All Aboard the Crazy Train: Why I Love New York
I’m on the C train and this very well-dressed woman gets on with a wire-hair terrier contained in a stylish Burberry dog carrier. I’m a dog lover, so when she sits down across from me I smile at her and then at the dog. It takes me a full minute to realize: The dog is stuffed.
And by stuffed, I mean taxidermied.
The dog is dead.
You usually get a heads up with this sort of thing. A person’s talking to himself wearing three baseball hats and playing a kazoo, it’s safe to say he might have a little more crazy where that came from. Nothing about this woman in her Chanel-looking suit and expensive heels screamed INSANE.
Inside, I'm, like, “Holy mackerel! This woman is carrying around a dead dog!”
But this was New York, so I was cool with it. I’m a Jersey Girl through and through, but I love the pulse, the culture, the strength, the grittiness, the connections you can only experience in New York.
I’m on my way to the Lower East Side and as I ascend the subway stairs on Houston Street, I notice an elderly woman. Maybe not quite homeless but certainly down on her luck. She’s leaning against a wall, many of her belongings piled high in a city grocery cart, looking down the stairs.
“Are you going down to the train?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers.
“Would you like some help with your cart?”
“Aw, are you sure? That would be great! Just great!“ she answers with a smile that’s contagious.
I grab the cart and run it down to the turnstiles as she carefully makes her way down the stairs, both hands clutching the handrail to steady herself. It takes a few minutes for her to make the journey.
“Aw ya must have someplace to be,” she shouts as she's coming to the last stairs, in a voice that sounds like Burgess Meredith's. “You can leave it!”