It was a late Sunday afternoon when I found myself on a Manhattan bound R train. It was Palm Sunday, to be exact. A fact I was reminded of by the lady sitting in front of me with palm fronds splaying from her purse. I was coming from a morning of church and Sunday brunch with my sister and her husband. I was deeply engrossed in the book I’m reading, Water for Elephants, by Sara Gruen. I had picked it up off the street for $3 a day or two ago. It caught my eye because I had fallen in love with the movie adaptation, and since I’m a sucker for books, I gladly parted with the small amount of change for a guaranteed weekend of reading. The train doors open and in pours a group of kids who look to be around 13 or 14 years old. I slide over as a skinny blonde girl in a hat and hoodie sits next to me. I sense her eyes on the side of my head and instinctively look up. Catching my eye, she smiles. I smile back and continue reading my book. I don’t know how to explain it, but I have the overwhelming urge to talk to her. I shrug away the feeling, silently chiding myself. It’s silly to talk to random strangers on the subway. I wouldn’t give someone the time of day if they struck up a conversation with me. That’s a lie. I suppose that I might make polite conversation. Blatantly ignoring someone is not in my nature. But the urge to talk to her doesn’t go away. At this point, it’s more than obvious that she’s reading over my shoulder, and I’m not sure how it happens, but before I know it, I reach the end of my chapter and close my book. Instantaneously, she asks me, “Have you seen the movie?”
“Oh yes,” I reply, “I loved the movie, so I had to read the book” She silently nods and smiles in agreement. “Have you seen the movie?” I ask in reply.
“Yes.” She says. I notice that a thick accent blankets her English. “Where are you going?” I ask. I find out that they are a group of students from Denmark, heading to “some Italian restaurant or something”. The boy sitting in front of us says few words, but seems to understand English better than she, translating one of my questions to the girl. Before long, an older boy in the group notices our conversation and comes to stand in front of us. His dark skin is accented by his short dark hair and dark eyes. He asks me where I study.
“New York University,” I reply.
“And what do you study?” He says. He doesn’t have as thick an accent as the girl.
“Opera… I’m a singer”
“You … study opera?” he asks, in some combination of semi-disbelief and awe.
“Yes,” I reply with a chuckle.
“Have you heard of Denmark?” He asks me.
I laugh again, “Yes, I have heard of Denmark.”
“What have you heard about it?”
What kind of question is that? Wait, what have I heard of Denmark? I’m baffled. I don’t know. It’s not like I strike up conversations about Denmark in passing. Erm…. I really don’t know how to answer this question.
“Oh, I don’t know… just… things… stuff?” I say. Ugh. That was a poor reply.
“Denmark is small, you know. It is small country.” He says.
“How many people live there?” I ask. Then I second guess my question. Would he know that? Should I ask that? I mean, really, it’s a freaking country.
“5.5 million. Is smaller than New York.”
“That’s awesome.” I say.
Yes it is. Wow. I live in a city with 8 million people. 2.5 million people more than a small country.
“But we do not need many people” he says, interrupting my train of thought. “We have a good system, and I like it there. It is good. We do not need many more people. I like it there.”
“That’s awesome,” I reply. This seems to be my catchphrase.
“So is opera the only music you like? Or do you like pop?”
Laughing again, I say, “Oh, no that isn’t the only music I listen to. But I don’t really enjoy pop music either.” I try to explain that I listen to neither rock, nor pop, nor hardcore… what do I listen to? It results in me explaining that I listen mostly to Indie music, music theater pieces and well…. Classical music. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is odd in foreign cultures too. He asks me if I will be famous once I graduate. I smile and say, “Yes, that’s the plan. I want to sing on Broadway, too. Not just opera singing, but all singing. I love to sing.” Maybe I threw the last line in the conversation for clarification or even emphasis, but the girl pipes up at this.
“You’re not the only one!”
“Oh, do you sing, too?” I ask.
“Well… not really…. But when I listen to the radio, I like to sing” she responds, blushing. I notice for the first time that she wears dark eyeliner and a lot of makeup.
Her sheepish remark is adorable, highlighting her youth, and it hits me that this girl is only 5 years younger than me at most. I feel like I could be her mother’s age. The taller boy interrupts again and asks, “Have you heard of Aqua?”
“Yes, yes I have” I respond.
“Barbie Girl?” he says again,
“Oh yes!” I laugh.
He smiles cheekily and says, “They are Danes. We are proud of them”, puffing out his chest ever-so-slightly. At this, the difference of cultures becomes subtle, but so intriguing.
“And H.C. Anderson?”
The name isn’t familiar to me… “Um, no, I’m afraid not.”
“The author of Little Mermaid?” He asks, this time not bothering to hide the disbelief on his face.
“Oh! Yes, I know who that is…” I suppose if he would have said Hans Christian…. No, not even then. I don’t know. I tend to not interest myself in authors I don’t discover on my own. I didn’t actually know who wrote The Little Mermaid.
“Do you know where he is from?” He smiles again.
“Denmark?” I ask, knowing the answer to this question.
“YES! We are proud of him!” At this point, I am thoroughly enthralled in the conversation, and I really don’t want it to end. The interesting emphasis on pride fascinates me.
“Do you play instruments?” I ask them. None of them do. None of them play sports, none of them play instruments, and not a single one of them claims to be a reader.
“What hobbies do you do?” I ask. (Please mind my grammar.) I get nervous around people that speak broken English. I’m always afraid I’ll mess up a conversation or say something that has a double meaning, resulting in offending their position or their character. I tend to mess up the English language when talking to people who don't speak it well. It may be silly, but then I’m racking my brain for the lessons I took in German verb conjugation. Do seems like a safe verb. It translates pretty well, right? Regardless, he understands my question.
“I do not play sports, but I run. It makes me feel… sporty and good. And I like French,” He says. “And Swedish. Sometimes when I am on my computer, I try to teach myself.” He seems, (not surprisingly) very proud of this.
I almost miss my subway stop because I’m so caught up in the conversation. Jumping up, I scramble to say, “Oh, I’m so sorry! This is my stop.”
“Oh, great! Bye!” They say abruptly, waving at me.
“Enjoy!” Meaning to say something more like, “Enjoy your time here”… or “Enjoy the rest of your stay!” Instead, I just manage to say, “Enjoy!” and hope they know what I mean.
Coming out of the subway station, I’m surprised to find that I feel giddy, inspired almost. I attribute this feeling to an interesting realization. It is the beauty of being able to talk to a group of teenage Danish students on a Manhattan-bound R train one late Sunday afternoon. It is beauty that reminds me of the incredible culture in which I live. But larger than that, it is beauty that reminds me of an incredible aspect of the world in which I live. I feel so uniquely a part of New York, and yet a part of a culture entirely removed. It’s hard to describe, but it’s an exciting feeling. It’s a feeling of promise and of unity. I didn’t even catch their names, but these three students, a mere 3 or 4 years younger than I, taught me more in a 15 minute subway ride than I could ever learn in a 4-credit class on global diversity or cultures and contexts. They revealed to me that we are all, so uniquely and inherently different, but universally and undeniably human.
I'm sorry this post wasn't about London, like I promised. I want to make my London post really good, and this encounter was just too good not to post.
Thanks for reading. :)
-Em
