I caught the 1 train at 6AM this morning, which for me is basically a personality transplant. I am not a morning person. My mother will confirm this over WhatsApp, at length, with a voice note.
But there was a fitting downtown at 8 and I wanted to walk before it, so there I was on the platform at 145th Street, watching the sky go from bruise-purple to something softer over Harlem.
The 1 train at 6AM is a different city. No shoving. A man in scrubs asleep against the pole. Two women in nursing uniforms sharing a thermos. Everyone tender because it's too early to perform.
I had a mango in my tote. An Alphonso, from the Indian grocer on Broadway near 100th, wrapped in newspaper like something illegal. I bought six on Sunday and I ration them like they're rent money.
Because they are, sort of. A good mango costs more here than a subway ride, and it tastes like standing in my nani's kitchen in Ahmedabad in May, juice down my wrists, everyone yelling about who ate the biggest one.
Somewhere around 59th Street I just held it in my lap. Didn't eat it. Just held it. The 1 train at 6AM will do that to you — make you sentimental about produce.
A kid across from me was watching cricket highlights on his phone with the sound off. I wanted to tell him I know exactly which mango goes with that feeling. I didn't. New York teaches you to keep your love quiet on trains.
By the time I hit Chambers Street the car was full and loud and ordinary again. The spell broke. I put the mango away.
I ate it later on a bench in Tribeca, standing up, over a napkin, like a raccoon in a good coat. Worth every cent.
Some mornings the city is just a train and a fruit and you.
Love,