A Whirlwind Subway Adventure in New York City – Suddenly Makes Taiwan’s MRT Feel Like Bliss

Text and photos by Huang Zhijun, excerpted from *New York Studies*, published by Times Publishing

Don’t think stepping into the subway means escaping the noise above ground — in New York, even underground you’re not safe from chaos. Rats scurrying across tracks and platforms, homeless people begging for money… That’s nothing new. But it takes just four wild encounters to truly understand how the senses of New Yorkers get “kidnapped” on the subway every single day.

Circus Show

Line: J
Route: Passing through Bushwick and South Williamsburg

The moment I stepped into the car, three black teenagers came into view — their faces were already those of hardened men, yet their bodies still bore the awkwardness of boys. They were brimming with adrenaline, restless and ready to explode.

The doors closed, the train started moving, and sure enough, loud music blared — but the speaker was terrible, skipping constantly.

As the train pulled into the next station and the doors opened, my friend and I quickly switched cars, desperate for even just one peaceful stop. Just one — because when we reached the following station and the doors opened again, there they were: the three teens, now hauling their own speakers, had also changed cars.

The doors shut, and the boys began shouting to grab everyone’s attention. They cranked up the volume to stir the atmosphere. They ran, jumped, climbed, and swung — one started dancing, the other two launched into rapping, taking turns, flipping and leaping around like monkeys playing in the jungle.

During those eight minutes crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, the subway car became a circus tent, the poles our tightropes. Even as they spun their legs so close they almost hit passengers’ faces, even as one lost his sneakers mid-somersault hanging upside down from a pole, the boys performed without missing a beat, totally immersed. Outside, the East River shimmered under the sun, but inside, an unseen, unheard circus show unfolded.

When the music stopped, the boys were drenched in sweat, panting heavily. One flipped his baseball cap inside out, hoping for a few coins or dollar bills. No one obliged. He shrugged, coolly saying, “Let’s try the next car.” (Not this train.) But the New Yorkers remained icy cold — had they scored in the previous car?

Verbal Warfare

Line: 3
Route: Passing through Upper West Side and Times Square

The moment I entered the car, the noise hit me like a wall — deafening. At one end, a Black man held a Bible, loudly reciting scripture and preaching. At the other, a Latina woman screamed and cried at no one in particular, writhing and flailing her arms as if bugs were crawling on her. Neither paid any attention to the other; each had their own agenda that day. The other passengers? Blind and deaf — ignoring everything. Terrible luck — it was an express train, running non-stop from 72nd Street to 42nd Street, thirty blocks with no stops, so no chance to switch cars.

At one point, the Latina woman walked over to where my friend and I were sitting and yelled, “Chinese @#$%^&*” — though I couldn’t understand her. Really, it wasn’t my hearing — her rant made no logical sense. I kept my eyes on her every move, bracing for a possible attack, while also trying not to laugh at how absurd the whole scene was.

The train sped along, and both sides raised their voices, seemingly competing to win even a few seconds of the passengers’ attention. Then, a white woman reading a book shot the Latina a cold glance and said flatly, “You will be fine.” Miraculously, the woman gradually calmed down, though her makeup was smudged with tears. The Black preacher also stopped, giving an awkward smile, perhaps realizing he’d been outdone by the Latina’s nonsense.

The train pulled into a station, the doors opened, and the Black man got off. The Latina remained lingering near the platform edge. The doors closed, and she couldn’t get back in, staring blankly through the window into the car. For a moment, all the passengers let their guard down, breathing a sigh of relief — New Yorkers aren’t actually indifferent, they just pretend to be.

The car fell silent, and the train moved on. The next batch of passengers boarding would never know what kind of verbal battle just went down in the car they just entered.

Sometimes, an Empty Car Has a Reason

Line: 1
Route: Passing through Times Square and Chelsea

The train pulled into the station, car after car packed with passengers — no surprise, it was a Saturday night and the theaters had just let out. When our car finally pulled up and there were hardly any people inside, I was thrilled. But the moment I sat down, I spotted a disheveled white elderly man dozing off across from me, his “belongings” taking up an entire row of seats. Other passengers looked at me as if I’d just wandered into some forbidden zone.

Something felt off. Even though it’s pretty normal to sit next to homeless people in the New York subway, I immediately stood up and walked to the other end of the car. As I walked, a foul stench hit me — not the sour smell of garbage, nor the salty stench of sweat, but something far worse: the old man had had diarrhea. No wonder nobody wanted this car — everyone had run away.

They say “if you stay in a fish market long enough, you stop noticing the smell.” The stench did fade after a while, so maybe I shouldn’t switch cars... But no — even if I couldn’t smell it anymore, I kept inhaling the lingering odor of the man’s bodily waste, and the more I thought about it, the more nauseous I became.

When the train reached the next station, I immediately got up and moved to another car. Other passengers unaware of the situation walked past me and joyfully took a seat in the old man’s car. I thought to myself: “We’ll meet again.”

The Mysterious Bag

Line: D
Route: Midtown

The train pulled in, and the white elderly man seated next to me stood up and walked toward the door, but left behind an unidentified bag in his seat. The white woman beside me and I noticed it at the same time. Our eyes widened as we looked at each other. In that single second, guesses, suspicions, and unease shot through the roof—terror attacks, explosions, casualties—those memories were still fresh.

The white woman asked, “Is that his?” I replied, “Probably.” She immediately turned around and called out, “Sir！You forgot your thing.”
The elderly man slowly walked back, and I carefully picked up the bag and handed it to him. He said, “Thank you.” Fortunately, it was just forgetfulness due to old age. The white woman and I exchanged another glance, smiled at each other—a nice moment of mutual assistance on the subway, and a real-life embodiment of the New York subway’s slogan: “See something, say something.”