Sublime and Subpar: The New York vs. The L.A. Subway

October 29, 2002

When I first got to L.A., I missed New York. I missed it so much that when my cousin Cindy, who lives in Manhattan, asked me what I missed most about it, I felt overwhelmed by the daunting task of choosing one thing.

I paused. I pondered. I ruminated. I wanted to miss something so obscure that it would elevate the four years I had spent in overpriced, undersized apartments: the newly painted walls at the Thursday night tango venue La Nacionale; the smell of freshly baked bread right at the corner of Elizabeth and Prince; the stained glass windows in the basement chapel of the condemned building at First and Bowery.

But honesty prevailed.

"You know, this is so warped, but I think the thing I miss the most is the subway," I said.

"What?" she said.

I felt the need to explain the merits of my quotidian and frankly, gross, object of longing.

“Well, when you’re in the subway, you don’t have to work. You can read. Driving is stressful. You have to pay attention, you fear for your life, you get lost. It’s a pain. But mostly, I think I miss reading. I used to go through The New Yorker in a few days. And now? I’m backlogged on New Yorkers.”

The elaboration did little to repair the damage I had done to my reputation. I was already labeled The Bizarro Who Prefers the Smelly, Loud, Crowded, Ill-Designed, Constantly in Disrepair New York Subway Over Everything Else in New York That Is, If Not More Interesting, At Least Cleaner.

But I stuck to my label. I was going to reclaim it just as blacks had reclaimed “nigger” and gays had reclaimed “queer.”

I told new friends I made in L.A. that what I missed most about New York was the subway. While driving in my car, I called up my Metrocard-carrying friends and bemoaned how little reading I was doing. As I changed the CD in my car stereo, I pined away for the A train where I could read in peace (well, sort of) while hurtling toward my next destination. Yes, I was The Bizarro Who … (repeat chorus).

And then I took the subway in L.A.

On the innocent recommendation of a stranger, I decided to take it downtown. I drove my car to the nearest subway station, parked, and escalatored down. Considering that it was the middle of the afternoon, it was empty, save for a feminine, transvestite-ish man. In New York, there would have been at least 20 such oddballs in the station and two in my train car.

On a train that seemed too clean, comfortable and quiet for my taste, I read a few pages in a New Yorker several weeks old. I had an appointment a few blocks away from the stop, and to make a 20-minute-long story 21 words short, I couldn't figure out how to walk there on streets prohibiting pedestrians and cursed everyone in their cars there and back.

After my appointment, I walked through Pershing Square, which is supposed to be a park or something, and it was Pathetic. I don't just capitalize random words like that. It had more concrete than it did grass. Even New Yorkers know better than that.

I wandered around looking for the entrance to the subway. I found underground parking garages instead. I ended up having to walk through a back alley in between towering trucks to get back to the station.

The word “soulless” kept popping into my head. S for soulless. S for subway. S for sucks.

I read The New Yorker on the way back, but I couldn’t concentrate: I couldn’t wait to get back to my car.

Later, I told someone that I had ridden the L.A. subway. His most memorable experience with the New York subway was carrying a Queen-sized mattress on it.

“No way,” he said. “I think you are the only person I know who has ridden the subway in L.A.” Then he stopped.

“Oh wait,” he said, “I’ve ridden it. But just once.”

Hopefully I'll be saying that when I leave L.A. I know for sure that I won't say the subway is what I miss most about L.A.

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Sublime and Subpar: The New York vs. The L.A. Subway

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