Wednesday 12/1: Mormon missionaries aren’t always pairs of 20 year old blonde young men. Today I saw a man and woman in their 50s with their little black nametags on. Also, the Chinese music duo is back to two musicians. And, as crazy as Times Square is, I still felt a twinge of self-consciousness as I put my jeans on under my skirt on 42nd street.
Thursday 12/2: I wear clogs a lot. But today, wearing smaller-soled shoes, I discovered that the strip of yellow plastic with raised dots, whose primary function is to warn passengers that they are dangerously close to the subway tracks and oncoming trains, feels just like a foot massage, and that sometimes it can feel good to make more direct contact with the ground I’m walking on. Also, if the Ebony Hillbillies are playing Times Square in the morning, it is worthwhile to stop and listen. Time will slow right down.
Friday 12/3: I took a break from Times Square today, opting instead for the B train to Bryant Park. People were so considerate – at every stop, every person in the door looked around both ways to make sure no one needed to get off. People stepped aside, even out of the train to make sure people could get off. People moved their hands up or down on the pole to make sure everyone had a reasonably comfortable place to hold on. Remarkable!
Monday 12/6: A mid-afternoon walk on a windy and gray December day led me to walk along 42nd street, across from Bryant Park. A slightly old but familiar song snuck up on me over the hum of bus engines, and I realized it was coming from the Salvation Army bell ringer. He was dancing and ringing his bell in time to the not-so-classic Smashmouth song “Walking on the Sun.” It’s a bad song indeed that can make you wish you were hearing “All Star” instead, trading in 1997 for 1999. But I suppose I would always trade 1997 for 1999.
Monday 12/6 addendum: The evening commute brought me to Times Square. I was feeling as grey and cold as the evening when I walked down the stairs to the best free stage in the city, where a quartet of young white guys were playing Dixieland Jazz. There was a banjo, some sort of soprano saxophone that didn’t sound like Kenny G or Marian Meadows, a bass made from a 5 gallon wonder bucket plastic food container with a broom handle and a string, and a drum set make of a box the drummer sat on, a snare, and an old V-8 can for a cymbal. They played “I’ll Fly Away,” which had me crying and smiling and singing along. Then, just when I thought the moment couldn’t get any better, an Elvis impersonator walked over and started dancing, and I danced with him.
Tuesday 12/7: Despite a firm commitment to stay on the 3 train and ride it all the way to Times Square at the very last minute in the Atlantic Ave stop, I decided to switch to the B instead. I got to work painlessly and on time. Then my co-workers were talking about how no trains were going in to Times Square because there was a suspicious package on the street that shut down the train station. Yay for avoiding a bomb scare!
Friday 12/10: When people almost run into each other trying to get to the train, even though they think of each other as enemies and obstacles, it looks like they are dancing.
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