Where A Morning Ritual Becomes Something More

As I stepped through the front entrance to the train station, the sign shone like a beacon in the darkness.

"Reunion Coffee"

I had, for the most part, been making coffee at home which, while satisfactory, didn't make me feel like a real suburbanite. In my mind, real suburbanites stopped for coffee on the way to work. They had a regular place they went and a regular order they didn't have to place because the barista already knew it. I observed evidence of this phenomenon dotting the train platform every morning, in the form of to-go cups in hands, while I clutched my paper hot cup, bought in bulk at Costco, feeling like an impostor among the more seasoned train-riders.

I was still getting used to moving my schedule an hour earlier to accommodate my commute, and mornings were tight, leaving no time for me to make an extra stop and still get to my train on time. So I figured, for the time being at least, I was stuck with my regular old homemade coffee.

One morning, just a couple of months into our suburban adventure, David needed my car for the day so he drove me to the train and dropped me off at the front entrance, which I had never used before. And when I walked through the automatic sliding doors, the glorious smell of coffee hit me in the face and the sign was the very first thing I saw.

Without even thinking about it I joined the line, and before long I was standing at the window where a smiling woman manned the cash register.

"What'll you have?" she asked.

I ordered a large coffee with skim milk and stepped to the side. Thirty seconds later the to-go cup was in my hand, and I made it up to the train platform with more than a minute to spare.

The next morning I was back in line, but this time I didn't have to order. I had barely reached the window when the cashier looked at me and said "large with skim?"

And so began my morning ritual.

Every day I paid a visit to that coffee shop, and spending thirty seconds with those smiling women who knew exactly what I wanted made me feel more like I belonged in this new place than all the synagogue new member baskets and the hundreds of "welcome to the neighborhood" visits and phone calls combined.

Just after New Years a sign informed us that at the end of January Reunion Coffee would be closing, having lost their bid to renew the lease.

And two weeks ago on their final day, as I expressed my disappointment along with my fellow patrons, it occurred to me that I have been here long enough now to be a part of all of this. The opening and closing of stores, the coming and going of people, the hustle and bustle of lives lived. This new town that is not so new anymore.

And the next day I started making my morning coffee at home again.

What I'm Reading: The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I started this book as my train pulled out of the station this morning.

In what felt like two minutes later, the train pulled into Grand Central, and I had to tear myself away from a story that gripped me and tugged me in from the very first page.

I haven't stopped thinking about it all day long, and am counting the minutes until my train ride home so that I can pick up where I left off.

And as soon as I get home this afternoon I am sitting down on the couch, and not getting back up until I have read straight through to the end.

There is something utterly magical about being absorbed in a book.

I can't believe I waited so long to read this one.

But I'm glad that I have it now.

Grand Central: From The Front

Now that I commute to Manhattan for work, I spend a lot of time in Grand Central Station.

I rarely come in through the front, or walk through the main terminal though, since there is a back entrance much closer to my office, and far less crowded. It is a no-frills underground passage, catering only to commuters and of little interest to the tourists who flock to the main terminal to gawk at the soaring ceilings and carved doorways.

But the other day, I had the opportunity to come in through the front and was reminded just how incredible it is to live where I live.

Some days I just love New York incredibly.

Today is one of those days.

When Thirty-One Minutes Becomes Two Hours

During my commute home yesterday, I planned this post for today where I extol the virtues of Metro North Railroad and my daily commute from Westchester County to my office in Manhattan. I had all of these nice things to say, and as I mapped it all out in my head, I was feeling so sorry for all those poor souls in New York City still commuting to work every day on the subway while doing their best to avoid the sticky floors, stifling hot cars, sweaty fellow passengers, and incessant train delays.

It turns out, karma's a bitch.

I caught the 6:52 train to White Plains last night right on time. I could probably have caught the 6:33, but I was running a little late and just didn't feel like attempting the anxious sprint through midtown that the earlier train would require. So I made my way to Grand Central at normal speed, figuring that if I missed the 6:33, the 6:52 would be just fine.

After almost nine months, I have my commute down to a science. When I get on the train in the afternoon I sit in the quiet car, pull out my book, and start reading. I have come to treasure this time, and rely on it pretty heavily to decompress as I make my way home. I read without pause until the train passes the Honda dealership, which is precisely one minute before we pull up at the White Plains station. I am a creature of habit, and this system works for me beautifully.

Until it doesn't.

The first thirty minutes of my thirty-one minute train ride went exactly according to plan. I sat in the quiet car and read my book, pausing only for a second when a man who obviously enjoys the quiet car as much as I do got up out of his seat to shush two teenage girls who didn't know that they were carrying on an intense conversation about their love lives in a car where talking is strictly prohibited. And when I say strictly prohibited, I mean that while the conductors will politely ask you to keep it down, the passengers in the quiet car will come at you with flaming swords and pitchforks if you so much as utter a word or allow your cell phone to do anything except vibrate quietly. Silent mode is strongly encouraged.

And when we passed the Honda Dealership I put my book away and gathered my things in preparation to get off the train.

And then something weird happened.

Just when the train should have been picking up speed to roll into the station, it started to slow down. At first the slow-down was hardly noticeable, but as each second ticked by, the train got slower and slower until we finally came to a complete stop. The roar of the engines came to a sudden halt, all the lights in the train went out, and we heard the conductor on the radio saying something that sounded suspiciously like "we're dead in the water."

The conductor got on the loudspeaker and told us that we had "lost our third rail connection," couldn't go anywhere, and that they were going to send another train up from the south to literally push us into the White Plains station.

No problem, I thought. I mean, a little annoying, but I had a book to read, and 5 full lives in my Candy Crush game, so I was set. How long could it possibly take?

My question was answered almost 2 hours later.

Yes. For one hundred minutes, we sat on a train looking at the White Plains station, but unable to get there. We were stuck in a packed car with no electricity, which meant no air conditioner, and no way to open the doors for ventilation. People were sweating, it was nearly impossible to pay attention to my book, and the conductor kept telling us, "just a few more minutes" for an hour and a half.

Finally a full sized train came up behind us and the mechanics somehow connected the two trains, allowing our train to be literally shoved into the White Plains station. We all got off into the blessedly cool evening air, and left the crippled train behind.

As I was driving home, I marveled at the fact that even though it was hot and supremely annoying, no one seemed to be too upset or worried about anything, and pretty much just went about their business as the conductors figured out a solution. The quiet car, it turns out, is remarkably calm in the face of a commuting crisis.

The other cars? Not so much.

I did some searching when I got home, and came across this string of tweets from one of my fellow commuters who was, apparently, sitting in one of the not-so-quiet cars, and he was infuriated.

Turns out, there's more to the quiet car than just a silent ride home and a place to get lost in a book.

Unanticipated Delays Make For Happy Mornings

Eight minutes outside of Grand Central station this morning, my Metro-North train shuddered to a stop.

We were in the darkened tunnel that leads straight into the train station from just after the Harlem-125th Street stop. We weren't moving and inch, and the roaring of the engines at full throttle had quieted to a hum as they idled.

The first car of the train where I sat was silent. Designated as the quiet car during the morning commute, no one in this car makes phone calls, has a conversation, or turns up the volume any louder than is necessary for that person to hear his or her own music through headphones. There is barely even any shuffling around to get comfortable in a seat. The people in this car take their commute seriously, and it is a glorious way to start a morning. In complete silence, I drink my coffee and I read my book from the time I sit down in White Plains until the doors open in Grand Central to a brand new workday. I adore these 31 minutes, and have come to depend on them to set the tone for my day.

But this morning, something was different. My 8:01 peak hour train generally sails through the tunnel without stopping even once. In fact, I often don't even notice that we're in the tunnel until the train pulls up to the platform and the doors slide open.

Idling just inside the tunnel is rather unusual behavior for the habitually reliable train.

Two minutes after the train stopped, the shuffling began. All these serious commuters started checking their watches incessantly as the minutes ticked by and still, we remained stopped. They progressed to taking iPhones and Blackberries out of briefcases and suit pockets to check e-mail, and sighing audibly when they remembered that there is no cell service inside the tunnel. Some enterprising - and incredibly impatient - commuters even stood up and started lining up at the door, as if the mere act of rising to their feet in preparation to disembark was enough to make the train start moving. Apparently these people plan their commutes to the exact minute, and an unanticipated train delay throws their perfectly calibrated morning into chaos.

Not exactly a stress-free way to live, in my opinion. Sometimes I feel like a candidate for a heart attack myself just watching people plow through their morning commutes, while I generally float through mine in a haze of contentment that comes from caffeine and a good book.

And what, you might ask, was I doing as the collective blood pressure in my train car started to rise? I was thousands of miles away, racing through Venice, Italy with Robert Langdon and the enterprising Dr. Sienna Brooks as they unwound a mystery centered around Dante's Inferno. Not only was I unbothered by the delay, I was actually hoping it would last awhile. A good half hour or forty-five minute delay and I probably could have finished the book, rather than having to wait until my commute home to pick up where I left off.

As my fellow commuters stared out the window wondering if they could jump off the train and just walk through the tunnels, I plowed through the book and found myself hoping for a mechanical failure or a good old-fashioned train derailment - without any injuries of course. Anything to give me a little extra time with these pages, and these characters.

Dan Brown really knows how to tell a story.

Alas, ten minutes later the engines roared and the train once again started moving. The car was filled with more sighs and muttering as more and more people rose to take their place in the line to get off the train, preparing to fly as soon as the doors opened, only to get caught up in the crush of people trying to get out of Grand Central and up to street level.

But not me. I stayed in my seat, reading, until the very last person got off the train. When the train was empty, I gathered my things and, with reluctance, marked my place and closed the book, saving the final few chapters for later.

My commute home can't come fast enough.

When in Doubt, Choose Romance on Monday Morning

When given a choice between a memoir and a romance novel for your train ride to work, always choose the romance novel.

Lesson learned.

The memoir seemed like a really good idea when I ordered it on Amazon a couple weeks ago. Although I don't often read non-fiction, this was the memoir of a blogger whose words I read from time to time, and I know from her blog that she has a really compelling story. I know that her story is heartbreaking. Immensely so. But while it is sad, I have read her blog, so I also know that she came out on the other side of it a thoughtful, compassionate woman and a truly gifted writer.

I was really, really interested in reading her book, so I decided to break my longstanding rule to never read anything that isn't happy and uplifting.

It came in the mail last Thursday, and I was already in the middle of some other books that I carried over into the weekend, so I didn't get a chance to start it. By last night, I had finished the other books, and this morning I scanned my "to-read" bookshelf, searching for the stories I would read this week. My eyes landed on the memoir, and on a book of Nora Roberts short stories, sitting right next to each other. Unable to make up my mind, I grabbed both and headed out the door.

As soon as I got to the train platform I opened my bag and grabbed the memoir even thought somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain a voice was shouting, "ROMANCE NOVEL."

As I knew it would be, the memoir was written in gorgeous prose, despite the less than uplifting subject matter. Her words and her story transfixed me, and before I knew it I was turning pages like a woman possessed, eager to get to the next chapter, the next scene, her next journey.

When the conductor pulled on the brakes as we arrived at Grand Central, I was startled out of my trance, surprised that we were already in the city. I had read nearly sixty pages without ever looking up.

I waited in my seat until the train was mostly empty, then gathered my things and slowly made my way off the platform, dogged by a vague melancholy that is extremely unlike me and trying to ignore the now-bitchy voice in my head saying "I told you so."

Monday mornings - really any morning - and heavy, mostly sad memoirs are like Diet Coke and Mentos in my world. Put them together and you are bound to end up with a hostile and unsettling reaction. Only instead of lasting only a second or two, I feel it all day long.

I knew better. I have no one to blame but myself.

If I'm going to read a book that is certain to be sad - and I rarely ever do - I need to read it sitting outside in the sunshine. I need to read it slowly, in small doses. I certainly need to look up from time to time to pull myself out of the sad. Devouring almost half the book on Monday morning while sitting on a train hurtling through dark tunnels on the way to work is a bad idea. Even a book as beautifully written as this one.

I'll finish the memoir at some point, but I learned my lesson this morning. No more heavy reading on the train.

This afternoon, it's the romance for me.

Morning Switch Up

No parking spots by Dunkin' Donuts + 

a slight stomach virus making coffee a questionable choice = 

a slight change in my morning caffeine routine. 

A Reminder of Happiness and Love

Forget flowers? No problem, if you live in NYC.
Just buy them on the street.

Happy Valentine's Day romance lovers!

Single, in a relationship or married, I have been a pretty big fan of this day ever since I discovered romance novels almost fifteen years ago. What I loved about the romance novel, almost instantly, was that I knew that, without a doubt, I would be happy when the book ended. Two wildly good-looking people would discover that they were perfect for each other, and would go on to live happily ever after. And if, by chance, the book was part of a trilogy, as most of my favorites are, than we would get to see this wildly good-looking couple live happily-ever after beyond the confines of their own story. About as perfect as you can get.

There is so much sadness and hate everywhere these days. You can't read a newspaper or turn on the news without hearing something guaranteed to make you cringe, which is why I almost never do either of those things unless I absolutely have to.

When I open the New York Times I only read stories like this one, about 97 year old Ada Bryant and 86 year old Robert Haire, who were married last month after meeting in a Retirement Community. Because how can you not smile at their most unusual love story and while reading sentences like "The bride, 97, is keeping her name."

Leave the sadness for someone else, just give me the happy please.

So I have always liked this day. This day that celebrates love, and romance, and happiness. I get the arguments against it. You shouldn't need a day to tell the people close to you that you love them, love should be celebrated every day, and blah, blah, blah. But, we're human, and we're busy and tired and occasionally pretty self-focused. And sometimes, we need a little reminder to appreciate the people in our lives.

Romance novels, and Valentine's Day, for me, are that reminder. To focus on love and happiness. To value the idea of being inextricably connected with another person, be it a partner, spouse, sibling, or friend. We live in a big bad world, and grabbing some time to focus on goodness in our lives can never hurt.

And today, that reminder is everywhere. This morning when I woke up, I decided to have a little treat in honor of this delightful day, and I thought that a couple donut holes along with my regular coffee and romance novel would be just the thing. But when I made my habitual stop at Dunkin Donuts on the way to the train, there were no donut holes, there was only this:

Only heart-shaped donuts on the menu today

I've read enough already this morning to know that its popular, and fashionable even, to grumble about this heart shaped day. But I think maybe it's time to shift focus. To make this day about celebrating the miracle of the connections in our lives, be they romantic or otherwise. To focus on the people who make our lives happier, richer, and infinitely worth living. 

And, if you're so inclined, while you are appreciating all those people, grab yourself a pink, heart-shaped and frosted snack this morning. 

I already did, and it was glorious.

What do Your Mornings Look Like?

Mine look like this.

A thirty minute train ride.

A latte.

A romance novel.

Every morning.

Stormy Nights, Clear Mornings

Those of us living in the tri-state area had a bit of excitement last night.

Yesterday was a crappy weather day. It was muggy and grey, with the threat of rain looming. More April-like than January-like, I thought. News was that a monster storm was coming, and when I left my office at six to head home, the flags around the Rockefeller Center Ice Rink were already whipping in the increasing wind. 

By the time I got home the rain had already started, so what were we to do but build a fire, make hamburgers, and settle in for the night with a little Law & Order: SVU?

When I went up to bed it was still raining, but nothing too crazy. I thought maybe the weather predictions were exaggerated, although after experiencing Hurricane Sandy a few months ago and all the devastation she wrought, I am pretty cautious about underestimating any kind of weather event.

It was four o'clock in the morning when I was shocked awake by massive claps of thunder, and the sound of our outdoor shutters banging against the house right outside my window. And I sleep with super-powered ear plugs every single night, so that I could hear the storm through them was instantly a sign that this was a big one. 

Once I recovered from the unexpected jolt, we were both awake, and lay there in the dark, listening as the storm raged, until it finally settled down. It was quite romantic, really. Our first storm in the new house.

I fell back to sleep at some point, and woke up for real a couple hours later. The wind was still howling, but the rain had stopped.

And as I drove to the train, I was greeted with this view. The storm clouds drifting away, leaving clear skies behind them:

We were pretty lucky. Turns out there were bunch of power outages on the streets around us that won't be resolved until later tonight, and there were trees down everywhere in a scene uncomfortably reminiscent of the one exactly three months ago. 

And farther up the Metro North line, the storm wreaked havoc. I know because when I got to my train station this morning, I was greeted by this:

You know it's bad when they don't tell you how late the train is, just that it's late. For a train system that is almost scarily punctual, this was an strange morning.

But right now the skies are a beautiful blue, winter makes its return tomorrow, Thursday night is pizza night, and Grey's Anatomy and Scandal are new. 

So really, all is right with the world.

Morning

Every now and then I miss my old morning routine. The one where I wake up in my Manhattan apartment at 8:30am (on non-running days), and leave at 9 to be sitting at my desk at 9:15. The one that required little effort on my part, and allowed me to practically sleep-walk to work. 

There were obviously things about this routine that were not so good. Like the fact that I could rarely find anything I needed in my teeny-tiny closet. Or the fact that we only had one bathroom that was in our bedroom so I could not possibly get ready for work without waking David up. Or the unpredictable elevators in our building that, more often than not, got stuck for a few minutes between floors 1 and 2, usually when I was sharing the elevator with someone's big, shaggy, drooling dog. Or the absolutely inhuman subway commute. Or the mayhem that greeted me at the front door to my apartment building as the city awoke to meet a new day.

But the 15 minute door-to-door trip is really hard to beat.

And some mornings - like this morning - I wake up already overwhelmed by the magnitude of my commute to work. Not that it's a long trip, but I definitely have to be wide awake to conquer it so that I don't accidentally kill anyone with my car on my drive to the Metro North stop about a mile from my house. And some mornings - like this morning - I'm just not in the mood to be that wide awake. 

Staying up late last night for movie night was probably not my best move, but when we were piling on the couch with blankets, pillows, snacks and a fire in the fireplace I wasn't thinking about 7am. And once I fell asleep, 7am came awfully quickly. So this morning when I walked out of my house I was exhausted, and thinking longingly of my 15 minute commute of latter day.

But as I walked towards my car to start my day I looked up, and saw that view. The trees rising against a backdrop of clouds, rising sun, colorful sky and silence stopped me in my tracks. And in that moment, my exhaustion melted away and I was grateful. 

City living doesn't come with views like this. 

Metro North Commuters Don't Do Coffee Spills

As most of you probably know, about two months ago I moved to the suburbs and now commute to Manhattan for work every day via Metro North Railroad. And after the past two months, I have the commute down to a science, and have even started to really enjoy the 31 minute ride and the time it gives me to zone out, read a few chapters, or brainstorm blog ideas. I don't think it is an accident that I feel like I have really hit my stride on this blog since I moved to White Plains.

Needless to say, my Metro North commute is far different than the NYC Subway commute that I did for the seven and a half years I lived in Manhattan. For the past couple of weeks I have been considering a blog post listing all the different ways commuting from Westchester is more civilized and humane than commuting on the Subway (like, for example, alcohol is allowed on Metro North, and there are even little kiosks in Grand Central that helpfully sell beer and mixed drinks at a discount to Westchester commuters). I was planning on posting some sort of top ten list, and was waiting until I had enough information stored away to make you all understand just how different these two commuting experiences are.

Well. This morning I saw something - just one thing - on the train that encapsulates the entire difference between Metro North and the Subway. A top ten list is no longer necessary. My list is now exactly one item long.

As the train was pulling away from White Plains this morning, a man sitting a few rows in front of me put his cup of coffee on the floor while he took off his jacket (oh, did I mention that Metro North kindly provides hooks at every seat on which to hang one's jacket?). When he was sitting back down he misjudged his footing, and accidentally knocked over said coffee cup, spilling its contents onto the floor. The velocity of the train caused the spilled coffee to stream from its point of origin, and head towards the feet of the people across the aisle.

Now. I noticed all of this with about half of my brain. Not because I was tired or anything, but because I am a former Subway commuter. During my seven-plus years on the Subway, nary a day went by where I wasn't dodging some mysterious liquid or food-stuff that ended up on the floor of the Subway car. Once I even had an entire cup of coffee dumped on my spotless white shirt by some reckless fellow passenger. Subway riders are always holding far more than they can reasonably carry, and for some reason they think adding a cup of steaming hot liquid is an excellent idea. Accidents ensue. On the Subway, no one bats an eye when there is coffee on the floor, or when empty bags of chips get stuck to your shoe by chewed gum, or when there are giant rats scampering up and down the tracks. That kind of mess is just the price of doing business.

Being used to that kind of daily disorder on my morning commute, this coffee accident harmless in comparison, and I turned my attention back to my book.

Well, I may have dismissed this morning's coffee accident as harmless, even as it was happening, but not so for my fellow Metro North commuters. As the poor man put his coffee cup on the floor, the man across the aisle was eyeing the cup like a hawk. And when it spilled, and was basically ignored by its owner, the man across the aisle went out of his ever-loving mind. He immediately sprang into action, rallying fellow passengers for napkins to clean up the mess, while giving the owner of the coffee cup the evil eye. If looks could kill, I'm telling you. He alerted everyone in the vicinity to pick up their feet, and to take their bags and purses off the floor, lest they be attacked by the errant streams of coffee. Apparently, Westchester commuters just don't do coffee spills on the way to work.

And as I flipped through my mental files of the past two months, it occurred to me that this was the very first spill of any kind I have seen on my morning train, and that I have never, ever seen trash on the floor of my Metro North cars.

Toto, I don't think we are are on the Subway anymore.

After the Snow

View from the train platform, after last night's snow.

I love the way the world looks in the wintertime. 

Grey skies, snow dusting the grass, bare trees, and silent streets.

What's the Rush?

Rush Hour.

When I was living in Manhattan, I never really thought too much about rush hour. I just got on the subway approximately 20 minutes before I needed to be at work, and between 11 and 15 minutes later, including a coffee stop, I was standing in my office. 

But now that getting to work involves a half hour train ride and a trek through Grand Central Station, I think about rush hour quite a bit. 

On the White Plains side, it is all pretty calm. I park my car, get on the train, and settle in for a peaceful ride. Sometimes I read blogs, sometimes I read a book, sometimes I stare out the window and consider ideas for my own blog, and sometimes I just sit and think.

But about five minutes outside of Grand Central, something happens. People start to move around and gather their things. Blackberries come out, and e-mail is checked. And astonishingly, some people even get up out of their seats and line up at the door, so that they can be first off of the train when the doors open. And then they just stand around, twitchy, until they can finally disembark. As if the two minutes they save by not waiting to get up until the train stops make that big of a difference. Grand Central is the last stop. There is no way to get trapped inside the train.

And once the doors do actually open? Pandemonium. People rush around, run down corridors, and walk as if the building is on fire and their very life depends on how quickly they can get above ground. And even though I absolutely abhor rushing, if you don't keep pace with the crowd, you will certainly get mowed down.

I took the picture above as I was keeping that pace during my commute on Wednesday morning. I kind of like that it is blurry, because that is how those minutes between the train and the door to Grand Central feel. Blurry, fast and frantic.

There is something insane about Manhattan that makes everyone feel like they have to rush. And even though I lived here for more than seven years, that was something I could never quite get used to. In my world, being five minutes late to work is not the end of the world, standing in line an extra minute or two will not kill you, and the faster you go, the more likely you are to miss something interesting (like the fab bag the girl in the picture is carrying. I nearly stopped her to ask her where she got it, but I couldn't catch up).

So I am making a vow for my commuting days. A vow to not get caught up in the crowd. To skirt alongside the rush. To walk a little slower. And to always, always stay seated until the train comes to a complete stop and the doors open to the start of my day.