Something about the New York City subway being almost 120 years old is absolutely batshit insane to me. You’re telling me that an entire century ago, pre-computer, pre-penicillin, pre-sliced bread, New Yorkers were descending the same filthy sets of stairs as I do now on their morning commutes? And the only difference is they wore silly hats while they did it? It’s hard for me to even picture it. (Well, it’s not when I get those weird colorized historical videos recommended to me on Youtube. But I still kinda don’t believe those are real.)
If you’ve been down the same Tiktok and Wikipedia rabbit holes I have, you might’ve heard of the subway’s ghost stations, like the now-abandoned original City Hall station. Still underneath the Municipal Building, the station has stayed in remarkably good shape since its doors closed in 1945. It’s still decked out with beautifully tiled arches and ornate skylights (even weirder than the fact that the subway existed back then is the fact that its rancid vibe didn’t). Whenever I think about it for too long, it sends me for an even bigger existential loop. What do you mean the subway has a ghost? What do you mean the people bustling through the drab 2023 City Hall station are unknowingly striding alongside their commuter counterparts, the finance bros of yesteryear?
I recently got mad when I revisited my alma mater NYU’s campus and discovered they’d replaced the (tiny!) Verizon store with an insane açai bowl/vegan empanada place combo. Do the Ghosts of City Hall Station Past feel similarly about what they’ve done with the place?
When you’ve lived in the city long enough, the mention of a cross-street starts to mean something beyond “I know where that is!” You start to attach stories and memories to those pinpoint locations throughout the city. Taking a long walk (one that’s more wistful than “hot girl”) or riding the bus, you can’t help but see some flashbacks play out on every other block you pass. I remember when I went to that restaurant, what I wore, what the current gossip was. I remember the big group I was enveloped in crossing that crosswalk, on our way between two bars. I remember who I sat on that bench with, the sunset I watched from that park.
The same should go for the subway. We spend a lot of time in those hot, sweaty underground tunnels–they’re the veins of the city and its alter ego. I can’t count the hours I’ve spent waiting for the L, saying prayers of thanksgiving when the B to work arrived right as I swiped my card, or standing around a pole on the 6 with my friends in Halloween costumes. And although they may justifiably prefer to block those subway memories out, every New Yorker has a similar set. Every New Yorker for the past century–my parents in the 90s, my great grandparents in the 20s, and probably some further-back Tri-State Area ancestor who took that five cent inaugural ride.
