TooMuchInformation

Today the Boy in the Checkered Shirt came over and worked on the painting project.  Then we went into the city and shopped for a new wireless router (I’m typing this from the floor of my bedroom!) and a pair of Princess Leia-esque headphones for work.

After, we took the W train down to Prince Street and stopped in to Uniqlo to look for a t-shirt he saw in DC.   They didn’t have it anymore, but I did pick up a new sweater and 4 pairs of badly needed socks.  Then we walked over to Cafe Habana, for a coffee, but the wait for a table was 30 minutes.  Instead we headed across the street to Jacques, a French brasserie with very few patrons.   We each ordered a cappucino, shared a shrimp and avocado salad.  We finished the light meal with a very heavy souffle au chocolat.

And then we boarded the M train at Bowery and headed back to Bushwick.

The woman sitting next to me smelled like Pond’s Cold Cream.

Due to construction, the MTA has Manhattan-bound L trains stopping at Bedford Ave where passengers must cross the platform and wait for another train to run shuttle to Union Square.  Today I was one of hundreds of aggravated passengers waiting not so patiently.  From the middle of the platform I could hear someone methodically striking cords on a violin.  The sound drew me in and I maneuvered through the crowd to get a view.  There was a young man with wild hair, his eyes closed, hitting the strings with his bow.  Then he stopped and began humming a warm and sad “Ooooooooh  ooooooooh ooooooooh” and then launched into a powerful verse from a song I don’t know.  The words were sad and desperate, about someone struggling against a current and praying for help in letting go.  I stood rapt; most on the platform did the same.  When his verse was done he bagan striking the cords again, followed by another round of humming, and another sad verse.  His voice grew in strength and filled the tunnel.  Too soon, he finished, opened his eyes and smiled bashfully as everyone applauded.  

I saw more than a few men in really ill-fitting suits.  Like sleeves too long, falling off the shoulders, baggy pants.  Just not right.  Guys, take advantage of the Mens Wearhouse’s free tailoring offer.  Please.  You’re welcome.

After watching the election results in a bar in Murray Hill, and a mad jaunt uptown to be part of the celebration in Times Square, I headed home on the L train.  It was after midnight and my voice was raspy from cheering and eyes red from the occassional emotional overwhelming.  Although it was late, the platform at Union Square was crowded and the arriving train full. 

Four years ago, I was up in the middle of the night watching the results online from my apartment in France.  I felt like I was the only one awake that night, desperately hitting refresh on the NYTimes website every few minutes to see changes in the Bush-Kerry contest.

Last night I was one of many.  Happy, hoarse, and tired, it was a rambunctions train ride.  A woman with a drum stood at the end of the car hitting a beat that kept the crowd chanting along.  At each stop along the way, when the doors opened and passengers departed for their beds, a loud whoop went up the stairs and turnstiles.  I was tempted to stay on till the last stop to see if the good spirits remained until the cars were empty.  But my bed was calling and I wanted to check on Indiana.

At the start of the night, in the bar, a couple visting from Germany sat at a table behind me, asking for details on the entire process.  They seemed to get the idea of the Electoral College, but the notion that some states had longer voting hours and different methods for counting wasn’t sinking in for them.  Also perplexing was the fact that with only 1% of precincts counted the newscasters were certain that Kentucky was going for McCain.

I can’t say how many people on the train had a grasp of our process, but the mood was high, proud, satisfied, jubilant, energized, relief.