I had a 7AM call time for a shoot in Long Island City this week, which meant catching the 6 train at 6AM, which meant seeing a version of New York I usually only hear about.
The 6 train at 6AM is a different animal. Nobody makes eye contact still, this is New York, but the aggression is gone. Everyone's just tired in the same soft way.
There was a man asleep against the pole with a hard hat in his lap. A nurse in scrubs doing the crossword in actual pen, which felt like a flex. And me, clutching a chai I made at home in a thermos because $6 for a mediocre one is a personal insult.
We pulled into 68th Street and the light came through the doors all gold and slanted. Nobody looked up. But I did.
I think about how in Ahmedabad, 6AM was my Nani grinding something in the kitchen, the pressure cooker whistling, the whole house smelling of ghee. Morning was communal. Here it's private. Everyone alone together, swaying with the train.
The 6 train at 6AM doesn't ask anything of you. That's the gift. By 8AM this same car will be a war zone of elbows and podcasts leaking out of cheap earbuds. But right now it's just borrowed quiet.
I got off at Grand Central to transfer and the main concourse was nearly empty, that huge ceiling with its painted constellations all mine for a second. I actually stopped walking. A woman power-walking in sneakers with heels in her tote gave me a look. Fair.
Here's what I learned riding the 6 train at 6AM: the city isn't loud because it wants to be. It's loud because it's crowded. Take away the crowd and there's this whole tender thing underneath.
I won't do it every day. I love sleep more than I love epiphanies. But I'm glad I saw it once.
Set the alarm early once. The city will show you a secret.
Love,