Yesterday while driving home from work I nearly hit a bicyclist. I slammed on my brakes after he glided out into the middle of the street without looking, and then silently (er- well not so silently) cursed him as he pedaled away while holding out his hand behind him as if to say "thanks." Totally judging this book by his cover, I chuckled to myself as I took in his fancy bike decked out in an array of lights, baskets, and other bike gadgets as well as his full biking ensemble of helmet, rolled up pant legs secured by some sort of reflective ties, and a reflective windbreaker- all of these accoutrements and yet this guy lacked the fundamental skill to ride his bike.
Moments later I passed another biker. This one was a young kid- probably fourteen or fifteen tops- riding on a simple bike that looked like it had seen better days. He deftly looked over one shoulder to check the traffic behind him as he stood up to pedal up hill, easily navigated through the three lanes of cars that converged at the approaching intersection, and then disappeared down an alleyway. No helmet, no fancy bike, and only a white tank top and sagging jeans. This kid knew how to ride and those streets are his own.
As I continued on my drive I thought "THIS is why I love cities."
Because in a big city you are forced on a daily basis to interact with all facets of humanity. And these interactions yield moments of reflection. Of teaching. Of beauty.
Like the time a few years back when I was riding on a NYC subway during the evening rush hour- hungry, tired, and cranky I cursed the very thing I am writing about. Being forced to interact with the other 42 hungry, tired, cranky commuters crammed into my car that evening. But then something beautiful happened. In our car were a set of three year old twin girls. At first most of my fellow commuters and I glanced disdainfully at these creatures, angry that we hadn't sprinted the extra foot to squeeze into the neighboring car. Surely these two were moments away from a tantrum. Screaming would ensue, and I would desperately weed through the bottom of my purse hoping to find a lint covered Advil (or eight) to fend off the inevitable headache that would come soon after.
As the train lurched away from the station, the two girls stared in fascination at the gentleman who had used the NY times to barricade himself in his seat in an attempt to avoid dealing with anyone around him. From the corner of my eye I watched as one of the little girls stepped towards him and tapped gently on his paper. "What are you reading?" she quietly asked. Startled, the gentleman shook his paper and looked over the top gruffly ready to respond to this tiny soldier who had infiltrated his newspaper fortress, while the Mother looked on with an apology about to trip out her lips. But as the little girl patiently awaited his answer, with her carbon copy sister wide eyed next to her, I saw his face soften as he replied "this is a newspaper- I'm reading about the news, all the things that happened today in the city, or the world that are new." And the two little heads bobbed up and down at this response before replying with a polite "thank you." The Mother also mouthed a "thank you" while herding the two girls back closer to her seat as the train continued bumping along.
About a minute later, the two girls were staring at the young teen in the seat next to them. This girl was listening to her iPod so loudly that the barely dulled beats of whatever techno blast she had chosen to assault her ears with was thumping out through her little white headphones into the otherwise quiet of our car. Oblivious to her tiny audience the girl merely tapped her foot in beat with her eyes closed as we sped along. One of the two girls finally reached out and tapped the iPod girl's leg who sat up her seat and opened her eyes wide, pulling out her earbuds (which caused her "music" to blare out even louder). "Your music is very loud" the little girl informed her. 41 of us stifled a laugh at this proclamation. Dumbfounded, the iPod girl looked down at the little girl before finally mumbling "oh, sorry" and then she lowered the volume before shoving back on her earbuds.
And so it continued for the next fifteen minutes of our ride- with these two little girls asking simple questions or stating adorably blunt assessments of the riders around them. And that's when it happened. I noticed that everyone around me had let their guard down. Mr. Newspaper had put away his paper and couldn't help but smile as the two girls continued charming his fellow commuters. Ms. Techno still had her headphones on but now her eyes were open with her foot tapping replaced by a smile. Suddenly I realized that I too had let me guard down- the book I had been reading abandoned on my lap as I leaned forward slightly to see who these two girls would talk to next, and the same contagious smile on my face. Looking around me I realized we were all smiling as we watched these girls and the pure innocence, fun, and happiness that emitted from them.
Our papers, headphones, and books all served as a way to buffer us from the forced interactions of commuting. And yet these two tiny humans made us all drop those defenses and share in the pure joy of seeing the people and the world around us in that car through a child's eyes. As we finally approached the first big station where several people exited the car, the spell was broken. New tired, cranky, commuters entering the car brushing past the now calm and smiling ones exiting the train. Lives changed if only for the briefest of time and if only by the simplest of exchanges.
And this is why I love cities.
