On the Way Home This Car Hears My Confessions

Since moving to New York I've found a lot of favorite things about the city. Free museum nights, free summer concerts, 4am bars and a pervading sense that a person is only as old as they let themselves feel. Near the top of the list is the erratic, nerve-wracking, frustrating, convenient and indispensable New York public transportation system.

For $2.25 I can travel from Coney Island to the Bronx Zoo; from the Hudson River to the Atlantic Ocean. On any given Friday night I can see one of the best modern art collections in the world at MoMA in Manhattan, catch an outdoor show at the Prospect Park bandshell in Park Slope, crawl into one of my favorite dive bars in Williamsburg, and be in bed without having to worry about traffic, falling asleep at the wheel or a DUI. I don't have to be alert during my morning commute and can begin to veg-out during my evening commute. Hydroplaning, warming an engine, defrosting and scraping a windshield and black ice are issues my past self had to deal with but that my current self can blithely ignore.

For all of the construction, delays and hours spent waiting for infrequent late-night trains the subway is undoubtedly my lifeline to New York City without which I'd probably spend most non-work hours holed up in my apartment playing video games and drinking whiskey (which isn't to say I don't sometimes do that anyway.)

As a child of the midwest, however, that grew up with wide streets allowing cars to drive at or over the speed limit (except in Lynndale!) in a city sprawled out enough to warrant a long drive just to get to a friend's house I can't deny there is a certain experience that only private transportation can confer.

I look back through rose-colored glasses and remember a certain serenity in my morning and evening commutes. The individualism that existed on even the most packed freeways as people traveled en masse, but were still encapsulated in their own little four- and two-doored worlds. I remember driving through a sleeping city surrendering its roads to me and my compatriots coming back from late-night jobs, shows and poker games. I remember the freeway between cities at midday, the sun hitting fields for miles around with only road ahead and behind. I remember road trips to Indiana, Illinois, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin with friends packing into cars packing into caravans four or five deep with only one of us in the whole group really knowing the way.

Above all else I remember the music.



In New York, subways are communal property. Hundreds of people trying to exist in their own bubble despite being plopped in a space with dozens of complete strangers. Music is piped through headphones for one set of ears only and any deviation from this norm is generally met with annoyance at the offender, concern for their hearing or some spare change in their hat.

In a car, though, the space belongs entirely to the driver. In my first car, a 1993 Nissan Sentra that turned on a dime and eventually leaked from the roof, mixtapes littered every imaginable compartment and the car stereo later gave way to a walkman hooked up to miniature speakers once the volume knob stopped responding. In my second car, a 1999 Toyota Corolla whose only real blemish upon being sold in 2006 was a small cigarette burn on the backseat, the car lighter's singular function was to power my Discman - later my iPod - with no apology or pity for any poor soul who didn't have their own lighter on them. I might forget my book bag, my grocery list, my parking pass or my laundry detergent but my tape converter - that lifeline between my discman/iPod and my car - was never left behind. I perfected the art of the one-handed, eyes-on-the-road CD change, knowing exactly where in the CD wallet I wanted to go for what album and knowing by feel which buttons on the player were play, stop, forward and anti-skip.

There are moments in my life that I know never would have taken place had I grown up in New York. Mike and I in high school screaming along to the Mighty Mighty Bosstones and freaking out an elderly couple driving next to us. Maynard joining us to rock out to a guitar solo on Goldfinger's "Anxiety". Mitch and I memorizing every word to Blink-182's Dude Ranch and trading off vocals in an Arby's drive-thru like we were Mark Hoppus and Tom Delonge. Sohail, in college, telling me while driving with the windows down and blasting DJ Scooter into the late summer afternoon that, "Now you're really Asian, man." Coasting through Hocking Hills during Amie's birthday 21st birthday camping trip with Something About Airplanes's lilting melodies providing the perfect accompaniment to the rolling countryside. The 6 (minus 2) in a car driving from Akron to Cleveland before most of us moved away singing in earnest as "Existentialism on Prom Night" came up on shuffle, and in that moment swearing that we were infinite.

I miss listening to cold, harsh, winter music while watching winter pass by outside. I miss listening to a gentle rhythm while hanging my arm out the window, letting it ride waves of air. I miss driving music. I miss sitting in parking lots surrounded by CD shrinkwrap and poring over liner notes because I can't wait until I get home. I miss not worrying about volume, bumping into people or annoying a train full of strangers.

More than anything else, though, I miss shutting the door, rolling up the window and singing along as if no one were listening.