There's a specific ten-minute window in late September when the 6 train pulls above the psychological ground and the light comes in sideways and gold and everyone's face softens.
I caught it yesterday around 6:40, heading downtown from 68th Street. Nobody was on their phone. A man in scrubs had his eyes closed. A girl with a cello was smiling at nothing.
The 6 train at golden hour in September does this thing where it makes you forgive New York for August. And August was rude to us this year. Ninety-seven degrees and the smell of a garbage bag that had personal goals.
But this week the air went crisp. I got off at Bleecker and walked instead of transferring, past the fruit guy on Lafayette who calls everyone "boss," including me, which I've decided to take as a promotion.
My mummy called while I was walking. She wanted to know if I was eating. I said yes and meant it for once — I'd had a real lunch, not just chai and hope. She said the light in Ahmedabad was beautiful too right now, before Navratri, everything getting ready.
We stood on two different continents inside the same golden hour and I didn't tell her I was tearing up on Bleecker Street because that's a lot to put on a Tuesday.
Here's what I've learned about the 6 train at golden hour in September: you can't plan for it. You just have to be on the right car at the right time with your head up instead of down.
So look up on your commute this week. It's ending soon.
Love,