The Entire Window's Worth

It’s my sister’s birthday.  She’s arrived at fifty.  I remember that.  Somehow it is never possible to leave and get to the train station here without it being stressful.  We all know exactly how long it will take.  We always plan ahead.  My wife is out shopping with my bank card.  She has just gotten a new Sim card, but I don’t know the number.  She’s not answering wechat messages.  I can’t leave without the card, and if she doesn’t get here in five minutes I will have to give up on this train.  She shows, just in time.

There’s always a track change from track one to track three or track three to track one that they are making when you arrive at this station.  The stationmaster takes cash and I head on over to the little shop they have in the east side of the station.  I look over all the things they have.  I don’t want anything but water.  The woman is polite and I wonder about her job here at the station. 

Down on the train a young kid with a big afro jumps up as soon as I get on and asks me: “Hey, is this the train to Manhattan?”  I tell him with confidence that it is, and place my big suitcase I’ve had since we left Beijing for Egypt in the rack above my seat.  These trains haven’t changed in any way that I can see, in last thirty-five years.  I always choose the window seat on a three-seater on the river side, facing forward that gives me the entire window’s worth to view out of.   Unfortunately, I’ve also chosen to sit behind three middle aged women who talk loudly and laugh even louder for much of the two hours down. 

And then strolling out into the timeless throng of Grand Central.  I need a toilet.  Instinctively I head west into the main hall and try to remember if there are restrooms on this floor.   I can see the one that is downstairs in my mind and shift to consider how one gets to the lower-level without taking the stairs.  There is escalator right to the bathroom door over by rail museum gift shop.  I can see it in my mind and make my way across the magnificent celestial hall way. 

Alas, it’s deja vu all over again with Uber.  As in Cairo, they don’t seem to recognize me.  They are insisting my contact info I’m submitting is already being used by someone else.  Yes.  Indeed.  Me.   I find a discrete place to fiddle with the app for a while and give up and go get in the cab queue line out on Forty-Second Street.  A young Indian gentleman helps me with my bag and then stares at me a moment when I tell him I’m heading to Brooklyn. Crosstown traffic is glacial and immediately summons the fast moving song of the same title. 

Wednesday, 7/17/19