As the train leaves Penn Station and the short female train conductor, who fits the expression – butch – to a tee, starts yelling. I know what’s she’s getting at. MY suitcases. I stashed them behind some seats next to the train door and found a more comfortable seat, kind of like you’d do it at any Swedish train. Shoulda known better.
“Whose soootcases do we have hea?” She barks, like a pissed off terrier in her rude New Yorker accent. “Whose soootcases do we have HEA?!”
If this was Sweden I would likely have been embarrassed, even blushed at such attention and hurriedly leaped from my seat to claim my bags. Instead, I raise my hand and say they are mine.
“Come hea! You can’t just leave ‘em! Come hea! Terrorrrrissssts!” Some people in the train look scared. It’s unclear if they’re scared of the threat my suitcases are posing or if they fear that Gestapo has just come to claim them. I just respond, “Calm down, already. I’ll be there.” I don’t even apologize, the beaaatch-butch’s not worth it.

I realize at that moment that I am a slightly different person when American. More self-confident. Chilled. Comfortable. I do, say and feel things that I don’t when Swedish.

Settled in my new seat, I turn on my laptop to clean up an interview. As I see the New York City skyline getting smaller and smaller in the distance, I plug in my head phones and turn on my latest favorite tune – Just Like a Woman, the Nina Simone version. Loudly.

She takes just like a woman, yeah, she does, and she makes love just like a woman, and she aches just like a woman – and she breaks … like a little girl.

Could be me.

The way Nina sings this song is just indescribable. Download it. It’s one of those songs that make every woman feel…hahahaa…just like a woman. It’s oozing sensuality. It’s so jazzy, bluesy, so old school, so American.

A couple of seats in front and across from me, sits a black dude with one of those spiffy suits that only statuesque black American men can pull off. It’s a dark gray suit with tan and white stripes and his starched white cuffs and collar are visible underneath. His shaved head is covered with a black felt hat, fifties style, and he reads a copy of The New York Times through tortoise-rimmed, rectangular spectacles. His shoes…give it to me baby… a pair of square-toed dress shoes in crocodile leather!!!

Everybody knows, baby’s got new clothes…

Oh yeah, he’s a “smoove playa,” as my friend Briston would say. It’s impossible to not look at him. Mr. Crocodile Shoes’ might be totally over the top, but man, he’s pimpin’ it. He’s noticed that I’m looking at him and he’s also noticing me jamming and singing, or miming actually (the conductor butch, probably would have me thrown off the train if I started singing for real.) He smiles and looks curious. I’m guessing that he’s trying to figure out what I’m listening to. I’m not dancing in my seat, but I’m definitely moving, tapping my fingers on the laptop and closing my eyes, seriously letting loose in this silent jam of mine. If I was on a Swedish train right now, people would probably be convinced I was one of them “crazies.” Liberation. Maybe he thinks I’m crazy, but he nods approvingly as if he could hear Nina’s husky voice and the backbeat. He is in the song without knowing it. Watching him becomes part of the song.

And your long-time curse hurts…

This is what I f***ing love about America. People. All these different people. Characters. The exchange. Watching them. Talking to them. Learning their story. Imagining their story.

Brentwood. The conductor with the rude New Yorker accent announces it loud enough to cut through my head phones. It’s evidentially Mr. Crocodile Shoes stop. He gets up. Looks me in the eye, touches his hat, as if he was about to take it off, but only lifts it a tiny bit. He smiles and says “Have a great trip, ma’am.”

Yes, I believe it’s time for us to quit…