Who knew underground travel could be so refined? The Tube offers fine dining. And, according to Callalillie, the subway sometimes features opera:

The life of a subway sardine is never fun. Anyone who lives in New York and uses public transportation encounters it, particularly during evening rush hour. It’s generally the same old story- the oblivions who refuse to move into the middle of the train, the person who insists on bringing smelly food onto a crowded car and eating it, the jerk who apparently thinks that his balls are too big to close his legs so that the correct number of people can sit on one bank of seats. The crowded commute home sucks. When this happens to me, I generally disembark hating everyone around me, including myself for settling in the city.

A few years ago I found myself in this situation. It was a cold winter day and the train was overheated. The F was running more slowly than usual, pausing between stops, and the number of people far exceeded the average person’s cubic feet of airspace needed for their patience to survive. The car was pretty quiet, perhaps the result of the uncomfortable conditions, or out of frustration, or maybe just the fact that it was the end of the day and everyone was really tired.

The sound crept into audibility slowly. It was almost as though someone had snuck a record player onto the train and gradually turned the volume knob up. It rose from the mass of disgruntled passengers and then abruptly stopped. People looked over their shoulders and then, just as we cast our eyes back down to the dirty floor, it began again. The smooth, steady tenor voice filtered through us- a beautiful sound yet the source was nearly impossible to identify. For ten minutes, as the train sat somewhere under the East River, the voice dissipated and surfaced, and finally, when the doors opened at York Street and people stepped aside, the singer was revealed: a short, balding, slightly odd looking man with a nervous smile. More passengers piled in at Jay Street and as soon as he was hidden by people, the short bursts of melodic opera began once more.

I never could figure out exactly what motivated this man. Part of me wondered if it was some sort of Tourette-like affliction, though it is quite possible that the guy just really loved to sing. Regardless, last night while I was on my way home in an airless, packed 2 train, this little man came to mind and I could not help but yearn for him. Of all the oddities that I have encountered in New York- the bizarre, the vulgar, the troublesome and the humorous- the opera man was the most spontaneously joyful. Remembering him as a woman rested one large ass cheek firmly on my thigh, the other on the entire seat next to me, I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe New York needs more nervously-inclined spontaneous opera singers. For now though, I’m just content with the memory.