I caught the 1 train at 6AM this week and I think it changed me a little.
We had an early call time, a sample pickup all the way downtown, and I dragged myself out of bed in Harlem while the sky was still that bruised pre-blue color. 137th Street – City College. Half asleep. Chai in a thermos because I refuse to pay six dollars for a worse version of what my mom makes for free.
The thing nobody tells you about the 1 train at 6AM is how holy it feels. Empty cars. One man asleep with a paint bucket between his knees. A nurse scrolling, a teenager in scrubs that swallowed her whole. Nobody performing. Nobody in a hurry yet.
I watched the local stops slide by — 125th, 116th, the long dark stretch before 96th where the express tracks split off like the train is making a decision. And I just sat there with my chai going cold, feeling weirdly okay.
The city is so loud by 9AM that you forget it has another setting. But the 1 train at 6AM is the city whispering. It's the bodega cat stretching in the doorway. It's the man hosing down the sidewalk on Broadway like he's watering something that might grow.
We got to the studio early and I had twenty minutes alone before anyone arrived, sun coming up orange over the Hudson, and I thought — Ahmedabad mornings used to feel like this. That blue hour when only the milkman and the temple bells are awake.
I miss it. But I had it again, for a second, on the 1 train at 6AM.
Maybe waking up early isn't punishment. Maybe it's just the only time this city lets you have it to yourself.
Set your alarm one hour earlier this week. The city before it wakes up belongs to you.
Love,