Read Time: 01:30
Riding the subway in New York City is a moveable feast if you enjoy people watching. The only thing is to not stare at someone too long. They might stab you.
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In Italy, riding the Metro is different–especially in the summer, when the absolutely murderous heat and the second-world air quality affects your disposition. In Italy, it’s so hot and pressed and populated that when you come eye to eye with someone riding the Metro, there are mere inches between your sweaty faces, but you don’t look away. Everyone’s just there in agreement that it’s goddamned hot and hey ho this is humanity.
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In NYC, the homeless people have a gig in the subway cars. They pitch. They pitch their needs (whether asking for money, food or feminine hygiene products), and they do it better than I’ve seen some CEOs pitch their own businesses. NYC should hire homeless people to teach big business about how to sound sincere, how to sound urgent in their pitches. During these pitches, most riders avert their eyes to the floor, to their phone, or to the most recent issue of The New Yorker.
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My first trip to Italy, I was about 30 and I went to visit my mom. She’d had an apartment there (an entire life, actually) for a few years, and I wanted to know about it. So I visit. One summer day we take a bus to Porta Portesi. It is Dante’s seventh-ring-of-hell hot, and there’s an old man standing behind me on the bus. It’s so hot and populated and pressed, and I can feel his erection poking through his pants on the side of my thigh so I turn my head and all I see is his wide, unapologetic and beautifully crooked grin.
And I’m just there, in agreement, that it’s goddamn hot and hey ho this is humanity.
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