
I usually soundtrack my 1 train ride. Podcast, playlist, sometimes an old Bollywood song for the delusion of being a heroine gazing wistfully out a window. Without it, the city rushes back in.
And the 1 train ride uptown, unmuted, is a lot.
A man was teaching his daughter the stops like a song. Christopher Street, Houston, Canal, he'd pause and she'd shout the next one, wrong most of the time, delighted every time. At 79th a busker got on with a small speaker and did a Stevie Wonder cover that had no business being that good on a moving train.
Two women behind me were gossiping in a mix of Spanish and English so seamless I couldn't tell where one language ended. Someone's grocery bag rustled. The conductor mumbled something no one has ever understood in the history of the MTA.
I'd forgotten the 1 train ride even has a sound. I mute it every day. I mute most of New York, honestly, I think a lot of us do. We put on headphones and turn the city into a movie we're only half-watching.
But for one hour uptown I couldn't. And it was so much warmer than I expected. Not pleasant, exactly. Warm. Human. Loud in a way that felt like proof of life.
By 168th my brain had gone quiet, which never happens. All that noise had somehow drowned out the noise inside.
I got off and my headphones were still dead and I decided to walk the rest without them.
Sometimes the city talks. You just have to let your battery die.
Love,