Recently we decided, too late to get decent airfare, to duck the end of the rainy season and make our yearly breakaway to NYC. When we got to the city, we made another decision. Our hotel was on the Upper West Side, near Central Park and the Museum of Natural History; the subway map showed us we could get there without changing trains. Climbing out of a ragged Penn Station, we saw the MTA (Metropolitan Transportation Authority) signs plastered all around but, feeling a bit guilty, took a cab instead.
We realized right away that we had crossed a certain divide, and were going to see New York as elderly well-off people. (“Rich” would be the wrong word, but we now can afford to take taxis in New York.)
Jeanne grew up in New Jersey, but early on worked at Adelaar Fashions in the City. I lived in Brooklyn, and regularly rode the trains and trolleys. When living elsewhere, we enjoyed the London tube, the French Metro, the Neuchâtel trams, the Bangkok skytrain, the Provincetown ferry, and the Polish buses (huge folding affairs, made in the Netherlands). No problemo, as schoolkids say.
But last year, when we headed down the wormhole of the Big Apple’s subway, our stomachs clenched a bit. Newspapers and candy-wrappers blew around, the walls were chipped and peeling, the handrails (we hold on to handrails now) coated with gum and other unidentified but alarming substances. Buying the tickets was a complex job (for us), and even getting them to work in the turnstiles was tricky — and not just for us; a mature woman nearby gave up swiping her card, gathered her long dress about her, and stoically clambered over the bar. No one seemed to notice. There were other problems (Is this the express train? etc.), but those were our main impressions. In addition, a few friends have witnessed violent subway episodes, though we’ve never seen one.
Taking a taxi was a relaxing and reliable experience, and usually (though not always) much faster. The taxis were clean, the meters clear, the drivers — every one a minority male — amazingly skillful, constantly making those necessary merges with inches to spare. Our last one, named (we think) Zané, was a sit-down comic from Trinidad. We felt like applauding when we disembarked.
Unbeknownst to us in the beginning, we were witnessing a change in New York taxis, though it didn’t register right away. We rode — they were far more numerous — in the usual New York “muscle cab,” the big Ford Crown Victorias, for decades the prototype NYC cab with its tough but lively drivers. But we noticed a small number of more foreign-looking taxis, same color, shorter and boxier, with a much bigger yellow “T” in a black circle stamped on its door. We weren’t keen on this look, which we learned was the Nissan NV200, scheduled to replace the Crown Victorias starting this fall (Mayor Bill de Blasio campaigned against it, but lost).
Well, I guess this will be progress. Advertised as the “Taxi of Tomorrow,” the Nissan apparently has more legroom, along with a sunroof, sliding doors, and cell-phone-charging outlets. Again, this must be our age: Jeanne and I don’t carry gadgets to charge, don’t go to New York for sunshine, and our legs are shrinking. Plus, in our experience, sliding doors can be a menace to fingers.
Anyway, good experiences, like art or love, aren’t always comfortable.
Of course, there are some other things we’ll miss in our upscale transportation plans. I’ll close with a familiar sight at the Times Square Subway Station. In 1991 the MTA paid an artistst/photographer $5,000 for the installation, “A Commuter’s Lament, or a Close Shave,” each line on its separate beam, in a parody of the old Burma Shave highway ads. It was supposed to be temporary, but just look up: Like many other poems, it’s still hanging in there.
This article appears in Oct 15-21, 2015.