In my relatively short time as a resident of New York, I have come to the conclusion that riding the Subway is better than having cable TV (which, for the record, I do not have). In no other place do all of life's idiosyncratic and bizarre tendencies come to a head so abundantly, than in a crowded subway station, especially after 11pm. I have come to relish the entertainments the Subway affords me each day, and have come to think of different stations in different neighborhoods as simply a way to change the channel and pick my own genre of live human theatre.

One of the many charming features of the Subway, aside from the specific and pungent aroma of the stations in the heat, is the fact that one can see everyone from beggars to bankers to aspiring socialites all crammed together like over-sized pickles in an inadequate jar. Men, women, children and the folks somewhere in between, all are forced to interact without acknowledgment, trying to maintain each of their quasi-unique socio-cultural/economic identities as they also attempt to avoid any unnecessary molestation. Much of the time, a quiet sort of Puritan reverence is observed by most passengers, just trying to make it to their next stop without having to make eye contact with another living soul. This is all a noble hope shared by many, but if one is to ride the train for more than about two stops, there's always some character who ignores the awkward, vacuous and utterly impersonal rules of the American personal space bubble and this is when things get interesting.

A couple of weeks ago I was waiting for the train in the elevated station near my building. I sat down on a wooden bench next to a fatigued looking woman and her three equally fatigued children, ranging in ages from about 4 to 10. Soon the sound of athletic shoes on pavement bounding toward the bench caught my attention. The shoes and hasty footsteps came from a man, panting and out of breath, dressed in a very fabulous lime green velour track suit now approaching the emaciated mother of three. She rolled her eyes as he said "Yo, baby, we gotta talk!" The unamused woman responded back, "Ernest, I ain't got no more words left for you." For this, I turned off my iPod, knowing that the show in front of me was much more interesting than my current playlist. Ernest, who's name was shouted loudly and repeatedly, and the nameless woman proceeded to argue for several minutes about the perils of their short-lived romance, which, obviously, was on its way out. Apparently there was some dispute over train tickets from Yonkers, a trashy gift unworthy of a lady, AND another woman whom Ernest protested (a bit too emphatically) that he didn't actually know. As the happy couple argued, the three forgotten children seemed to melt into the bench, obviously a routine they were well accustomed to by now. By the time this mini telenovela-esque episode dissipated, I came to my own conclusions that neither party had argued their case effectively, and subway voyeurism is wonderful. Without resolving anything, Ernest ran off in a huff yelling "forget you!" to the the scene behind him.

Another day I was taking the train down to the Lower East Side for my internship, when track maintenance ensued and an entire train packed with mid-day passengers was stuck in the middle of the tunnel for at least 15 minutes. There was an old homeless woman in the back corner of the car, directly across from me, precariously perched like a pigeon on a makeshift throne of garbage. She was literally shaped like the number 7, her neck and shoulders came to a sharp 90 degree angle with her weather-worn head bobbing along parallel to the ground. She was dressed in rags and was filthy. What she was doing with her garbage throne, is still a mystery, but just as the train lurched to a stop, she woke up from her trance, and ritualistically produced a bottle of rubbing alcohol from one of her bags of garbage. With a theatrical flair, she began dumping rubbing alcohol on herself, the floor of the train car, the seats, the walls, her garbage throne, and the feet of innocent bystanders. She then proceeded to wash the entire affected area with her disgusting, claw-like hands, taking the utmost care and insuring that no surface was left un-cleansed. Half the car immediately moved to one side, gasping for air as the rubbing alcohol fumes permeated the static prison that now kept us under this old woman's dominion. Once she felt satisfied with her work, she then resumed her silent perch atop her piles of trash, taking little notice of the bewildered stares from the other passengers.

Along with these more notable scenes are just the average, everyday rantings of drunks, lunatics, religious fanatics and people who have just stopped caring about the consequences of social impropriety. Riding the trains is not only a mode of transportation, but a rich and unique cultural experience that only New York can afford in such a particular manner. Just like everything else in this city, there is never a dull moment when riding the subway.