|Hell Gate Bridge under construction, 1915.|
Passengers have developed bold techniques to maintain an empty place next to where they sit. The main trick is to deposit coats and suitcases on the empty seat. The more the better. And - put a bottle of water in the pouch in front of the empty seat.Sometimes the passenger sits on the aisle seat, lowers the tray, and piles it with a computer, coffee, sandwiches, and cords, while piling personal belongings in the inside seat, thereby erecting a veritable fortress that prevents another heavily-laden passenger from asking: Is this seat taken? But, one by one, each defended seat eventually falls to a wandering passenger. When directly asked, the person claiming both seats always appears totally dumbfounded that there is an extra seat by them, clears the seat, and one more roaming passenger is seated. One middle-aged man, tired of wandering the aisles, finally asked the young person behind me: Is this seat occupied by your coat taken?
Of course, I always hope that the unseated will take one look and consider me an unsavory neighbor, pass by my pristinely empty seat, and pursue a better offering in another car. However, I was taught by nuns, and they would have considered it rude, if not downright stingy, not to offer hospitality to the wayfarers, so it never fails, I am always among the first to have a seat mate, which will make it difficult to get up and out for whatever purpose - a stroll, some water, or a visit to the (on this train) unappealing restroom.
|Preserving open space.on the train|
My immediate neighborhood was serially taken up with a variety of talkers: Two young professionals earnestly consulting across the aisle - he the mentor, she the eager learner; they got off in Philadelphia.Two young people striking up a fevered new relationship, talking breathlessly for miles, exchanging telephone numbers and vowing to be in touch. They got off in New York. A very talkative middle aged man aiming to impress a sweet young thing, expounding on matters such as the pleasures of the French language vs Italian, a beautiful Italian women he knew who died of liver cancer, and trichinosis. She got off in Stamford and he was last seen entering a restroom. Somewhere along the line I spilled a whole glass of diet soda down my pant legs, while my bulky neighbor in a puffy winter coat sat imperviously, with her hands on her purse, staring intently at the back of the seat ahead of her.
And my fourth seat mate, a young, slim woman, spent miles reading a tabloid article titled "I have the bigggest butt in the world."
I won't even go into the last leg of the journey: a hundred passengers were disgorged onto a freezing platform to wait for a connecting train, which usually is ready and waiting across the platform but wasn't there this particular night. Short version: it came, we boarded, we arrived at our destinations.
All told, it could have been much worse, and the restrooms did actually work.