I Spent 24 Hours Straight On the NYC Subway!

Plus! Third Anniversary Issue!! Eric Adams Poll!!! Big-Ass Subscription Discount!!!!

Hello everyone,

Welcome to Issue #135 of CAFÉ ANNE! It’s the THIRD ANNIVERSARY issue!!!!!

A special thanks to the 70 readers who have been with me since I hit “publish” on Issue #1 back in 2021. And my, how we’ve grown. As of today, CAFÉ ANNE has nine billion readers. That’s more readers than people on the planet! Wow!!

So as you all know, NYC Mayor Eric Adams was indicted last week on a whole mess of charges. I’ve heard from MANY people since then saying they were looking forward to hearing my “take” on the matter. I’ll have more to say in the next issue. For now, I’ll just note that whether he is innocent or guilty, Eric Adams—the city’s first AI-generated Mayor—shall forever remain one of my favorite New Yorkers.

That said, if he resigns, should I continue to run “Eric Adams Watch”? After all, he will no longer be mayor of New York City, just a strange man in a heap of trouble. On the other hand, he will likely continue saying and doing weird things, and maybe that’s enough to merit continued attention. Curious to know what you think. Please vote, and post your thoughts in the comments.

In other news, huge new-fall-uniform shoutouts to this week’s newest paid subscribers, Shelly W., Rachel M., Mark K., Dan E. and Jenny A. That’s enough $$$ for five black shirts! As you know, while everything on CAFÉ ANNE will always be free, I cannot continue without the growing support of those who opt to pay—many thanks!

I am very excited for this week’s issue, of course. We’ve got an account of my adventure living in the NYC subway for 24 hours straight. Please enjoy!

We’ve also got a THIRD ANNIVERSARY SUBSCRIPTION SPECIAL. This week only, a 12-month subscription to CAFÉ ANNE is just $35—a $15 discount!

How often do you get chance to save 30% on a publication you’re already reading for free? Act now!!

Regards!

Anne

FEATURE

I Spent 24 Hours Straight on the NYC Subway!

The last thing I do before heading out on my big adventure is drop my dog to stay overnight with my neighbor Shelly. I tell Shelly my plan: I'm going to spend 24 hours straight in the NYC subway.

The rules: I can go wherever I please, chat with whomever looks interesting and pass the time however I like—as long as I don't pass back through the turnstile. Also, I’m only allowed to eat, drink and read what I buy underground.

"Any suggestions?" I ask.

"One word," says Shelly. "Don't."

It's too late. I've wanted to do this for years, lord knows why, and have spent many hours at this point planning and packing for the trip, the way one might prepare for a safari.  

My tote bag is packed with my toothbrush, notebook, pen and ibuprofen. I've got a list of underground sites recommended by readers, and a directory of subway stations with bathrooms.

I’ve also got a list of activities recommended by my "friend," Aharon. Among his suggestions:

-Games using other people as game pieces. (In your mind. Maybe.)

-Ongoing list of the most miserable aspects of this nightmare.

-Cocaine!

-Combine with some other horrible task. Maybe you can do your taxes?

8:50 PM

I start at the Atlantic-Barclays station, the biggest, busiest hub in Brooklyn, and scan the scene for my dinner, hoping to find a churro cart. I've never eaten one of these fried Spanish pastries illegally sold in the subway, and a sweet reader had Venmo'd me a little cash so I could treat myself. Alas, I spot a cart, but the pan is empty. "No more," says the churro lady. "Sorry."

I settle for a cup of fresh-sliced mango from the fruit cart lady. And at the pretzel stand, which is closing for the night, the guy hands me a giant cinnamon-sugar pretzel, “on the house!"

I choose the D train to Coney Island for my first ride, because, well, Coney Island! But there's not much going on in my car. I scan the ads. They are full of bad suggestions: "Order lottery tickets from your phone!" "Be the boldest version of yourself, become a NYC corrections officer!"

The D to Coney Island

10 PM

I get off at Stillwell Avenue. It’s the end of the line, but many passengers stay aboard because they're fast asleep. They're staying overnight on the Motel D-Train.

Why did I think there'd be a big scene at the Coney Island stop? On summer weekends, it's a big party, but now it's a ghost town.

"Doing this on a Monday night was truly idiotic," I text Aharon, who asked me to live-blog my adventure.

I take the Q to Union Square, one of the big Manhattan hubs, but it's also creepy quiet. I'd been planning to do a "Best-Dressed Passengers" photo series for this story, but no one on the subway is dressed to the nines on a Monday night. They are dressed to the fours and fives, at best.

But I do give directions to a tiny tourist in a baby blue suit, meet an adorable cop dog named Leo who gives me a big kiss and spot many men sleeping all over the mezzanine and train platforms.

You can tell the real street people from everyone else, I observe, by their footwear. They often wear two different shoes. Or no shoes. Or just one shoe. Or one foot wrapped in a rag, the other in a sock.

10:30 PM

I take the L-train to the 14th Street-8th Ave. where I spot the subway equivalent of a dodo bird—a newsstand!

Sort of. Like most newsstands these days, it offers zero newspapers. The magazines, meanwhile, are all dated April 2020—the start of the pandemic.

David, the clerk, says he mainly sells candy and drinks, but occasionally sells an outdated magazine: "People want to pass the time on the train.”

David!

"They'll buy anything!" I observe.

"Yes!" he says.

David is from India and has worked the newsstand’s 9 pm-to-11 am shift for two years.

"Does it get boring working here, or do you like it?" I ask.

"What?"

"Do you like working here?"

"I work because I need money!" said David. "It's not liking or not liking!"

MIDNIGHT

Things are livelier at Times Square, the system's busiest station, and I spot my first busker, a man playing a harmonica. Dressed in a white tee-shirt, red tie and sweatpants, William McPherson is furiously rubbing his stomach and blowing a manic tune. It’s hard to get his attention, but after a lot of waving on my part, he stops to chat.

"Why are you rubbing your belly while you play?" I ask.

"Why not?" he replies. We laugh and laugh.

Mr. McPherson says he makes about $20 an hour playing midnight harmonica, and would continue until he got hungry enough for his next meal.

"And what's with the tie?" I ask.

"Why not?"

"Are you always at Times Square?"

"Times Square is always on me!" he says.

Mr. McPherson suggests I request a tune, so I ask him to play "Moon River."

"Give me another song," he says. "Beyoncé Knowles?"

Then he plays a Beyoncé tune I do not recognize. Maybe you will? Watch the video!

12:30 AM TUESDAY

I’m happy to see the long passageway in the Times Square station still features my all-time favorite art installation.

It's an odd one. The lines of a short poem, “Commuter’s Lament," are painted on the arches of a barrel-vaulted ceiling and appear as you walk through the block-long corridor.

OVERSLEPT

SO TIRED

IF LATE

GET FIRED

WHY BOTHER

WHY THE PAIN

JUST GO HOME

DO IT AGAIN

I next take the S shuttle to Grand Central and then hop on the downtown 6. If you take this train to the Brooklyn Bridge station at the end of the line, you can stay aboard as it loops back uptown and spot the long-abandoned City Hall station.

It's a delight to view the grand and ghostly depot; arriving back at the Brooklyn Bridge station, I decide to do it again. Then I look around. The only other folks on the downtown platform are people with nowhere to go: dozens of men in various stages of consciousness and undress. I scamper back up the stairs.

2:00 AM

Nearly every seat is filled on the uptown 6. Where is everyone going at this hour?  

Reader, I've taken a lot of surveys in my time, but there's a big difference between questioning folks in Bryant Park on a sunny afternoon and at 2 am on the subway.

But most passengers, it turns out, are happy to chat, or at least mumble replies. Of the ten I survey, one is catching a red-eye to LA, another is out drinking and a third was out visiting family. The remainder are heading home from work or on their way to work. They are hotel maids, construction workers and security guards. One, perhaps in an effort to sound fancy, says he’s in "inventory control."

2:30 AM

This is the low point. I've been awake for 21 hours and still have 19 hours left to go underground. Plus, in a haze of exhaustion, I accidentally left the supposedly safe zone of Manhattan and boarded the E train to Queens.

"This might turn out to be harder than I thought," I text Aharon.

"Don't be afraid to call it quits and lie about it after," he replies.  "Works for me!"

I get off at the Queens Plaza station, but the Manhattan-bound train platform is roped off. I am relieved when an orange-vested MTA security guy notices my confusion and comes to my aid. "Where are you trying to go?" he asks.

"Just back to the city," I reply.

"You take the Queens-bound train one more stop, cross over and then take any train back," he says. "Have a good night, sweetheart!"

His kindness cheers me. I head back down to the Queens-bound platform, and wait, and wait. A locomotive chugs by, but it's just the garbage train. I watch an ad on the LED screen explaining how to make shrimp ceviche. There's just one other person on the platform—a man slumped on a bench who is either passed out, sleeping or dead.

I wait 20 minutes before another live human comes down the stairs. It's Mr. MTA Security Guy!

"Still here?" he asks.

I explain that the only train that went by was the garbage train.

He nods sympathetically. And then he has a question: "Are you married?"

"No," I say.

"Boyfriend?" he asks.

"Yes," I lie.

"Oh," he says. "I was going to ask you out. I'm single!"

He explains he doesn't like online dating, so it's hard to meet ladies.

"Well, you're a nice, friendly guy," I say, "That helps."

"And I'm generous," he says. "Very generous! I spoil my women! I got two jobs! But I work a lot. I'm always working. So I don't know if that's a good thing. I'd like to be with my woman all the time, but I can't!"

He checks his phone. "You got a train coming in one minute," he assures me, and disappears back up the stairs.

The next train doesn't come for another half hour.

 3:40 AM

Turns out I have to take the E all the way to the Jackson Heights station to catch the Manhattan-bound F train. Then I report in to Aharon. He suggests this line might be a good one to snooze on: "It's pretty benign."

And so I do! I doze all the way to Park Slope, then back through Manhattan to the end of the line in Queens. The cars repeatedly empty and fill with fellow zombies. At one point, I conk out completely. There might have been a troupe of can-can dancers and a stabbing on the car for all I know.

Fellow dozers on the early morning F-train.

6:30 AM

The city's three-hour rush hour begins! I’m happy to arrive at the Fulton Center station in Lower Manhattan. Not only does the bathroom open at 7 am, there’s a Dunkin' franchise. I buy an egg sandwich and coffee, find a spot against the wall, sit on the floor and open my laptop.

I love my new office! Fulton Center is one of the system's newer, spiffier spaces. The spacious, dimly-lit mezzanine, all glossy stainless steel and black tile, has a sort of nightclub vibe. It's nicely chilled and Sinatra tunes play in the background.

I'm enjoying my breakfast and answering email when another MTA security guard approaches.

"How's it going?" he asks.

I'm thinking maybe he will ask me out. Instead, he asks me to move along.

I find another office space on a bench on the uptown 4 platform, but it's not nearly as nice. It's noisy, hot and crowded. There's no Sinatra and no place to rest my coffee. But I'm getting lots of texts and emails from folks cheering me on, or at least checking to see if I'm still alive, which lifts my spirits.

Enjoying reader comments on my laptop on the 4 train platform

I feel even more revived visiting the clean, spacious Fulton Center bathroom. I pop in my contacts, fix my makeup and brush my teeth. I’m not alone. The lady next to me, crowned in a white turban, uses the pull-down diaper changing station as her personal cosmetics counter to perform an elaborate skin-care routine.

8:30 AM

I’m headed to Flushing, Queens on the 7 train when a man in a wheelchair pops in at the 33rd Street station singing a Mexican ballad. His right leg ends mid-thigh, in a stump. As he rolls by, I ask him to chat; we detrain at the 40th St. station to talk on the platform.

He is from Mexico, and lives in Harlem. His name is Aurelio, "Which is hard to pronounce, but everyone calls me Leo," he says.

Leo!

"Who's everybody?" I ask.

"Haha, wow! They know me, everybody," he says. "My neighbors, especially. 'Hey, Leo!' Beautiful! Everything good!"

He earns $30-$50 a day singing on the train, he says, but his primary aim is to inspire. "People wave me over and say, 'Leo, listen. I have two arms, two legs, but I have so many problems, and sometimes I'm about to give up. But every time I see you, something change in me.'"

"That's what it's all about," he continues. "I help others. Let them know—life goes on no matter what you go through. It's all up to you.'"

Leo says he mentally blesses everyone on the train and thinks, "Lord, let them feel your power in me. Use me!"

When he was in the hospital after losing his leg, he continued, the doctors told him he probably wouldn't make it: "And I said, 'I don't care if you tell me I only have one day, I'm going to enjoy today!'"

That's been his philosophy since. "The lord gave me a second chance," he says. "It was a new beginning, a different way to live. Appreciate every little thing out there! Every day is a beautiful day! This is the way I think.'"

The next train arrives, and he wheels himself aboard. "Thank you! You are blessed!" he calls over his shoulder. "You have a wonderful and a blessed day!"

10:00 AM

I take the 7 train to Flushing and stop at Mets-Willet's Point on the way back, where the elevated platform overlooks Flushing Meadows Corona Park. There's a patch at the end of the platform where I can sit in the sun for my morning meditation. It's very peaceful, aside from the train rumbling by every two minutes and the constant roar of planes landing at nearby LaGuardia airport.

I am loving this. I calculate how much I could save by subleasing my apartment and living on the F train.

11:45 AM

Back at the Times Square station, things are in full swing. I pass the Church of Scientology folks offering personality tests, the Jehovah's Witnesses offering Awake! magazines and a busker dressed in Mariachi gear.

It's all very tempting, but I'm on my way to meet my friend Caitlin. She's visiting from LA and we're convening at the Columbus Circle station at the Turnstyle Market, the subway's underground food hall. I'm looking forward to chicken tenders in a waffle cone at Chick'n Cone!

Then disaster strikes. Contrary to the advice of a source I shall not name, it turns out the Turnstyle Market is located outside the turnstile.

It's back to the Dunkin' at Fulton Center. By now, Caitlin and I are both very tired and hungry, and it's not much fun to eat lunch (chocolate donut, newsstand peanuts) leaning against the wall.

But Caitlin is a good sport, and we have fun catching up when she accompanies me uptown on the A train. I tell her that, according to my calculations, I could live on the subway for $30 a day. She thinks I could do it even cheaper.

"Well, that's if I treat myself," I say.

"Treat yourself to living on the subway?" she says.

2:30 PM

I drop Caitlin at 190th St. so she can check out the Cloisters and realize I am officially fried. I can't muster the energy to notice much of what's going on, much less interview anyone. I head to end of the 1 line in the Bronx where I spend a half hour reading the NY Post—the only newspaper sold underground—which reminds me that the world consists entirely of people having crazysex and doing crimes.

Then I zoom down to other end of line in Manhattan, the South Ferry station, which has a bathroom. I get a text from a friend asking, "Do you feel crazy or okay?"

I look in the mirror. I think I look great, but maybe that is part of the crazy!

4:30 PM

I have lost all sense of time and space. I visit Jupiter on the W train and Saturn on the 3. On the C train, I join the conductor singing Sinatra tunes over the loudspeaker. At the West 4th St. station, I earn $2000 breakdancing on the lower mezzanine.

I wish! What I actually do is visit the 86th St. station on the Q line, where I buy a much-needed cappuccino.

6:00 PM

Thank goodness I'm meeting my pal Scott back at the Fulton Center station. He is also visiting—from the one place nuttier than the NYC subway, in fact—Florida! I haven't seen him in five years.

I order my third meal of the day from Dunkin' (a muffin) and choose the J train for our reunion. We chat all the way to the end of the line in Queens.

"I think an adventure awaits us at Jamaica Center!" says Scott as the train pulls into the station. "It's going to be a city within a city!"

We climb the stairs to the mezzanine level and look around. It's desolate.

"Wrong again!" says Scott.

7:30 PM

Just 80 minutes to go! And I still haven't found a churro. Scott accompanies me to the Atlantic station in Brooklyn, where my journey began.

"I've got my churro detectors on," says Scott, as the train pulls in.

But no detector necessary. The train doors open to reveal a churro cart lady right on platform. I descend on her like a bat out of hell.

"HELLO I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR CHURROS ALL DAY I'VE NEVER HAD ONE BEFORE!!!"

I am practically shouting.

The tiny vendor is not impressed. "Three for five," she says.

I pay and slip the pastry from its wrapper, take a bite and consider. What does it taste like?

"IT’S A DONUT!" I tell Scott.

The long-anticipated churro

For some reason I find this extremely funny.

Scott is kind enough to take the R train to Court Street with me. This last stop on the journey is just two blocks from my home.  

"Look how easy!" says Scott. "Seems like it's only been 24 hours since you started."

There is actually a little time remaining, but I really want to leave.

"Do I need to stay another five minutes?" I wonder.

"If you have to ask, yes," says Scott.

I slump against the wall facing the turnstile and count the minutes. Scott takes a photo.

Totally spent!

8:50 PM

I bust through the turnstile. It feels fantastic!

Scott congratulates me on living my dream. "It's great being your own boss," he notes.

"It is!” I say. "Good job, Anne! Thanks boss!"

The next day, Aharon texts to check in: "Final subway thoughts?"

Yes, come to think of it. What struck me most was all the people I saw sleeping on the train and platforms. It wasn't their material condition that gave me pause. No, what hit me was how alone they seemed. And thinking what it must feel like to be that lonely and disconnected, I cried and cried.

And felt fortunate too. Because while I'd spent a lot of time on my 24-hour journey traveling alone, I was connected the entire time to many well-wishers cheering me on through what was essentially a very silly lark. And then I got to go home and sleep in a bed.

But that's not what I replied to Aharon. No, my response to him was just three words:

"GREAT. NEVER AGAIN."

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