Break Dancing on Subway Cars

It's amazing to me how secluded people are on the subways. And I'm not leaving myself out of this equation completely. The other day, I was standing on a crowded 1 train, and a frail, tissue-paper skinned elderly woman was standing next to me. All the time, I kept thinking to myself how no one was offering her their seat. It's like people assume a layer of impenetrable hide that bars all sound, sight, or smell from entering. I understand that at certain times, the last thing we want is to be forced into a social setting where legs, arms, boot tips are constantly inter-tangled and mingling. In fact, sometimes, I wish I could have my own route to work in my own tube like transport, swiftly going to and from work, friends and purposeful outings, much like the Jetsons did in their sky highways. And this mentality is often present in my journeys across the island, as I may often curse a slow walker on the street or the person that leaks a little too much into MY subway seat indentation. There is always this assumption among New Yorkers, it seems, that despite how you really feel about the world, and your like or dislike towards others, there is an ever-present blockade between you and everyone else, and the breaking of that barrier could mean a disruption in your routine travel through time and space. It is an interference of one's "in-between" states, going to and from, not having a place of sanctity or grounding. When that sense of transitory gypsiness is broken, the public, anonymous sphere suddenly changes shape. You are suddenly a link in the puzzle and you realize that the nature of transit does not allow for solitary confinement of the mind or body. It is a vehicle for interconnectedness, whether that is the desired goal or not.
Today, I had a turn-around experience that merely took some simple convincing that this common grounding between subway riders is in fact a way for us to connect without even knowing each others' stories or beliefs. It was sparked by some young break-dance kids trying to salvage the last pennies and dimes often found in the bottom of one's purse or the lining of a coat pocket. At first, we (the audience/passengers) were reluctant to smile, or even notice the vibrant movement and music taking place directly in front of us. But once a common notion settled among us that these kids actually did bring joy to our day on each of our individual journeys, it was suddenly easy to be a part of this strange community of anonymous travelers. But if it weren't for these pushy street performing, boom-box lugging kids, I would have never realized the beauty of subway travel in that hour of transit. Isn't that the best kind of art in this world? That's how I see it at least. I like to think that the most beautiful things have elements of unfamiliarity. The kind that makes you stop, and reassess your knowledge of that thing in front of you. In the end, it's all continuous, all fluid, and never boring.