wheeze-it

Here's an interesting blog post from Jennifer 8. Lee at the NYT City Room blog. (Aside: I had no idea that the Times had so many blogs. I notice that Judith Warner's blog is only updated once a week. Does that even count as a blog? Isn't that just a web-only column? I'm going to stop asking questions now before I start seriously contemplating the semantics of blogging and slip into a meta-coma.)

The post/web-only article hints at the difficulties of practicing medicine and treating patients in a city whose residents speak dozens of different languages - in this particular case, the problems faced by doctors trying to diagnose asthma in Spanish-speaking patients. She writes: "In interviews with 39 Spanish speakers, 'wheeze' was translated into 12 different Spanish expressions, including 'tight chest,' 'suffocation,' 'asphyxiation,' 'snoring' and 'congested breathing.'" And, as "wheeze" is obviously a rather key term for respiratory diagnosis, a Columbia University Medical Center survey has targeted translation as a major issue in treating the rise in respiratory ailments among the city's Latino population.

Now, it's obvious that it is not the case, as I suspect Ms. Lee well knows, that there is no word in Spanish for "wheeze." But most reporters seem to find the "no word in [pick a language] for [pick a concept that somehow demonstrates the strangeness of said language or culture]" template irresistible - probably because hyperbole makes for a sweet lede. But clearly, Spanish-speakers have been wheezing just as long as English-speakers, and somewhere along the line they've undoubtedly come up with a word or phrase to describe the phenomenon. And the discussion in the comments section certainly bears this out. (As you might expect, the nasty implication that any misdiagnoses are the patients' faults for failing to learn English also rears its ugly little head. Which is so lacking in compassion and basic human decency that I won't even dignify it with a response.)

The problem, as far as I can see, seems not to be that there isn't one word in Spanish for "wheeze," but rather that there are lots of them, and that many medical professionals are not, as it turns out, equipped to deal with the lexical variation - which is no mere fodder for linguistic cocktail-party convo, but rather a serious and pressing public-health issue. And this is why I'm more than happy to forgive Ms. Lee any language-related lily-gilding. Because she certainly manages to make that latter point clear.

By the way, Language Log has a number of posts relating to the "No word for X" syndrome (or snowclone, as regular readers of that site know) that are well worth reading. My favorite is Geoffrey Pullum's "No word for 'lazy hack parroting drivel'?," but you can find a list of a number of others here. (More)

be my guest

Spring. A time of renewal. A time of regrowth. A time of really pretty flowers.

And a time of neverending houseguests.

For the past three weeks, my roommate and I have played hostess to a veritable conga line of out-of-town guests. We've had friends, family, former colleagues. And we're going to keep having them. Until, like, July.

This weekend, the houseguest in question is my mother. She's flying into town today for some sort of business trip - what kind of business, I don't know. Spreadsheets are involved, I think. And money. But beyond that, I couldn't tell you.

(I have a mental block that makes me completely unable to process descriptions of financial job-type things. This mental block has a very real purpose, as my mother is convinced that I would make an excellent banker, and I have made it my life's work to convince her otherwise. So, the more insistent she is, the dumber I decide to be. Unfortunately, the longer I stay at my abysmally low-paying job, the more insistent she becomes. It's only a matter of time, really, before I just start shoving dollar bills into my mouth - "You mean I'm not supposed to eat it? That's funny. What were you saying about UBS Warburg again?")

Anyway, my mom has meetings through Friday and then she'll be spending the weekend with me. We'll probably eat, wander through a museum or two, and dig around Chinatown for cheap jewelry.

My mom will invariably tell at least a half dozen people "This is my daughter - she lives in Brooklyn! In her very first apartment!" And I will do my best not to remind her that my current apartment is, in fact, my eighth.

However, all things considered, my mother is a pretty easily contented lady. All I have to do to make her happy is keep her company and not mention my father. Or my grandmother. Or my job. But other than that, she could really care less what we actually do.

Most out-of-town visitors are not so pliable.

The moment you move to New York City, long-distance friends will come crawling out of the woodwork, just like the adorable multi-legged creatures with whom you now share your living space. Your friends will bubble over with plans to visit and, oh, by the way, can they crash on your couch? Just for a couple of days? You can't really say no because you know how much hotels cost here and you sympathize. And, also, you don't want to be an asshole. Not so soon after moving here, anyway. Personality shifts are a lot like scotch: you have to let your inner asshole age for a few months before releasing it into the world.

So you really can't help but agree to let them stay.

It doesn't seem so bad at first. You fold out the sofa, hand your guest a pillow, and make a few empty gestures of welcome: A glass of water? A stick of gum? Last month's issue of National Geographic? But then, just as you turn to escape into your bedroom, it happens: "So what are we going to do tomorrow?"

Congratulations: you've just been appointed cruise director. And this is when the trouble starts.

Because in New York, local is local, and tourist is tourist, and never the twain shall meet. Except in Times Square.

Tourists come to New York to see the Statue of Liberty, visit the Empire State Building, and stroll through Little Italy. They want to take in a show and traverse the city. On foot. And, occasionally, horse and buggy.

None of these, of course, are activities that locals enjoy on a daily basis. Show me the New York City taxpayer with a reservation at Tavern on the Green, and I'll show you someone with an out-of-town guest.

I think this will help illustrate what I see as the crux of the problem:


(This is the same rigorous Excel work, by the way, that got me a passing grade on my undergraduate thesis.)

See, given the choice, I would always prefer to spend my time at a dive bar with a 2-for-1 drink special. Obviously, though, I can't do this with my out-of-town guests. I don't want to ruin their visits, after all. Nor do I want them to think that I have a drinking problem. So, instead, I've developed a houseguest strategy.

Which I am going to share with you.

Herewith, my tips for entertaining out-of-towners with minimal expense, effort, and exasperation, either on your part or your guests'.

First of all, be sure give your guests a spare set of keys and a detailed description of how to get to your apartment. This will give you the freedom to ditch your guests at a moment's notice. If, for instance, there is a motion on the table to go to ESPN Zone, you need to be able to leave and leave fast.

This will also get you out of at least one night of entertaining, because if you know what's good for you, you're going to have a sudden crisis at the office that will require you to work late. If your guests are youngish, send them to a live-music venue - specifically, a live-music venue frequented by hipsters. To you, hipsters might be "annoying" or "completely fucking intolerable". To them, however, hipsters will seem "exotic" and "cool".

If your guests are oldish, send them to the Oak Room.

Be sure to text your guests regularly with apologies. Feel free to blame your boss, as in "I can't believe he/she is pulling this shit last-minute! I so wish I could be out with you!"

You don't, but it's okay to lie. Hospitality, after all, is just another kind of falsehood.

If you have a car, or access to one, I highly recommend using it as much as possible. Not only does this provide an opportunity for wide-ranging, minimally enervating sight-seeing, but you'll also be able to waste shitloads of time while looking for street parking. This technique came in handy most recently when my cousin came to town. He was very insistent about needing to go to the Hard Rock Cafe to purchase a "New York Rocks" t-shirt for his girlfriend. I managed to circle around long enough that by the time we finally got there, well, shoot, it was already time to go.

If you don't have access to a car, you can achieve a similar effect by finding a way to include the G train in your travel itinerary.

Although this might seem mean-spirited, as long as you can keep up a running monologue about life in the city - "What's the deal with alternate side parking!" - your guests will be pleased. For them, it's all part of the New York experience.

Follow this advice and you, too, can make it through an entire weekend with minimal houseguest-related hassle. If you can suck it up and find it within yourself to enjoy one real cheeseball activity (a trip on the Circle Line, cupcakes at Magnolia, tickets to Wicked), they will never know that you weren't super-psyched to see them. And, even better, you'll probably get a free dinner out of it.

Just try not to let that dinner be at Tavern on the Green. (More)

elite and greet

This is my favorite news story of the day: Overcast N.Y. Sun Tries Giving It Away.

Ahem.

"The paper has embarked on an aggressive policy to ramp up its free distribution in what it calls the elite neighborhoods of the city."

As most of my readers live outside of the Tri-State Area, at this point I think it might be helpful to provide a quick run-down of a few NYC neighborhoods.

For the statistically inclined, a chart:


For the cartographically conditioned, a map:

And for the pop-culturally enabled, a paralleled cast list from Full House:

Financial District: John Stamos
Murray Hill: Candace Cameron
SoHo: Mary-Kate Olsen
Nolita: Ashley Olsen
Little Italy: Dave Coulier
Meatpacking District: Bob Saget
Windsor Terrace: Jodie Sweetin

So, given that I live in Windsor Terrace, in a building owned by a slightly insane and not-so-slightly xenophobic 94-year-old Italian woman, in a neighborhood where the most fashionable store is the Verizon outlet on Prospect Park West, I can't help but wonder: WHY THE FUCK AM I RECEIVING THE NEW YORK SUN EVERY MORNING?

There are few benefits to living in a marginal neighborhood, but not being lumped together with the Jimmy Choo-and-charities set is one I cherish.

If this keeps up, I'm moving to Bay Ridge. (More)

rage, rage

Earlier today I walked over to a nearby deli for my usual lunch of pasta and plant-matter. In the ten total minutes I spent in the outside world, I contemplated the application of physical violence four separate times:

1. While walking down Broadway, I got stuck behind a woman wearing sweatpants that were so tight I could actually see the cellulite in her ass.
2. At the bank, a yapping Barbie doll jumped in front of me in line and then proceeded to deliver a skillful "Just who the fuck do you think you are, four-eyes?" once-over.
3. At the salad bar, I was body-checked twice (once by a businessman, once by a Louis Vuitton tote) on my way to the tortellini.
4. On the corner of Spring and Crosby, I was forced to listen as two idiots practiced speaking French to one another in the most obliviously pretentious way possible.

Okay, so here's the thing: you have to be a little bit deluded to move to New York. No matter how cynical or jaded a person you are, if you're a New York transplant, then at some point you've indulged in at least a tiny bit of starry-eyed fantasy about making it in the big city. As handy as it is, nobody moves here for the 24-hour transportation. We move because we think that there's something for us here.

Most of the time we're wrong.

Because this is the reality of New York: nothing is easy. The city is an overpriced, overcrowded cesspit of humanity, and although it might make you stronger, it's a hell of a lot more likely that it'll kill you first. You go to get a bagel, you stand in line for 15 minutes while the I-banking doucheheaps in front of you try to charge $1.55 to their corporate AMEX cards. You go to the bookstore on the wrong day and are driven out of the fiction section by 8,000 rabid John Irving devotees. You are perpetually tormented by tourists. You are perpetually tormented by hipsters.

You are never going to be able to afford a house, but if you're really lucky a bank will give you the opportunity to mortgage your entire life away in order to lay pathetic claim to a few dilapidated rooms that once served as the location shoot for an anti-drug campaign.

God forbid you should need to go to the post office. Or the DMV. Or the Apple Store. Or the hospital.

However, that's not to say that I don't love living here.

A few months ago, I met up with an old friend. We met during our first year of college, when we both made an ill-advised decision to take intensive Mandarin. For two hours a day, five days a week, we trekked up to the outer reaches of campus to be drilled in characters and tones and Communist Party watchwords. We spent most of our time rolling our eyes at a classmate who was hopeless, utterly hopeless at Chinese pronunciation. For instance, the word "laoshi," which means teacher: the first syllable rhymes with "how" and the second syllable sounds a bit like "shirt" but without the t. This kid, though, pronounced it fast and high - looshee! - as if it were some sort of battle cry. It cracked me up every time.

When we weren't making fun of our classmates we would sit outside Vanserg and just get mad. Mad that class started at 9am - madder that one girl had a conflict and insisted that class start at 8:30am - and maddest that we were wasting so much time in such an inefficient learning environment. So mad, in fact, that we weren't going to take it anymore. Over the course of the year, we started coming later and later and were less and less well-prepared. Eventually, our teacher pulled us into his office for a little chat.

He sat us both in front of his desk and for about five minutes didn't say a word - he just shook his head every time he looked at us. Then, suddenly, he spoke: "There were once two brothers. The older brother was very smart. The younger brother was not so very smart." (I remember thinking "Well, shit, no way am I the smart one.")

He continued. "However, that younger brother worked very, very hard. The smarter brother thought he was too good to work. And the smarter brother was always angry at the younger brother for not being so smart. Now, what do you think happened to these brothers?" A perfunctory pause, and then, triumphantly: "The younger brother has a position at Harvard and the older brother runs a newsstand in Tianjin."

He concluded - although at this point we knew exactly what was coming -"You are both the older brother. Just see where it gets you!"

Six years later, I reminded my friend of this story as we ate at a vegetarian restaurant near my office. He chuckled and shook his head and confessed that he didn't even remember the incident at all.

"Not remember? How could you not remember! I'm still mad about it."

"Why are you mad?"

"He was just so judgmental."

"But it was true."

"That's not the point!"

"No," he agreed, smiling, "It's not." He paused and looked at me in a very direct way. "There's this book I think you should read. It's called Anger."

"Anger?"

"Anger. I think it would do you good. It's really helped me."

Now, it's generally assumed that people want to make at least some effort to rid themselves of bad habits. Ours is an aspirational society, after all. We all want to be thinner, richer, prettier. And, occasionally, better. So it follows that I would want to work on my anger issues. That I would want to make an effort to be gentler, sweeter, calmer. But see: I like my anger. I'm fairly certain, in fact, that to do away with my anger would render me pretty much completely devoid of personality. It would certainly leave me pretty fucking bereft of things to write about here.

Anyway, I looked the book up when I got back to the office. It was written by a Vietnamese monk renowned for his pacifism - apparently he believes that anger is a form of suffering, and that we are responsible for the reduction of suffering through the reduction of our own anger.

I thought about this for a moment.

And, remarkably, he was right - it did do me good. Because I remembered something very important: I'm a goddamn masochist. When means, then, that for me anger is just one kind of mindfulness.

So, really, anger is good for me.

Tonight I have to go home and move my car. Alternate side parking is the fucking bane of my existence. Every Sunday and Monday I have to move my car or else I get a ticket and a big orange label of public shame that reads something like (I might be paraphrasing) "Your streets aren't clean because this asshole couldn't move her car." It's better than in some parts of the city I guess - when I lived in Prospect Heights I had to move my car every weekday - but that doesn't mean that I like it or anything.

Because, first of all, there are fucking fire hydrants like every fifteen feet or so, but when you're cruising for a spot, you always think that they're going to be actual spaces, so you slow down. If you do this on a side street, the people behind you will lean on their horns. If you do this on the main streets, the assholes will pass you on the left and steal what should have been your spot.

And that's assuming there are any spots to begin with because no one knows how to fucking pull up into a parking space so there are little half-spaces scattered throughout the neighborhood but I have to drive in circles for hoursif I actually want to park my car without fear of permanent damage.

And I won't even get into the fact that my neighborhood has some of the highest car insurance premiums in the country.

Because everything about this fucking city makes me completely fucking insane.

But I wouldn't have it any other way. (More)

by the numbers

Distance from my apartment to my office: 5.2 miles

Time from my apartment to my office yesterday morning: 90 minutes

Time from my apartment to my office this morning: 75 minutes

Speed yesterday: 3.6 mph

Speed today: 4.5 mph

The substantive difference between yesterday's commute and today's: Today I drove. (More)

a walk to remember

All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

When I went to sleep last night, it was still unclear whether or not there was going to be a strike. It certainly wasn't looking good, but the fact that the union was delaying an announcement seemed to indicate that maybe they were trying to work things out. Or not. It was hard to tell, given that NY1 just kept replaying the same three clips over and over again.

But even though I'm about as pessimistic as they come, I can't say that I went to bed thinking that I was going to wake up without subway service. The idea of a New York without public transit just didn't compute - it's like trying to imagine California without cars or Washington, D.C. without assholes. So when I woke up and heard the newscasting equivalent of "Congratulations New York! You're completely fucked!", I was pretty shocked.

I was also out of Diet Coke this morning, though, so I could have just been in caffeine withdrawal.

Regardless, I somehow gathered my wits and my warmest clothes about me and set off into the Great Unknown. NY1 was reporting one- to two-hour delays at the bridges and tunnels and showing footage of great giant swarms of swaddled commuters crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Just in case something went terribly wrong, I threw some extra charge on my iPod and picked up an extra pack of gum. And I bought a stupidly large cappuccino.

This is, in fact, my idea of being prepared.

None of my post-apocalyptic imaginings, however, could have prepared me for what I encountered this morning: eerie calm. Traffic along Flatbush? No worse than usual. Traffic on the Manhattan Bridge? Sparse. Traffic in Manhattan? Non-existent. There was actually parking this morning. In Chinatown.

That's not to say that my morning didn't suck. It was a fairly long walk, even at my usual brisk pace, and with the wind chill the temperature was about 11. This meant that I got to both sweat and freeze my ass off. Also, I had the bad sense to take the Manhattan Bridge, which is apparently the down-market East River alternative: not only were the press, mayor, and borough president over at the Brooklyn Bridge, but they were also giving out free coffee.

But by 10:30 this morning, I was safely at my desk, none the worse for wear.

You know how sometimes you'll start to tell a story and then, halfway through, you'll realize that there's no punchline and try, desperately, to salvage the anecdote? Usually through exaggerated hand-waving and frantic non sequiturs. And if that doesn't work, as a last resort you might say "And then I found five dollars!" - as if that makes the story somehow relevant or interesting.

Well, strangely enough, this morning I did find five dollars. On the street, right around Prospect Park West and 9th.

I should have known then that my first-day transit-strike story was going to be boring as shit. (More)

hacked

At 58th and 9th:

"We're going to be making two stops in Brooklyn. The first one is in Brooklyn Heights - take the first exit off the Brooklyn Bridge."
"The Brooklyn Bridge?"
"Yes, the Brooklyn Bridge."
"But that is downtown."
"Yes. As is the way to Brooklyn."
"Oh, fine, I guess."

At 49th and 2nd:

"Sir? It would be pretty awesome if we could stop a bit more gradually next time. We would really like not to be thrown against the partition again."

At Bowery and Houston:

"Look, mister, unless you'd like a cab full of sick, I'd really suggest not slamming on the brakes every twenty seconds. You have two very drunk people back here who are not doing particularly well. You would have three, but I have been sobered up by fear."
"What's that? You want to get out here?"

On the Manhattan Bridge:

"Just for future reference, you do realize that this is not the Brooklyn Bridge, right?"

On the corner of Henry and Pineapple:

"Okay, so just hop back on the BQE westbound and go to the Prospect Expressway."
"You didn't tell me we were going to Prospect."
"I did say two stops in Brooklyn."
"But you didn't say Prospect."
"It's less than ten minutes away."
"I don't know ... "
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I don't know if I can go all the way out there."
"I'm not asking you to take me to Jersey. I'm asking you to take me to Park Slope."
"That's a long way."
"Do you even know where it is? Do you actually know where we are now? Because it's three in the morning and there is no traffic so it is really, really only going to take us ten minutes."
"Well ... "
"Well what? I'm already in your cab. You have to take me."


At Henry and Clark:

"I really don't think that your horn is going to make the light turn green any faster."

At Henry and Clark, five seconds later:

"Running the red light, though, that's a great idea."

On the BQE:

"Where is this Prospect Expressway? It has been ten minutes."
"It's been five minutes, and that's only because you stopped on Cadman Plaza West to yell at that homeless man."

On 11th Ave:

"So go straight through the next light."
"Straight? Okay."
"Why are you turning? I said straight."
"Straight? Right."
"No, not right - STRAIGHT. As in do not turn, as in continue in our current direction."
"I hear you - I'm going straight."
"Then how are we suddenly facing east?"

At Bartel Pritchard Square:

"Keep the change."
"Thank you, that's very nice of you."
"Well it's not because I'm pleased. It's because I compensate for being a bad person by overtipping. You, sir, are the worst fucking driver I have ever had. Do the world a favor: find another job. Good night."
"But wait, wait, miss!"
"Oh, for Christ's sake. What?"
"Can you tell me how to get back to Manhattan?" (More)

thunder, lightning, strike

This will be my morning commute if a subway strike goes through: a leisurely 5-mile walk along Prospect Park, up Flatbush and through beautiful downtown Brooklyn, and across the Manhattan Bridge and up into SoHo. It's exactly as exciting as it sounds.

Or, if I'm feeling truly masochistic, I could get in my car and sit in traffic for several hours. Provided I can find at least three other people who are willing to be trapped on the BQE with me at 9 in the morning. While I listen to Petula Clark on repeat.

Either way, it's not looking promising.

It could be worse. I could live in the Bronx.

I'm generally pretty conflicted when it comes to labor disputes. On the one hand, I am almost always in favor of sticking it to The Man, no matter who that Man might turn out to be. On the other hand, I've seen Hoffa.

On my first day of grad-school orientation, the moment I walked out of a TA training session I was approached by two grad-student union leaders. That was during my brief and lamentable West Coast bohemian phase, and I was probably just a Che Guevara decal away from looking like the stereotypical student subversive. They introduced themselves in a flurry of earnest condescension - why, little girl, is that Fair Trade coffee you're drinking? - and asked if I'd joined the union yet. I said no, and they immediately shoved a clipboard in my face.

"All you have to do is sign here, here, and initial here."

Now, if college taught me anything, it was how to deal with overeager extracurricular types. I calmly pushed the clipboard to the side and said "Actually, I haven't really given this a lot of thought. Why don't you give me your contact information and let me think about it?"

I was lying. I wasn't going to think about it. And they could tell.

"Why do you need to think about it? Our contract is up in two weeks - we need to have as many members as possible if we want to have a strong bargaining position."

"When are you opening discussions?" I asked, conversationally.

"Next Thursday."

I smiled. "Well, then I have a few days to decide, don't I?"

They looked at me in disbelief. "But all you have to do is sign! You don't have to do anything else!"

"What if you strike?"

One suddenly narrowed her eyes at me. "What department are you in, anyway?"

"Political science."

The clipboard was immediately withdrawn. "Well, thanks anyway."

I later found out that our department had the lowest union membership rate of any, save economics. It was, I think, the only thing my classmates and I agreed on.

But the transit workers here aren't threatening to strike out of some misguided notions of solidarity and stipend inflation. They're facing some fairly serious repercussions if they walk off the job, and even though I'm too lazy to read the complete coverage of the points of contention, I'm going to assume that they're not doing this just to fuck with us.

And in light of the other labor disputes happening around the world, I suppose I should be grateful. Sure, a strike will cost the city a fortune and will directly contribute to one of the worst traffic jams in human history, but in Washington, D.C., the actual spirit of Christmas may be at stake.

Well, anyway, that's what I'm going to try to keep telling myself in order to keep from stabbing somebody in the eye when I'm walking past Atlantic Center at 8 in the morning next Tuesday. (More)

subpar

On a good day, it takes me 35 minutes, door to door, to get to work.

On a perfect day, it takes me 25 minutes.

And on a glorious day like today, it takes me a full fucking hour.

I don't even know how it happened, but I knew it was coming the moment I stepped onto the platform this morning. There were too many people there and they were looking cranky. Crankier than usual, that is. Something bad was in the air.

When the train finally arrived - 10 minutes later, significantly longer than the rush-hour usual - it was packed. Unusually, I might add, for a train so far out in Brooklyn. As the doors opened, I saw one seat miraculously open up; if we had been aboveground, I am pretty certain that the seat would have been bathed in some divine pool of light. It was beautiful.

But then I was fucking blocked by a goddamned baby stroller and the seat was stolen by some floozy with a preposterously fake Louis Vuitton bag.

(By the way, if the MTA is going to forbid us from putting bags on empty seats and, possibly, from drinking coffee on the trains, I see no reason why young children should be allowed on the subway. They are twenty times the public menace of a cup of coffee and have none of the delicious restorative effects.)

So instead, I end up half smashed against a metal pole and subjected to an inane conversation that's strident enough even to overpower Raw Power, which I'm listening to at high volume. We move slowly because the train is so crowded that people aren't able to push in past the doors, and at every stop we sit there and wait while the doors open and close, open and close until the conductor finally comes over the PA and tells the last straggling fuckwits to wait for the next train and let us leave the damn station already.

At Jay Street a bunch of people shove off to transfer to the A. An equal number transfer from the A to us. Neither train moves. For five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. The car reeks of exasperation by the time the conductor finally speaks up: "We are going to hold here in the station until we know which direction we're going. Thanks for your patience." No, I'm not making that up.

Another five minutes. "This F train will be running along the A from Jay to West 4th. We'll be leaving shortly. Thanks for your patience."

Five minutes more. "Again, this train will be making stops along the A. The A train will be leaving ahead of us. Thanks for your patience." People bolt to the A across the platform.

Then, over the station PA, just as the doors to the A train close, "The F train will be making all normal stops. I repeat, the F train will be making all normal stops." A third of the riders on the A train flinch simultaneously as they pull out of the station. It is the only bright moment of my morning.

65 minutes after I leave my apartment, I finally arrive at work.

Granted, it could have been worse. There was the time last fall when the remnants of a hurricane dumped six inches of rain on the city. You'd think that one of the world's busiest mass transit systems would be able to handle a little rain. You'd be mistaken. I made my way eventually to the Atlantic Ave. stop, a major MTA hub in downtown Brooklyn, where I ran from line to line to try to find a train that was still heading into Manhattan. After 20 minutes of increasingly frustrating back and forth, I ended up back where I started, on the 2/3 that the conductor had helpfully told us earlier was not running at all. Apparently, he was also mistaken. Door-to-door: two hours, twenty minutes.

Then there was the time last winter when we were hit with a foot of snow and subzero temperatures. Subway service ran smoothly - except for my line, which was crippled by a signal outage. For three days those of us who are cursed with a dependence on the F were forced to shuttle to and from Jay Street via bus. Of course, the MTA didn't think to provide any additional buses to handle the extra riders, so each day I had to push myself into a crowd of frustrated commuters and try to jockey for bus-boarding position without having an eye taken out by a stray purse or elbow. Both of which were thrown with regularity. Door-to-door: ninety minutes, at least thirty of which had me shivering miserably at a bus stop while fearing for life and limb.

The most depressing thing about all of this is, I think, that even as disgruntled as I am, I'm one of the strongest subway advocates I know. As much as it is possible to love public transportation, I love the subway. I love that I live 50 feet from a subway stop. I love that sometimes I'm able to catch 20 extra minutes of sleep during my morning commute. I love the subway enough that I suffered the indignity of having to admit that a Republican was the best mayoral candidate almost entirely because I wanted to vote for the Transportation Bond Act.

But if Winston Churchill were alive and living in Manhattan, I'm pretty sure he'd agree: the NYC subway system is the worst form of transportation, except for all the others.

At least until the subway workers go on strike. Then it will just be the worst, period. And then I might just have to get the hell out of town. (More)