Don’t call me “sir,” either. In fact, don’t call at all. Yesterday, on the 7 train, I was going over the rhythm for this new aria I’m trying to learn. Okay, this means I’m minding my own business, in my own little world and in my mind I’m wearing a sparkling black gown (the tiara is a given). I didn’t even see this one coming:

Creepy sexist man: My, my… that is a complicated piece of music for a lady.

What I wanted to say: No, not really. My man unchains me from the stove in his house once a week so I can put on shoes and study music.

What I actually said: No, not really.

Creepy sexist man: I would only study that for fun. Not for work at all. (Silence) So where do you work? The Met or something?

HA. Oh, that’s rich! Perhaps I should have been more specific when I said “no more 40 yr olds, please.” This man was clearly over 40, maybe over 50. I’m not even legally allowed to drink alcohol. After he sat down next to me he started talking about culture, or rather, lack of culture. I don’t mean to be rude, but what can this man expect riding on a train? He told me he was reading Cyrano de Bergerac. One of my favorites, I do not intend to let this sexist man spoil a beloved story. He claimed that he was forlorn because he was educated and sophisticated but not good looking enough to have a girlfriend. He asked if he could recite some poetry. I tried to say that I needed to study my music but he interrupted me and began Cyrano’s declarations of love.

As he was talking to me he said something in French, which I can’t begin to pretend I understand. I know a few words, though, thanks to my sister’s dirty mind and strange friends. Thankfully he got off at T.S. but not before shouting, “plute” into the car. Yes, I know what that word means, mr. disgusting worm! (He doesn’t even deserve capital letters!)

Every day in Manhattan is a surprise. I never know what kinds of people I’m going to meet. Last night as I walked to the subway from practicing I felt a deep affection for this city. Somehow it gets lost in the struggle for space on the over-crowded trains and expensive but mediocre meals. Was my fondness for Manhattan rekindled through music and practicing? Or, simply, was it magical New York City? The setting was surreal, a gray early evening sky and a warm breeze against the steely buildings, fluorescent signs and thinned crowds of people. It is difficult to put comprehensible words to my feeling of exhaustion after practicing because it is a complacent and happy exhaustion. It seemed like it was not exhaustion at all but it certainly was work, especially after an extended break.