Another weekend in Connecticut- it began well- we left late afternoon on Saturday, Veuve and Pug in tote, Russian Kareoke, dancing. A delicious spread of hors d'oeurves- the sex of Capris Lights climbing in the evening sky...
---And in following with the progression- I answered to the evening before:
Woken with a splitting headache after being stirred by laughter aroused by pug-debacle (let's not get into details) and an early train caught home. I should have turned around after the man in front of me at Starbucks made me miss the 11:24 train (his triple vente iced latte was not 'half-caff.').
I took it with a stride- only to be crossed by a hysterical woman with three small children and a guido accent...
I really shouldn't complain about the train to Grand Central. The squirming/excessively vocal toddler and teething pug were tame in comparison to the mechanical failure experienced on the Fairfield-bound train- it was the series of mistakes I made post-Grand Central.
I pushed through swarms of tourists to allow Pilgrim (afore mentioned Pug) to relieve himself across from Pershing Square, then negotiated our way back inside towards the 4-5 trains. (Nevermind that I ran my various plans past seasoned New Yorker and roommate- and no flag was raised when I said, "I'll just get the 4-5 express and skip walking to Times Square to the N/Q/D/B options"). I convinced Pilgrim to get in his bag and zipped up- down the escalator. Two British women behind me were also considering the 4-5 express train.
We descended further at the attached staircase- to be greated by a subway performer, "Proud begging," as Liz Lemon on 30 Rock describes in season 2- "Express is not running folks, you have to take the local." I briefly considered the seemingly calm sixteen pound pug in my bag. OK. I can do this. Nevermind my oversized Longchamp heavy with books.
We squeezed on. I mean rush hour commute squeezed on. A man who seemed blind by the carriage of his eyes violated me as the girl in leopard cami read the advertisement allowed, "Do not be ashamed. A full train is no excuse for innapropriate touching." I felt the soft head of Pilgrim push agains my arm. Shit. He's decided not to relax in there. Is that a seat over there? Why is the ground sticking to my Havianas?
Oh, homeless man is passed out on the bench and has wet himself. I am sticking to his urine while, "blind guy" is copping a feel. The leopard cami turns to her male companion, "Why don't you put your bag down?"
"Oh, my god! No! He's peed all over. It will get on my bag"
I briefly considered his Louis Vuitton luggage with strings of Mardi Gras beads tied to the handles. At Chambers Street it became clear: this train is not going to go where I need it to. I adjusted Pilgrim who was crawling up my chest and in the process exposing my right breast- cute no?
At Chambers, I befriended a Southern couple while calculating the cost of a cab versus the number of drinks I could buy as a reward for making it home- I waited on the J. I've heard tales of the J train. It's worthless. Not in the G train sense, but still not the train you choose. At this point, it seemed to be my best option. It eventually came, I stepped on. I continued to plead with the Pug who was still struggling to shark me.
At Fulton I took stock of a sign that said this train would not take me home...I stepped off, a decision I rapidly regretted as I realized that was in fact the train I needed to be on and began to recalculate the cost of the cab. Is this an okay neighborhood? Why are there so many cameras? Will there even be any cabs?
---
I did make it home. It took another 45 minutes. I had three strong cocktails, a few tapas and a nap.
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