F is for STFU

I just read a Times article that said that the subway line I take to and from everywhere – Brooklyn’s pride and joy, the F train – stands out from the other MTA lines because on any given ride home, the passengers are quiet. It astounded me that I’ve never noticed this about the train I’ve been riding every day for 4+ years, but it shouldn’t have. We go to such lengths to block out the sounds of the city’s underworld: we snap on our headphones and do our best to ignore the squeaking and hissing of the wheels on the rails, the ding-dong of closing doors, the garbled announcements, and, especially, our fellow traveler’s mundane conversations and ramblings. It seems we’ve also blocked out something altogether unique: a rare quiet moment within our hectic day.

While “quiet” is naturally a relative term – my new apartment is “quiet” because there isn’t a bus-stop directly outside of it – enjoying it is a pleasure I think we forget exists. This morning, I was cursing the elevated train above DUMBO for causing daily damage to my eardrums as it rumbles over the Manhattan Bridge – but why is it so easy to find the noisy to be bad and the quiet to be… well, unnoticeable.

Just as we can let our eyes get used to the relative darkness of the city at night, I’m going to try to let my ears adjust to seeking out the odd and lonely quietness of the city’s soundscape.