Last week, I had a marvelous adventure in, shall we say, vintage casual.
See, every year around Christmastime, NYC reintroduces a few vintage subway cars back into the line, and lucky passengers get to ride on them, taking a trip down memory lane ... er, memory track, as it were. Levys' Unique New York planned ahead for a vintage subway car that would leave from the Lower East Side, head to Queens, and come back, and encouraged New Yorkers to "Party Like It's 1912," by dressing up in period attire, bringing tea and cookies, and listening to live ragtime ... all while riding a jostling, jerking vintage subway car.
My dear roommate agreed to dress up with me (with these sorts of things, it's usually best to bring a friend for two reasons: so you aren't the only person dressed up strangely, and so that if the event is full of crazy people you have some protection), and after church we and another friend grabbed lunch and headed downtown. After some navigational mishaps on my part (shocker), we made it to the party. Hastily hopping on a subway car, we moved through a couple cars looking for classmates and admiring the costumes of people who seemed rather normal, except for owning complete Victorian/pre-WWI-era outfits.
After we found one more friend (a smartly-dressed chap with impeccable core balance), the train finally got moving. The live ragtime band played, the lights flickered off and back on, and couples danced like the Titanic had never sunk. The train was extraordinarily bumpy, so while all this quaint, wonderful stuff was going on, I (and a few others) began stumbling on top of people, who were also stumbling on top of us. Unlike a normal commute, in which needless bumping of strangers gets a death glare at the very least, everyone just chuckled and held on tightly. Our tour guide, a man in a gleaming white suit with one of the most impressive moustaches I've ever seen in person, seemed to be the only one who could (or dared) move through the densely-packed subway car (though the smartly-dressed chap and a few others did manage to simply stand and not fall over).
After a few stops, a series of remarkable things happened. Our mustachioed tour guide and some charitable man began pouring tea (a delicious, spicy herbal blend) into dixie cups and asking us quite properly "one lump or two?" Then a woman came forward with a silver tray of goodies. Then a man passed forward a package of shortbread cookies. It was New York City, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, and there were strangers sharing food with each other in the subway. Truly, it was a miraculous thing. Even as we (and by we, I mean I) fell on top of our newest and closest best friends, everyone smiled. This was partly because the music and jostling made conversation difficult, but partly because it was such a very nice experience. Not everyone dressed for the period, but most had (minus the modern cameras and videocameras and flip phones in use to document the event), and it was delightful.
We made it to the end of the line, hopped off, found more friends, and eventually got back on. It was more of the same, except that the band had moved to the other end of the train, and in order to get to the music, we had to pass through a series of moving vintage subway cars. I mention this only because it was a lifelong dream I didn't know I had — that is, until I was standing there, grabbing the handle of the next car, watching the tracks whoosh by underneath me, and I realized I had waited my whole life to do that. Huzzah!
Where were the economics you ask? Well, beyond the signs advertising $0.12 subway fare (a constant remind of inflation and bygone times), I was struck by how little had really changed in the economics of it all. The women wore ruffles and the men wore hats, but getting dressed up for a party was universal (and something I've been promoting for years). The ride was much bumpier (the MTA has done something right since 1912!), but the subway still got people to their destinations. The ads were quaint and promoted enviable prices, but good music and good food still brings people together, no matter what a gallon of milk costs by comparison. The band played much differently, but couples in love still danced.
At its heart, economics is about the choices people make. Choices like dressing up and riding the subway for a few hours. Choices like buying subway fare. Choices like not putting enough lifeboats onboard the "unsinkable" luxury liner that sank in 1912. Even though many of our choices (and the rational behind them) have changed dramatically, it's nice to know that parties, food, and music still bring people together, be it in 1912 or 2010.
I partied like it was 1912 in:
Gray menswear capris, black tights, black long-sleeved shirt, gray lace suspenders, black and gray newsboy cap, and gray ballet flats. (I was a newsboy!)