When I, Princess Marni, deign to take the fairest mode of transportation, the subway, it is a most transcendent experience. Gliding down the mahogany staircase, I lift my skirts just a tad so as not to brush them on the fine oriental carpets that line the steps.
The string quartet in the corner brings their song into a crescendo as I hand my ticket stub to the tuxedo’d usher.
He takes me hand and brings me to the gilded platform where I must await my train. Canapes are passed around and I take a seat on a plush divan, so as better to enjoy the complimentary gin fizz.
With a polite whistle, my train pulls up, and the doors open. Passengers cordially step out of the train as those waiting to enter respectfully step aside. Once it is our turn, we board one at a time. The compartment is air conditioned and smells of lilacs. There is ample seating for all. We sit together quietly, using our inside voices and keeping our hands to ourselves. We watch the scenic underways of Manhattan go by in a soft reverie until the train stops exactly and promptly at our destination.
Reluctantly, I leave the underground palace for the world above.
Newt Gingrich recently talked poorly of the “Manhattan elites” who “ride the subway.” I don’t think he’d speak of the subway as a fancy thing if he’d ever been on the 6 train at rush hour.