There's something about the subways

What is it about the metro?

Day in and day out thousands of people hop on these people-mover, half-bus, half-train rocket things to get them from point A to point B. I love them. Jess hates them. Cristina gets a pit in her stomach when she waits for them. And the rest of the world seems impartial.

The subways seem like the world’s greatest secret of all time. They are home to an entire underground world that no one above ground seems to know anything about. All the above-grounders know that it’s there of course, but they never seem to wonder what exactly is going on directly under them at any given time. It’s quite a concept.

And I am convinced the subways and their stations have this black magic, voodoo thing going for them. Sunday, on our way back from dinner, Cris, Jess and I entered the station heading uptown from Prince Street, and by the time we emerged two stops away, we were practically in a new climate zone. It was pouring. From a warm twilight to rainy sort of chilly. It’s not just the weather either. Every time you surface from the underworld, you are in a totally new town with new people. One stop really does make a world of difference.

Weirder still, time completely stops when you are in the underground world. Unless you check your watch (or now-a-days your cell phone), you would have no idea if it were 5 a.m. or 10 p.m. Or hot or cold. Or rainy or sunny. It is easy to understand how a person could be going nowhere fast on the stoic, silver metal bullets that enter into a station for no more than two minutes to discard passengers and pick other ones up. The doors open and shut without hesitating to see whom they are shutting out to leave behind, and sometimes, more importantly, whom they are imprisoning momentarily.

Never in my life have I seen people so willing to give up their free will. Once you are behind the sliding doors, you are sort of trapped. You have no control over where you are going or how fast you will get there. If you miss your stop, you are out of luck. If the train is held back because of problems ahead, you will be late. And you certainly can’t stop the musicians from bursting through the “Emergency Exit” doors to serenade your train car.

So Jess hates it. She can’t stand being forced to listen to the singers or violin players who sing out of nowhere and shove paper bags in her face begging her for spare change. I can tell her heart skips a beat every time they enter the car. As for me….I love it. There’s something about a male quintet that brings a small smile to my face. Nothing wrong with a bit of free, live music to make my travel time seem shorter. I must admit though, I tap my toes only slightly so that the performers don’t haggle me for money. If I were to stop and give money to every single beggar on the subways and the streets, I would be right there with them, not even a week later. But one of these days, I really do think I am going to join in singing.

What boggles my mind the most is all the people who take the metro. Blacks, Whites, Asians, Indians, Hispanics, Gays, religious fanatics, poor people, rich people, ladies, gents, oldies, youngins’…you name it. For the sole purpose of transport, they all kinda converge. But that seems to be a common thread here in this city.

First stop: Melting Pot Avenue – and remember, avenues run north-to-south and are far to walk, so put on your sneakers for this detour.

Who needs to travel the world when you can just go to New York City? If America is the melting pot of the world, the city is center of the pot closest to the burner – and I mean that in the nicest sense of the term, honestly. Because the various people here are so proud of their heritage, they all seem to have the same idea - create a restaurant to make their home away from home a bit homier.

Saturday night I somehow managed to drag Cris and Jess to an Ethiopian restaurant in The Village. In traditional Ethiopian style, we dipped the spongy, sourdough-like crepes into pureed veggies and meat on a platter that the three of us shared. No personal plates and no utensils. We went back to our basic instincts of eating with our hands and reaching over one another to gobble up the lentils, chic peas and cabbage that all looked like different types of hummus. The three of us agreed it was delicious, and the vegetables had enough flavor to make us contemplate becoming vegetarian. That inkling quickly faded Sunday night when we headed into Little Italy for some authentic Italian.

It smelled like home cooking. Like the familiar smell of walking into a friend or relative’s house for a dinner they have been preparing for hours. With more than 20 different homemade pasta dishes on the menu (al dante style, I may add) and enough sauce choices to make you gain 15lbs. just from reading them, the trattoria was any pasta lover’s dream. And I couldn’t help but make a fuss over the best sweet, aged balsamic vinegar I’ve ever had.

I guess you could say two days ago, I was in Ethiopia, and yesterday, I was in Italy…without a visa and without the immunization. I am pretty much eating my way through the Big Apple…and the rest of the world. Not too shabby.

So when Jess and I were window-shopping in SoHo on Saturday and we found a truffle bar and tea salon, we couldn’t help but stop in. What is a truffle bar? Better yet, what the hell is a tea salon? Only in New York City, I tell ya. And the chocolate truffles were just as diverse as the people in the city.

Our particular truffle bar specialized in infusing its chocolate with exotic spices from around the world. Confused? We were too…so let me give you a taste. The first chocolate truffle is blended with curry powder and Indian spices. The second one is mixed with macadamia nuts to remind its consumers of Australia. The third, with a hint of green absinthe, is reminiscent of China. The fourth mixes Taleggio cheese and walnuts into the chocolate to suggest Italy. The fifth is infused with purple orchids (my favorite flower) and caramelized bananas to round out the bunch (and my tummy).

So I have decided that NYC is perhaps the only place in the world where people make chocolate not taste like chocolate. I’ve heard it said that people in the city are all artists in some form or venue, whether they are performing or writing or painting on the street. I just never expected to see someone use chocolate as a medium to tell stories of worldly travels.

The tea salon provided cold treats. Mid-afternoon, I savored a light, guava iced tea, and Jess drank iced chocolate. No, I didn’t mean hot chocolate. I really did mean iced chocolate. Sheer bliss.

Next stop: Celebrity Street – no worries, these east-to-west streets are quickies.

Well, it happened. Finally. I saw a celeb at work. None other than Ashanti. And mid-photo shoot, at that. I was delivering some expense reports to the guys down in budget and walked passed an open door where I saw lots of lights and cameramen. After literally doing a double-take, I saw Ashanti and couldn’t help but girlishly run back upstairs to the intern office area to gossip with my co-workers.

Oh, and I am happy to announce that Mary-Kate Olsen has finally decided to grace the world with her presence on the cover of this month’s Elle. After months and months of no magazine covers, she has made a comeback at the most appropriate time…when I am in New York City – the magazine capital of the world – where I can walk out of my apartment and see her face in a magazine stand staring right at me on nearly every single street corner.

Final destination: Too Hot Too Handle Street – because who knew that in NY it can be 95 degrees?

Sunday, as I was lying out in Bryant Park, I found myself thinking about the thousands and thousands people out and about in the city, moving around so rapidly as I lay perfectly still in the grass, and I couldn’t help but wonder where they all go at the end of the day. How can a city so small house so many people?

And then it hit me. The subways. Just like people disappear into them, the New Yorkers disappear into their high-rises. No wonder they are so high, they have so many people to accommodate. They are almost like an allusion holding billions of people at once, a magic trick – those high-rises and those darn subways confuse the heck out me. You never see the same person twice. Doors open: Now you see them. Doors close: Now you don’t. It must be their wonderful black magic.