Everyone complains about the J train. Slow, they say. Unreliable, they say. And sure, on a Tuesday when it's crawling into Marcy Avenue like it's thinking about its life choices, I agree.
But then it climbs.
The J train over the Williamsburg Bridge is the reason I forgive the MTA for everything it has ever done to me. For twelve minutes you're just suspended above the East River, the whole downtown skyline sliding past the scratched-up windows, the water going gold in the August evening light.
This morning I got a window seat. A rarity. A blessing. An aunty in the next seat was FaceTiming someone in Gujarati and I caught the word "garmi" — heat — and thought, yes, ben, the heat is the same everywhere, but the view is only here.
I don't know when the J train over the Williamsburg Bridge became my little meditation. Somewhere between year one, when I hated it, and year three, when I started planning my day around getting that seat on the river side.
You come up out of the tunnel at Essex and the city just hands itself to you. The bridge cables flicker past like a strobe. There's always one tourist gasping. There's always one New Yorker refusing to look up from their phone, and I used to be so smug about that, and now I understand — you can't gasp at a miracle every single day or you'd never get to work.
But I try to look up most days.
Today the light hit the water and I thought about the Sabarmati back home, how it doesn't shimmer like this, how it's browner and slower and mine in a different way. Two rivers. One girl who keeps choosing the scenic route.
The train dipped back underground at Delancey and the show was over. Everyone shuffled toward the doors. I stayed one extra second.
Some commutes are just transit. This one is a small act of devotion.
Love,