It was the waking of wild winds, blew down the doors to let me in.

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something...commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion.
(E.B. White)


This morning, I decided that I simply could not get on board my subway without a large cup of my favorite coffee in hand. So, I made the detour. Upon entering my station, I heard the familiar roar of a Manhattan-bound train, so I sprinted through the turnstile, down the stairs, and into the last doors of the final car as the "BING-BONG!" sounded. There, I proceeded to fall directly into the lap of a fellow commuter. Happy Monday, sir! As a reward for you making your way out of bed and into the wild concrete jungle, you were given the chance to grope me! All before 9 AM!

Embarrassed that I must have appeared a novice on the subway, I took my seat, sipped my coffee, and looked up to see White's words, posted above. I couldn't help but immediately start to giggle. We settlers do bring passion, and very little shame to boot.