Evening rush hour on the 2 train: A middle-aged woman dashes between the closing doors and trips over a seated man's foot.Woman: Sorry.

Man nods, doesn't say anything.

Woman, touching her forehead a little flustered: I'm sorry I ran into you.

Man: No worries.

Woman: I just saw my son on the platform. Out of the blue. Of all people…

Man, now with an unmistakable British accent: I ran into a mate of mine from Leeds on the L train.

Woman: Isn't that the strangest? It's like kismet or something.

Man: You think being in New York you can escape. You can't. It's like an alternate universe. It's the smallest city in the world.

Just then I take a sideways glance at the woman sitting next to me. We're both reading the same book (Three Cups of Tea — highly recommended) and we're reading the same page at the same time. You better believe this city is small.

Jacquelin Cangro

There is a beautiful mansion near my apartment which is on the National Historic Register. Built in 1900 for William Childs (developer of Bon Ami cleaning powders), it sits on the grand avenue of once-private residences directly across from the park. Now the mansion is home to the Brooklyn Society for Ethical Culture, a non-profit group hosting various programs and seminars. Not too long ago, they installed a banner out front stating that they are against torture. Did I miss something here?

Of course they are against torture. Who wouldn't be? Who is going to stand up and disagree with that? (No, actually I am all for torture.) Why restate the obvious? It's kind of like announcing you think Hitler was a bad man.

This leads me to the recent announcement by the MTA to let straphangers know that groping on the subway is wrong. Correctamundo, MTA! It seems safe to say that there are certain things we all know are wrong. Fondling your neighbor on the subway is one of them. But the MTA is spending a good bit of money rolling out a campaign to tell us this anyway. They want to encourage riders not to be afraid to speak up after a study showed that 63 percent of women have been sexually harassed on the subway. There will be a hotline to report such unpleasantness. But all good intentions aside, can this really even curb the problem?

A similar campaign on the Boston T resulted in an increase of reported incidents, which is to be expected, but there was no increase in apprehending the offenders. It all boils down to a he said/she said kind of thing. I mean, it's not like the guy leaves any fingerprints.

Full disclosure: I have only been groped on a particularly crowded section of Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras but never on the subway. As your faithful subway reporter, I took an informal poll. Only one friend had a tale to tell. She boarded the 2 train at 14th Street during the evening rush. Everyone was crowded and pushing their way in, kind of like the subway in Japan where the conductors will "help" you by using your body as leverage to squeeze more people on the train. (I suspect these women need the groping hotline more than anyone.)

My friend was subway surfing, where you don't have a pole to hang onto or a door to lean against — you're just riding the wave of the train. A heavyset, tall man was facing her. Every time the train jerked and lurched forward, she felt what she described as an elbow poking her. It was hard to tell exactly what — an elbow? Someone's backpack? — because the train was so crowded. She insisted I mention here that she was wearing a long coat which did its part to camouflage the offending poker. She started to get suspicious. Was it? Wasn't it? Then her apprehension was confirmed. The train stopped moving but the poking didn't. I asked if she would have called to report the incident if there were a hotline back then. She doubted it. "What good would it have done?"

Maybe hotlines like this aren't really meant to catch the wrongdoer but provide some false sense of security to the rest of the riders. We want to feel like something is being done. We insist upon action. Not doing something, anything, despite how ridiculously futile, is the equivalent of letting the offenders win. Reminds me of the random bag searches the local police conducted here after the London bombings. With seven million riders each day, what did they really expect to find in the backpack of Joe Commuter? But it made us feel better, even if just for a few moments.

Jacquelin Cangro

Some years ago, a co-worker had accompanied a friend as moral support to a band audition. My co-worker, M, saw a lovely-looking guy exiting the audition room with a saxophone. She worked up the nerve to introduce herself and they chatted about random things: the weather, the L train, the Beatles vs. the Stones, and then the friend was called to perform. During the hubbub, they went their separate ways and never exchanged phone numbers. This is not an unusual story, except for what happens next.

But first there's a little something you should know about M. She was a helpless romantic. She believed in Prince Charming and messages in bottles and that all you need is love. She had plans to get married at Cinderella's castle with Jiminy Cricket singing "When You Wish upon a Star." For Halloween she always dressed as a princess. She was the original daydream believer.

Knowing this, it may not come as a surprise that in the days following her chance encounter, M pined for the sax player. She dreamed of the perfection that was him and before the week was out she'd picked names for their three kids. She finally called the company that had hosted the audition and begged for his phone number. The receptionist must have admired M's chutzpah. She relayed the message to Mr. Sax Player and gave him M's number. He called her and they went on a date. (By the way, this scenario is only remotely plausible if you are in your early 20s like M and her sax-playing man. Then it's earnest and heady and just a touch clandestine. After a certain age it kind of crosses the line to desperate and stalkerish.)

It's not just M who was fabulously optimistic in her pursuit of true love. Patrick Moberg proved me wrong (see "When a woodchuck could chuck wood post, June 3) and fell head over heels on the 5 train a few months ago.

Moberg isn't alone in his search for Ms. Right. Just yesterday there were 100 posts on Craigslist in NYC searching for a "missed connection," whether that took place on a platform or in a Starbucks. Let's say you saw your future husband on the subway but, for whatever reason, you couldn't speak to him. Just post an ad and sit back until your honey comes a-calling.

"i think you live in greenpoint because i've seen you maybe 3 times on the G. you were wearing a blue shirt and white shorts maybe, with long dirty blonde hair in a pony tail. you had a bag that said "ralph" on it. you got off at 5th ave and it saddened me. i've got dark hair, i was wearing jeans and a green collared shirt. i don't think you'll read this, but hopefully next time i will be courageous and make the damn move."

"It was Saturday night around 10 pm at the 2 or 3 train going to brooklyn. You had a slimless shirt with white and blue stripes, some blue jeans and some tennis shoes with a roster logo. I tried to keep eye contact from you, i was wearing some shorts and a green tshirt. I got off the Eastern park way museum stop. I wanted to say hi and talk to you"

"me: at the southern end of the car. Glasses large photo bag. Kept looking your way. You: other end of car. Blue dress. Red hair. Kept looking my way, thought it was at me, could be wrong though. A clown got on the car at union or ninth." (My note: only in NY)

Alas, it seems that you would have a better chance of finding true love at a "foot and back rub" place on the Lower East Side. Moberg wasn't going to take any chances on the love of his life. He decided to create a webpage to find his lady: www.nygirlofmydreams.com. In a city of eight million people, it took him 48 hours to find said girl of his dreams, one Camille Hayton, living in Brooklyn, originally from Melbourne, Australia. Hayton's girlfriend spotted her sketched likeness on the website and called her.

The results? My former co-worker M married — someone else — and apparently is pregnant with their first baby. Moberg and Hayton dated for two months, but they've decided to "just be friends."

An "A" for effort to all parties involved. It gets me thinking. Maybe someone is looking for me and I don't even know it! I wonder what my ad would look like.

You: Gurl with ipod dozing on 2 train. U R so k-ute. Don't worry. It's ok.

(See the "You are so cute" post, October 15.) 

Jacquelin Cangro

Yesterday marked the "Ninth Annual No Pants Subway Ride," wherein thousands of exhibitionist New Yorkers got down to their skivvies and boarded the subway. For what, you ask? Well to get a date, silly.

"It's a place to meet people that's not your traditional bar scene," said Brady Kirchberg, 26, who was taking part in his third no-pants ride. At least we singletons now have another option beyond eight-minute dating and online dating. It sorta eliminates a lot of awkward moments later on, no? Though I should note that the temperature hovered at about 20 degrees yesterday, so you'd have to take that into account.

As you'd expect, most New Yorkers were fairly blasé about the whole thing. Gintas Norvila said, "It's the first time I've seen it. It looks very interesting," and went back to reading Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground.

Here's a clip from last year's No Pants Ride.

Jacquelin Cangro

New Yorkers have very specific fears that don’t necessarily translate to other parts of the country. But for some people, the paranoia gets the better of them. Just a few days ago, a man who’d had it with roaches decided to exact his revenge by spraying the hell out of them with extra-strength Raid. In fact, he sprayed so much of the stuff in his tiny apartment that one lit match ignited it, blowing out the front windows and charring more than 80 percent of his place. At least the roaches are gone.

But New Yorkers’ fears aren’t limited to the vermin/rodent category. Here are some other things that freak us out (in no particular order): getting run over by a bike messenger; a transit strike; a black-out during a heat wave; George Steinbrenner; falling debris from high-rise construction work; the mysterious steam that comes out of those orange cylinders in the middle of the street; and, oh yeah, Al Qaeda.

A very pregnant friend tells me that she hyperventilates at the thought of going into labor on the subway. She has reason to be worried. She knows the story of Francine and baby Soleil. Francine, pregnant with her first child, starts feeling a little uncomfortable, so the doctor tells her to come to the hospital to be examined. Without enough money for car service, presumably, or thinking she has all the time in the world, she hops on the F train with her husband, Max.

By the time they get to the East Broadway stop, Francine is feeling much worse. Max tells the conductor who radios ahead for an ambulance. He ushers Francine, who is by now having serious contractions, onto the platform, and the train leaves the station. Then New Yorkers, who love to be in the middle of everything, spring into action. They lay Francine on the platform (blech!) – a man offers his briefcase as a pillow, a woman holds her hand, several people give their clothing to the cause, another man runs to the street level to guide the EMTs and, as luck would have it, a nurse steps off an arriving train and lends a hand. In fact, Wendy Brown, a woman from the Bronx who offered moral support, noted at least four trains came into the station and some people from every one stopped to help. When baby Soleil makes her appearance, all the passersby applaud and jump on the next arriving train.

What a welcome to the world! 

Jacquelin Cangro

The MSG Network (For non-locals, that's Madison Square Garden, not the bad stuff in Chinese take-out.) is conducting the most real reality show around. It's called NYC Soundtracks. Sixteen subway musicians compete for a music contract and the chance to perform at Radio City Music Hall and the Garden. Auditions were held, and through a weekly process of elimination, the viewers will vote for their favorite busker.

The first clip has interviews with a few of the buskers. Keep watching until you get to Gibron Soul, the orphan-turned-minster-turned-guitarist from Toledo, Ohio, and the Peabody Conservatory graduate from Baltimore who says, "Playing on the trains is a good way to get humiliated and get a girlfriend." (And possibly both at the same time, eh?) The second clip is a busker from West Africa who plays an instrument I've never seen before but makes a beautiful sound.

According to one subway busker, the most important question of your whole entire life is, "Do you like it, or do you love it? 'Cause if you just like it, then it's only a hobby. If you love it, it's in your soul, part of the energy that animates who you are." Amen, buddy. Puts a whole new spin on those weepy models who "want this more than, like, anything." This is real and it's raw. And if you've ever tried to "make it" in a field where the odds are stacked against you, you'll feel their passion and hunger in your bones.

If you don't get the channel, you can watch all of the episodes and vote here: http://www.msg.com/soundtracks/ .

Jacquelin Cangro

Q. What do you get when you combine 10 sets of twins, random New Yorkers, and the 6 train?

A. One of those fun sociology experiments that shows how New Yorkers have a completely unique response system.

Check out this experiement by the group ImprovEverywhere.

Jacquelin Cangro

"Don't worry. It's okay."

But I am worried. This guy keeps inching closer to me. My first instinct was that he was going to pickpocket me. I clutched my bag tighter and tighter to my chest.

Now, I think he might put his head on my shoulder any second. He'd boarded the train two stops after my friend and I did, and ever since then I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head.

As I've said before, the best thing to do in a situation like this is use evasive tactics. I pretend I don't hear him. My friend, skilled in the ways of the commuter, keeps chatting — about the movie we just saw, about the weather, about Lindsay Lohan versus Britney Spears. Anything to avoid a lull in the conversation because when that happens…

"You are so cute."

Then he taps me on the shoulder. Instinctively, I turn toward him and break the cardinal rule — do not make eye contact under any circumstances. He looks fairly harmless with his backpack and button-down shirt.

My friend whispers, "I don't smell alcohol." Neither do I, but there is something altered about him.

"What language do you speak?" he asks now that he has my attention.

This forces me to move to level two of subway avoidance, which I am not very good at: the freeze out. "English."

"Really? I speak English, too. Yeah, I do. You speak so nice. I was listening to you. You are so cute."

I suppose there is a double standard here. This guy has clearly crossed the line to Creepyville, but had he looked like George Clooney (a girl can dream), I would have already given him my number. This guy does not look like George Clooney. They never do.

"Where are you from?"

Since we're already in the borough, I go with the obvious. "Brooklyn."

"Really? Wow! Me, too! You are so cute."

My friend says, "Do you want to move?" We are still about four stops from home, maybe ten more minutes, which will seem like eternity. Yet, we don't move. It's the same reason I'm not very good at the freeze out. I don't want to seem rude. For some reason I would rather be uncomfortable than to embarrass him or call more attention to the situation. I think this is the good-girl syndrome, as in, "Just be a good girl and don't make trouble," or "Good girls are well-mannered and considerate." Boys don't seem to be raised with the same mantras. It takes good girls a long time to learn to speak up and not be taken advantage of.

Would I tell him to stop talking to me? It seems extreme, so I just sit there and try to ignore him when he suddenly pops up and runs off the train at the next stop. I suddenly felt bad for him. I mean, this is a tough way to get a date.

George, if you're reading this, I'll be on the Q train tomorrow, conductor's car.

Jacquelin Cangro

In the year 10 BDC (Before Debit Cards) I had visited a friend in the Midwest. I was living in Atlanta and decided that, rather than paying to park at Hartsfield Airport, I could stretch my meager budget by taking the oft-laughed-at MARTA train. (Motto: "Ride MARTA, it's SMARTA." Laugh all you want, MARTA drops you off inside the airport terminal, unlike NYC, where none of the three airports can say that.)

I'd lived large on the small amount I brought, so large in fact, that I didn't realize I had only 60 cents left. And I still had to buy a token for the train ride home. I opened and reopened every pocket in my purse, every zipper in my wallet in that frantic way when you come to the understanding that, since you don't have magic ruby slippers, you will be stuck in the airport forever like a bad Tom Hanks movie and you don't even have a Russian accent.

MARTA was cash-only, and since this was also the year 5 BCP (Before Cell Phones), my options were limited. I could call a friend collect, but it was late and I already felt lame enough. Since the currency exchange accepted credit cards, I gave serious thought to converting 20 dollars into Japanese yen and then converting it back to dollars to get the cash. (Ingenious, no?) But soon after, a grandfatherly gentleman in a business suit asked if I could use some help and I poured out my pitiful story. He gave me the change and I never forgot his kindness.

It was just last week a woman at Grand Army Plaza had the same anxious and pathetic look on her face. In lieu of ruby slippers, she needed a swipe, but she was going about it all wrong.

Those of us who ride the subway frequently have an unlimited Metrocard. For one monthly fee, you can ride as often as you like. The catch is that you can only swipe your Metrocard once every 15 minutes or so. As with the rules of any program, people quickly learn the loopholes — things not possible with the old token system. Let's say you're an entrepreneur (e.g., you sell batteries in the subway cars). If you pay two dollars to get on the train, you'd probably have to sell five batteries just to break even. Now if you ask someone coming through the turnstiles for a swipe of his unlimited Metrocard, no skin off his back and you're making a profit from battery number one.

But the tired woman standing outside the Grand Army Plaza turnstiles was clearly new at the game, asking people who were on their way to the platform, instead of people on their way out. She said, "Excuse me. Could you…"

Before I realized she was talking to me, I'd already swiped my card and was through the turnstile. No going back then. Waiting 15 minutes to swipe again for her is really beyond my rush-hour benevolence. I looked at her drooping face and did what I thought would help. I pointed to the Chinese lady with the batteries who, speaking no English, had just finagled a swipe from a black teenage girl coming out. The woman nodded, now on the right track.

Moral of the story: Since you don't have ruby slippers, always buy your ticket home before you leave.

Jacquelin Cangro

Guy #1: …so that's why our ancestors ran from animals, unless they were going to eat them.

Guy # 2: Every day is a battle, man.

– Manhattan-bound 2 train, morning rush hour

Jacquelin Cangro

When I lived in the suburbs after college, as soon as we girls acquired more furniture than a beanbag chair and a rickety stool, we hosted supper clubs. One of the more favorite versions of the supper club was the progressive dinner party in which the festivities move to a different person's apartment for each course of the meal. Once I moved to NYC, I rarely went inside anyone's apartment unless it was the home of one of the few individuals whose living space was larger than an average closet. That is, until I joined an unconventional writing group that operates a bit like the progressive parties of my suburban days.

This writing group meets once a week at a different location; sometimes we meet in the back room of a local bookstore or, if the weather is good, we meet at Strawberry Fields in Central Park, but usually we meet in someone's apartment. We write for an hour or so and then chat and eat some snacks. I think at last count there were about 100 members, but only 15-20 show up at any given meeting, depending on the location. Because of the relaxed nature of the group, you can come every week, not come for three months, not write a word while you're there, or offer to read some of what you've written.

If you've followed this blog at all, you'll know that this arrangement perfectly satisfies the voyeur in me. (See the "Getting to Know You" post.) I get to nose around a stranger's apartment, see what kind of knick-knacks they have and if they leave the toilet seat up. It's also given me the opportunity to check out an 1890s brownstone that maintained the details of its glorious past and a hip Soho loft overlooking Broadway and Houston. Oh, and I get some writing done.

The writing group decided to try a noble experiment: have a meeting while riding on the 7 train. As unconventional as it sounds, I liked the idea of having the subway be the destination rather than the means to the destination. The goal is to board the train at the Times Square station, which is the very first stop, so the entire group can pile into one car. We will then write during the ride out to Queens, and on the return trip, members can read their work if they choose. Of course there will be plenty of other passengers on the train, and I've no doubt that some of us will be the recipient of monetary donations.

This reminded me of Johnny Temple's essay about a subway party, though the goal of a subway party is to drink yourself into a somewhat shaky state, then board the train with a gaggle of your closest friends, and basically harass the rest of the passengers until they leave you with the car to yourself.

Now I don't need utter silence to write. I've often jotted notes or written scenes while riding the subway, but the distractions on the 7 train are too much to handle. Most of the stations are above ground, where you'll find the work of arguably the world's best graffiti artists on display. Also above ground, there are the challenges of relentlessly ringing cell phones and general Saturday afternoon din, never mind the stares of New Yorkers as they watch the nutty people all clacking away on their laptops. Most of these people, I expect, will assume that we are filming some kind of documentary or that they walked into the latest version of Punk'd.

Come to think of it, this situation would not be satisfactory at all. I want to be the one conducting the voyeurism, not the subject of it. I know this is quite unfair. One good turn deserves another. So if you're riding the 7 train and come across a group that seems to be lost in thought, please be a good voyeur and keep your stares surreptitious. That's what I would do.

Jacquelin Cangro