Walking in my neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn I can enjoy something not often associated with New York City, a relative quiet. But fall is here with a vengeance and the brisk wind rustles madly through the trees. I choose the more arborous blocks so that I can take this in for as long as possible, without any stopping, or doubling back because New York City is all about moving forward. Aside from traffic, including the too often occurring overly revved engine, the sound most predominant in this area is that of construction. Hammers and saws echo down every avenue, street and boulevard and whether this is the sound of gentrification or progress depends on whose ears they reach. I make my way past a barrage of one sided conversations as young and old hold invisible conversations while holding one ear. I step down into the subway and my ears are happy to hear an old friend. A man playing banjo croons a song perhaps more suited on a smoky mountaintop but I could never imagine it anywhere else but here, bouncing sadly off of the subterranean tile. An emotionless woman tells me that my train will be arriving in approximately four minutes. I have a hard time trusting her because I’ve been burned before. The train comes as promised, in a crescendo of screeching metal on metal. The cadence chucks towards us followed by a draft of ancient, trapped air. The train comes to a whining but sure stop and its doors open with a heavy thud of acceptance.
