Bostonians

I’m on the Chinatown bus to Boston: the Lucky Star, not the Fung Wah. Diagonally from my seat are two hipsters popping off the tops of their beer bottles at 11:15 am. They look harmless with their oversized sunglasses and brightly colored t-shirts and after a brief reconsidering of my seat placement, I decide to say put. They are from Boston. Although it may not seem logical to folks who are not familiar with both Bostonians and New Yorkers, there is a major difference. Bostonians are used to breaking the rules and take for granted that everyone else breaks the rules. They believe that this sense of entitlement belongs to everyone, not just the wealthy and powerful: all people deserve exception from the rules. It’s quite democratic, actually.

I know these guys are from Boston because of they way they talk. It’s not their accents (I can’t detect any), but it’s a combination of their refined gregariousness and their Sam Adams bottles. There is something about they way people from Boston interact. Although they may be relating about personal stories, Bostonians never quite seal off the outside world. If I made eye contact with them in the midst of their conversation, I imagine one of them might say, “you know what I mean, don’t you?” There is a recognition that they are in public and are willing to engage strangers in the immediate vicinicty. Bostonians don’t like strangers and they will try their mightiest to de-strange-ify you.

New Yorkers have a harder time deciphering between public and private conversations. Their lives are constantly public. Because it is big, it is small. The sheer number of people makes sidewalks smaller and subway rides claustrophobic. Grocery shopping is like scuba-diving: only so much oxygen will last you – grab the gems. Strangers are constantly in your private space that sometimes I think I get touched more often during the day by strangers than I do by my boyfriend. But these touches from other New Yorkers are not love taps, they are just collateral damage from cramming one’s body on a crowded elevator, subway car, produce aisle. There is no such thing as private space in New York, so private things happen in public spaces. A personal cell phone conversation riddled with cursing and threats happens next to a woman with her baby stroller on a crowded subway platform. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen women sobbing on the train. Domestic verbal abuse is run of the mill even if it presenting itself in a foreign language. Typically the surrounding strangers, adorned with I-Pods, books, newspapers, Sudoku puzzles and laptops, ignore the situation. It’s a 3 step process: recognition, understanding, and separation. They recognize that this private thing is happening in a public forum, they understand its plot, they deposit themselves in another train car. Rarely is their intervention. I have never seen someone ask the swearing cell phone dude to tone down his language in front of the toddler and I’ve only seen one person ever confront a sobbing woman, who quickly waved him away almost revolted by his sympathy.

In Boston (depending on what train line you’re riding), there is more interaction. It’s hard to tell the difference between homeless drunk guys and plain old drunk guys. They look the same in their Red Sox hats and jeans. They both engage you, ask if you want some fries as they hold out their McDonald’s grease-stained paper bag. You’re not sure if they bought the fries or if they dumpster dived for it. Cell phone conversations are more reserved for the most part and if there is excessive swearing or yelling around surrounding children, there is often a spokesperson who requests that they “tone it down.” Bostonians recognize the public when they are in public.

These two hipsters on the bus recognize that they are breaking the rules and would be ecstatic if I asked them for a Sam Adams. I imagine that they would enjoy the comraderie. But now that I live in New York, I am more reserved with my participation. Since I got on the subway at 10 am this morning, sitting next to a rancid homeless man, I have looked forward to my private time on the public bus.