Dispatches: a rainy spring
March 31: 1 train, 8 AM. In the station: me, drunk man swearing at the air, nineteen MTA construction workers slowly arguing. No one seems to know if the train is running or not. April 20: On the train uptown. Two older ladies, strangers to each other, in adjacent seats. One turns to the other and asks "Excuse me, can I just ask you a quick question?" Other nods. I see what's coming a mile away. "Do you have a relationship with God Our Father, and do you understand why we call him Father?" This was at 59th street. We're at 125th now and she's switched to Spanish, but as far as I can tell she's recounting the entire story of Emperor Constantine's battlefield conversion. April 22: My building super, my hero who stopped an invasion of rats, is from somewhere in the remains of Yugoslavia. My neighborhood is highly Spanish-speaking. I'm at home at my desk, and amid the sounds of general puttering going on outside my window, comes a