Crawling, hidden amidst the bustling streams of people, peaking amongst the signs, and boards, standing low beneath the otherwise sky kissing wonderland, without any actual care to hide, neither too keen to be parading around, nonchalantly sits the entrance to a subway station in New York city. You’d almost miss it if you’re anything like me– new to the city, lost in its wonder, google maps draining the battery of both your phone and your brain, and most importantly utterly nonplussed with the energy of the city. But if you do find your way into the mysterious tunnel, a whole new world materialises as you walk in, like you’re Alice, tumbling into a wonderland. I guarantee you (at least the first trip) your own edition of Alice’s adventure in the wonderland! Just that, instead of magical diminishing doors and rooms, there’ll be equally magical appearing and disappearing stairways and pathways; and perhaps your own versions of the mad hatter and the Cheshire Cat too if you’e lucky. But I promise you a whole new underground world, waiting to be stepped into.
In my first week in NYC, while I was in the middle of moving, and getting used to a new job, getting into the wrong trains was second nature to me. I once travelled a distance of 35 mins in an hour and ten mins. No hyperbole for the sake of this prose whatsoever. “Where are you Helvetica!” I thought to myself. Massimo Vignelli’s glorious system for the New York City subway I’ve been reading about almost all my adult–Graphic Designer–life was awaiting to be marvelled on. I longingly thought of the simple four coloured system of the Delhi metro where it’s a matter of the four primary directions known to mankind (now that must have turned into a trillion colours, it’s been ages since I got into the Delhi metro). So simple, so affective. And what’s with numbering the streets? In India, we simply name places and roads after things, and people, and flowers, or some more people, so you actually remember the names. Also, I do not consider myself a human compass to understand that SW is the correct exit to my destination but NE will literally take me to a different continent. Just say “Green Park market exit” or “Gautam Nagar exit” will you? So I actually know where I’m getting off to.
After scaling the lengths of all the nearby roads in search of the nearest, most perfect station, walking in circles over and over finding the perfect route according to Google’s directions, exiting almost everyday on wrong streets, and taking seven different routes on seven different days for a seemingly uncomplicated, one–train–switch route, it hit me. There is (obviously) nothing wrong with the street names, or the subway’s demand that you know your basic directions. There was fault in my method. So I shoved away my phone and with that the safety net that was Google maps, opened my eyes to the under–world and really looked around. I read the signs and witnessed first hand the brilliance of those red and yellow and green dots with simple letters and numbers on them. Helvetica finally did come to my aid, just like it was meant to be, existing without a whiff of existence, silently nudging you on, sharply, smartly. I opened my eyes to familiar names, trains, and localities. I opened my eyes to the maps, boards, and platform signs. I spoke to people. I breathed in the subway smells and walked, knowingly this time around to platforms. No more handicapped, I kid you not I haven’t gotten into the wrong train ever since.
Walking on my usual steps. I even have my favourite entry posts and navigation paths now. Without any help from Google, I’ve now (in my fourth week) also switched to different trains and tried on different routes. I awe at efficiency and wonder how it’s even possible to cover a beast of a city this way. From one end of an island to the other tip of the turf. I get so much (backlog!!) reading done, it’s a blessing. It’s a sense of power, confidence, the subway gives you, the simple power of liberating access! The fat, filthy rats running around the tracks, the suffocating crowd on workday mornings, or even the sticky platforms just don’t matter in the rush. Then there’s always this sudden whiff of the wind carrying a tune so cheerful, you do smile, even if in your mind.
In my head, I’ve affiliated the subway with the kind of picture you would affiliate a running factory with– a dirty coal factory with many many interlinked pipes, hot running pipes carrying important raw material, ready to be dropped off for the next level of treatment, a cloud of smoke here, and a pile of trash there, such industrious, everyday melancholic cycle of activities, however mundane and mechanic they might be, they lie low as an imminent cornerstone.
Walking on those dirty tiles, listening to a trillion talented guitarists, singers, violinists, and musicians drizzling the subway air with their melody, watching mad talented dancers doing a little show on the train, everyday, I step out of the station carrying a little piece of it all with me into my day. I walk away with the colours of those avid wall paintings seeped into my eyes. I walk away with the jumbled station names steadily unraveling in my mind. I walk away with the traces of the faces I smiled and looked at and bumped at. I walk away with the music misted and rush frosted air.
But most importantly, I walk into the day with that energy that the subway lends me, the unbeaten energy of New York City.