I had an early call time this week, which meant catching the 6 train at 6AM, which meant seeing a version of New York I usually only imagine.
The 6 train at 6AM is a completely different animal. No shoving. No podcast-bro elbows. Just a handful of us, spread out like we're all trying not to wake each other.
An older man across from me was reading a paperback with the spine cracked all the way back. A nurse in scrubs slept sitting perfectly upright, the way only exhausted people can. I got on at 68th and rode down toward the studio in the Flatiron, watching the light do that thing where it turns the whole car gold for about four stops.
Late August in this city has a specific texture. The trees along Park Avenue look tired. The air is warm before you even leave your building. Everyone's clinging to summer with both hands even though we can all feel it packing its bags.
It reminded me, weirdly, of early mornings in Ahmedabad. My Nani up before everyone, the sound of the pressure cooker, that quiet before a house full of people wakes up. There's a holiness to being awake before the world needs anything from you.
I got off at 23rd Street and bought an iced coffee from the cart guy who calls everyone "boss." The 6 train at 6AM had given me forty minutes that felt entirely mine, and I hadn't done a single productive thing with them. Just looked. Just noticed.
By the time the evening rush comes, the 6 will be back to its sweaty, crowded self. But for one morning I got the soft version.
Go somewhere early this week. The city gives you a different face before 7.
Love,