It hit 97 degrees this week and the city did what it always does in a heat wave, which is behave like it has personally never encountered summer before.
I was on the L train heading from Bedford back into Manhattan when it stalled. Under the East River. In the tunnel. With the AC making a sound like it was filing its resignation.
Here is what you learn about people in a stalled L train during a heat wave: the masks come off. Not literally. Spiritually.
The finance guy stopped pretending to read Sapiens. A woman in full bridal glam — full lehenga situation, henna and everything, clearly headed somewhere important — started fanning herself with a printout of directions and muttering in Punjabi that made me want to hug her. A teenager offered around a warm bag of Takis like it was communion.
We were down there maybe twelve minutes. It felt like a season. The heat wave had reduced us all to the same wet, honest, complaining animal, and honestly? Nicest strangers had been to each other all summer.
Someone said, "This is why I moved here for." Sarcastic. We all laughed with the specific delirium of the overheated.
The thing about a New York heat wave is it's a great equalizer. The L train doesn't care about your rent or your job title. Under the river, everyone's mascara runs the same. The bride and the finance guy and me, sweating through a linen shirt I'd chosen precisely to avoid this outcome. Fashion humbles you daily.
We finally lurched into First Avenue. The doors opened onto a platform that was somehow hotter than the train, which felt like a betrayal. The bride wished everyone luck. The Takis teenager vanished into the crowd, a hero unnamed.
I walked up into the LES blinking like a mole, bought a mango lassi from the deli on Houston, and pressed the cold cup to my neck the whole walk home.
Summer in this city is a full-contact sport. Hydrate and forgive everyone.
Love,