紐約地鐵24小時之旅
本期主題
作者：by Thomas A. Shakely
It’s late afternoon in New York City. I’ve just 1）swiped my MetroCard at 2）145th Street in Harlem and am heading downtown. I’m not holding a bouquet or joined by friends. I’m not heading home from work. I’m not， for that matter， even riding to any particular destination. I’m wearing a pair of jeans， a few sweaters and a jacket containing my iPhone， a Kindle and a toothbrush. I’m alone.
Where I’m heading is everywhere and， well， nowhere. I’m riding the New York City subway for 24 hours straight， with no plan other than to just go.
As fate or simple chance conspired， I’m beginning this solitary adventure at 5：23pm on Valentine’s Day. I hesitate on the platform for a moment， choosing between two arriving cars. I hop on， and a journey through the city’s 3）arteries begins.
The first few hours pass quickly as evening turns to night. Shakespeare’s sonnets somehow get me through some initial loneliness： “Die single and thine image dies with thee.” I finish to find it’s already far into the night. A man’s enjoying a cigarette in my car despite the 4）screeching 5）whines of a woman.
那是紐約的黃昏時分。我剛在哈萊姆區的145街刷了我的地鐵卡，正往市中心而去。我沒有捧著花束也沒有友人相陪。我並非下班後回家。至於去哪兒，我甚至並非前往任一特定的目的地。我身穿一條牛仔褲，幾件毛衣和一件夾克，裏麵揣著我的蘋果手機、一個Kindle電子閱讀器和一把牙刷。隻身一人。
我正打算哪兒都去，嗯，或者說哪兒都不去。我打算在紐約市的地鐵裏連續坐上24個小時，除了在路上，沒有任何計劃。
是命中注定，又或者是僅僅碰巧而已，我在情人節這天下午的5點23分開始這段孤獨的旅程。我在站台上遲疑了一會兒，從兩輛正在進站的列車中選擇其一。我躍上車，一段穿越這個城市交通幹線的旅程由此開始。
隨著黃昏轉入黑夜，最初的幾個小時過得很快。不知怎的，莎士比亞的十四行詩助我度過了某些最初的孤獨：“獨自死去，你的肖像和你一起。”我終於發現夜已經很深了。一個男人正在我所在的車廂裏抽煙，盡管一個女人在尖聲抱怨。
Nearing midnight I jump off at W4th to stretch my legs on the platform， and here in the West Village things are just heating up for the night. Boys and girls—and girls and girls—are everywhere rushing with roses in hand to make the most of their night. As I’m hopping onto another car with a vague plan to head to Coney Island， I notice one couple whose night’s climax will be right on the platform.
I realize quickly the 6）futility of mentally recording the story of the people I see. A frowning Latino bringing takeout back home. A child lost in an iPod next to his 7）diffident mother. The limp-suited Financial District trader just hopping on. Every face is a story， and so you quickly forget. A practiced disinterest predominates—there’s no time for anything else here.