panyck

Wearing a yellow spandex body suit, white fake fur coat, and lots of black makeup, I make a decent Lady Gaga impression as we decipher the subway entrance sign at Bergen Street. We both drank healthily at the Halloween party and the subway sign seems to lack information. It says, “Coney Island/The Bronx.” Across the street, another entrance warns “Coney Island” as well.

We do not want to go to Coney Island, we want to go to Manhattan. We pick the closest entrance – the Bronx is roughly in our direction – and go down the steps. We pay the $2.25 to enter, only to see the train we want – labeled “Jamaica” – departing on the opposite track. Realizing that we must exit completely and pay again to get to the other platform, we head back out and enter through the other entrance.

“I don’t know why they can’t make these signs more informative,” I complain.
“Yeah it seems like this is more confusing than it should be,” Eric responds. Naturally, he is dressed as a nun.

Waiting for the train to come, I read the signs around us. One says “Late Night F.” Another says, “Coney Island.” An “M” train comes on our track. I start to become doubtful. I turn to the person sitting next to me. “If I want to go to Manhattan, is this the right side?” I ask.

“No. You want the other side.”

Now we are completely confused. We discuss for a moment. We certainly saw the Jamaica train come on this track from the other platform. However the sign says “Late Night F”… and it is certainly late. As we are discussing, we see the Jamaica train come and go on the other track. “You are going to need to go to the other side,” she says. We exit and re-enter at the other side, paying again.

A train for Coney Island arrives on our side.

“Maybe we should just get on it,” I suggest. “Maybe it will take us to another stop that is less confusing.”

Eric refuses. “We don’t want to go to Coney Island. Our train will come.”

I stop a hipster in his late 20s who looks like he rides a lot of subways. “Does the F for Jamaica come to this platform?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Is it possible the trains are doing some service change or something? It seems like the F is going both directions on both tracks. Do you think that could be happening?”
“No, it goes toward Coney Island on this side, and toward Jamaica on the other side.”

It seems the F is determined to take us to Coney Island. Regardless, we have no choice. We exit yet again, and re-enter through the other side, just to see a train to Coney Island leaving on our new current platform.

At this point I start to cycle into despair. We are never going to get home. We are going to spend the rest of our life being deceived by the cruel tricks of the night train to Coney Island. We have now been wandering the Bergen Street Labyrinth for over an hour and the time is approaching 3am. I mumble to the people sitting near me that the space time continuum has been broken. They stand and move away down the platform. I consider running across the tracks to get to the other side. Eric lists impossible alternatives such as calling a $40 taxi. He refuses to let us escape on the next Coney Island train that departs, or the following. In the meantime, the Jamaica train mocks us repeatedly from the opposite platform, carrying other passengers happily to Manhattan.

Eric breaks the deadlock. “I have an idea. See over there, on the other side, before the entry to the platform, is a booth with a person in it. Let’s exit, and go ask them what to do.” The idea grates my nerves. We have already paid almost $10 each in entrance fees and have not gone anywhere. Nevertheless, I’m starting to wonder if I’ll die here. I don’t have any better ideas. We exit.

As we head down the steps into the other entrance, we do not see the booth we were aiming for. We look around. “There!” I realize, pointing through the entrance gate, across the tracks, at the booth. Somehow the booth is still on the opposite platform, even though we…

And that is when we suddenly understand. We have been using two separate entrances for the same platform. We have not actually ever been on the correct platform. We rush back up the stairs.

There, a half a block down the street, the subway entrance sign says “Manhattan.”

The Agent stands on the agreed upon corner in the West Village, somehow looking just as stoned in his suit and tie as he sounded over the phone. He greets us with a smile and a weak handshake. After saying goodbye on his cell phone the day before, Eric had turned to me, laughing, “This guy sounds so fucking stoned right now!” – then had glanced down at the screen to realize he had not hung up yet. If the Agent had overheard, he does not indicate it now. Instead, he mumbles to himself and leads us to the entrance.

The four flights of marble stairs are well worn and the steps are not entirely even, the railings featuring decorative wrought iron. There is no doorman or elevator. The apartment consists of four rooms arranged in a circle – one a kitchen, the others to be living areas or bedrooms. The 9 foot ceilings leave space for 6 foot tall windows. The hardwood floors slope toward the middle of the apartment aggressively enough to allow a wading pool several inches deep in the center if I were to try to fill it with water, which sadly I can’t, since they don’t allow waterbeds. The bathroom has a solid 3 square feet of standing room.

It is exactly what we were looking for.

We follow the agent as he bumbles through another neighborhood, eyes glued to iPhone. He gives us some non credible information – that the apartment had an air conditioner, because they are required by law (incorrect, and false); that we will be able to define the terms of our lease (completely incorrect); and that the apartment has been on the market for a Long Time.

“How long?”
“Almost 2 weeks.”

We walk several blocks one way and then turn around completely, the Agent repeating “I am so confused,” and waving his phone around in front of him. He manages to show us another apartment, then sends us on our way to think it over.

“What did you think?” I ask.
“I liked the first one a lot.” Eric responds.
“Yeah, me too.”
“I think we should get it.”

We decide to act fast. Although 2 weeks seems like a long time to the Agent, it seems absurdly fast to us. We walk directly to the main office, texting the Agent on the way. He meets us in the lobby. Here we will spend the next several hours. We each fill out an application for a credit check. We had hoped to leave my name off the lease, but they require me to also apply.

To run the credit check, they require us to pay the application fee. Eric goes to the bank and returns with cash. My credit check runs with no problems, but Eric’s reports a freeze. He admits he froze his credit himself. He spends the next 20 minutes filling out web forms on his iPhone to temporarily unfreeze. They run the credit check again. Pass. Eric negotiates the rate with the Agent. When the Agent said “half of one month’s rent” we assumed that he didn’t mean “half of 15% of the total rent for the year, ” but he did. Eric goes back to the bank. Returns with a small fortune in cashier’s checks for deposit and Agent fee.

Now we sign forms. This pile of forms dwarfs the forms I signed for my mortgage. We sign that we will pay rent; will not put a water bed in the apartment; understand that no window guards exist so children could fall out; will not eat paint chips; etc. Now all we have to do is each email them our 2011 W2 forms, our last two bank statements, a utility bill for homes we own in Washington, our last two pay stubs, and the apartment is ours! – well, sort of, except for the contractor still neck deep in closet construction, his 14 power tools, his Carhartts on the kitchen counter, his ladder, an old door, a couple buckets full of plaster, and 3 garbage bags full of dust and debris. Welcome home to NYC!

note… I actually wrote this before Hurricane Sandy, and don’t intend it to be any statement about the hurricane or its aftermath.  thanks for understanding.

New York City surprises me. The people are all wearing clothes – trendy clothes – Expensive clothes. They speak in English, with varying east coast accents. They are friendly and helpful. They do not push me in front of moving trains or try to trick me into going to their cousin’s store. They tell us our subway stop when they overhear our conversation on the train, they offer recommendations of restaurants and bars, they compliment us on our dresses for no apparent reason.

New York City trains have signs written in english. They have LED displays showing the next train departure time. There are no piles of garbage or vomit or poop on the trains and I don’t see anyone getting mugged at gunpoint or beaten by malicious cops. People are carrying shopping bags and purses, and playing with their iPhones. No one is stealing the iPhones and running away with them! No one is chaining their purse to their leg!

New York City taxis have meters! I don’t have to pre negotiate my fare. The taxi has a GPS navigator showing where we are going so I know I am not being deceived! The taxi even advertises to me in the backseat and allows me to pay with a credit card!

New York City restaurants serve edible food! I don’t have to inject a thermometer in my meat or reject my fresh vegetables or inspect my ice for possible home-made characteristics. I can even eat slightly undercooked eggs and fresh squeezed orange juice!

New York City businesses have bathrooms available – and I can use them for free! They have toilet paper and electricity, and the toilets flush and have toilet seats! The sink has hot water and soap! The doors have hinges and locks!

Contrary to my expectations, New York City is not a third world country.

Where are you from? Port Angeles.  I call it PA.  You probably haven’t heard of it, although you may have heard of Forks WA?  It’s kinda near there.  What are you doing in New York City?  Well, mostly boring stuff, like trying to ride public transportation and go to the grocery store.  Here are some facts about PA & NYC.

Population.  PA: 19k /  NYC: 8.2M (…thats 400 times as many people!)

Established. PA: 1861 / NYC: 1625 (…236 years earlier!)

Square Miles.  PA: 63 / NYC: 305 (…5 times bigger!)

Well, now that you know all about Port Angeles and New York City I think you’re all ready to read along!  Oh, one more thing… maybe you are wondering what PANYCK means.  It stands for Port Angeles to New York City by Kelly.  Taeva thought of that!  Now that you can remember where to find me, I hope you’ll be back again soon.