Six times today on the trains. The first one was very crowded and I couldn't grab a pole. A woman offered me her arm and then started talking about her son enjoying crowded subways and a trip to Chicago where she said all the people were so nice. Maybe she forgot she was in New York when she offered her arm.
Above, on the street when I exited, I headed to the grocery to get some milk and saw a small group of police cars and bullet-proofed officers carrying heavy guns. But all was quiet, no tape, no one seeming to care. I had forgotten about it completely until walking by there again for my last journey of the day.
And earlier a young girl sat next to me. Again, a crowded train. "Is your mother or father here?" I asked her thinking they might like to sit next to her. "Yes," she said and pointed to the far door where I assumed was a parental figure hidden behind the many passengers. It seemed like too much to shuffle so I stayed put. A few stops later she got up to go to her father, and the woman taking her seat checked that she was leaving and asked her if she was OK, if she had a parent. New York was looking out for her.
There are so many people in this city and so many things to see. Sometimes they all blur together, the buildings and feet, the kindness and defensiveness.
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