Up on Blocks

There were times in New York--when stocking up at Trader Joe's, or longing for an Ikea run, or waiting for the train at midnight in the middle of January--that I really wished I had a car. Now that I do have a car, those days of taking trains everywhere seem almost quaint. Like old-fashioned, convivial times, when my exasperation with a long, inconvenient wait could be tacitly shared with my fellow commuters. Because the reality of owning a car means spending $40 or so a week on gas, cleaning out the accumulated water bottles and dirty coffee cups on a regular basis, washing the windows, and getting it fixed.

Currently, my old Volvo is up on a gurney somewhere awaiting more than a month's salary worth of repairs. More like a month and a half. There's no one to roll eyes at now, no subway conductor to silently curse then forget all about the minute I'm finally home in my cozy, warm apartment. I'll be thinking about this ride for several months now, as I slowly, slowly pay off the loan I've had to take out to pay off Alan at the Volvo shop to fix my car. Those $24 weekly metro cards that let you make as many stops as you want, from Queens to Staten Island, from the Lower East Side to East Harlem, seem like a relic from a more carefree time.