The other day, my friend sent me a Radiolab podcast episode, “The Secret to a Long Life.” In the episode, producer Sindhu Gnanasambandan wants to know how she can live the longest feeling life possible. The answer leads her on a journey to make one week feel like two. It’s a really delightful way to spend 35 minutes and I found myself listening to it as I went through my fairly routine tasks of getting ready to commute to work one morning.
The only difference was how I was getting there.
When I first moved to New York City in January 2016, I lived right next to the B/C train line. But I was, for whatever reason, more familiar with the 1 train, a few blocks away. For weeks, I only took the 1 train, despite many occasions where it would have made more sense to take the B/C. Eventually, I learned the subway map and eventually, the subway became second nature.
I could close my eyes and get lost in a new music album or read a book, fully immersed and still—without much thought—feel the moment the train pulled into my stop. It was such second nature. It was complete autopilot.
It’s been a long, long time since it felt new.
Then, a few months ago while hosting some friends in my new apartment, I suggested we take the ferry from Queens to Manhattan. A bit more exciting than the subway, I thought my out-of-town friends might enjoy it and heck, I’d been wanting to try it anyway. We got on the ferry in Astoria, Queens and rode down to the Financial District in Manhattan. It was so delightful that for days after, I was evangelizing the boat to my colleagues and local friends.
One of these colleagues was thrilled for me. They take the ferry to/from work every day. “I’ll have to try it.” I promised. But week on week passed and I defaulted to my familiar, comfortable, mindless, autopilot subway.
Fast forward, three months and I’m again hosting an out-of-town guest and walking to the ferry stop. Because I love a deal—and because you save money if you buy tickets in bulk—I’ve just purchased ten ferry tickets. Now I’m forcing myself to learn.
The night before I’m convinced I will take the ferry to work, I am studying the schedule and comparing the walking times on both sides of the river. I make a plan. I write it on our refrigerator white board. Calm, cool, and collected, I am ready to try a new thing.
I set off the next morning eager. So eager, in fact, I arrive quite early. I attempt to confirm with the ticket taker that this is the boat I want. “No.”
I am quite early.
I wait for the next ferry. Soon I’m on the right boat and staring out the window as the skyline draws nearer. I have a book but it feels less urgent than watching the waves lap against the rocky shore of Roosevelt Island. I study the digital board announcing our next stop. My head is replaying the next part of my commute, a quick walk to the office.
It is the first time in a long time I have done something familiar in a new way.
By the time I hit my desk, I am buzzing. I tell everyone. I am relentless. I take the ferry home.
For weeks now, I have been taking the ferry to and from work. For weeks now, I have been telling everyone that they too should take the ferry, even if they live an hour walk from the docks. For weeks now, I have been falling in love with the simple beauty of a new old thing.
I’ve long been interested in little switches. Prior to my boat epiphany, I would switch my train commute to either get on the train later or get off the train earlier so as to skip a transfer and add a little bit of walking to my commute. But it was more or less safe and predictable. I know the train system. That was less about trying something new and more about enjoying the journey, taking the long way, etc. etc.
For the last few days I’ve been really trying to pinpoint my fixation with the ferry and I think it’s the mix of routine and novelty. Regular readers of this blog know that for the past year, I’ve taken one in-person, hands-on learning class each month as an attempt to try new things and step out of my comfort zone. And the classes and the experience of pursuing them have been really special. But is it really out of my comfort zone?
I love learning and I love formal education structures. Embroidery might be new to me. But a formal learning setting is as comfortable and familiar as it gets.
But taking the long way? Taking an easy, every day, efficient commute and flipping it on its head? Having to be a beginner in a space where everyone knows what they’re doing?
What a rush.
It sounds so silly but the first couple rides in both directions left me with a little ball of nervous energy in my belly.
And if I got on the wrong ferry? Okay. Might I feel a little silly telling my boss I’d be late to our check-in? Sure. Might I lament getting home later when I know there’s homemade soup waiting for me? Sure. But there was no real risk.
And the rewards seemed ongoing.
Toward the end of the Radiolab podcast, as Sindhu is talking about her big takeaways from her experience, she said something that articulated what I’d spent the whole ride thinking about: “All that novelty does is make us pay attention.”
I write this knowing that my brain will someday view the ferry as mindlessly as I view the subway. It’s already happening a bit. I don’t have to pay as much attention. I know how the queue works even at the busy end-of-day-leaving-Manhattan multiple lines rush. It’s more familiar. I’m more comfortable. I feel more established with my ferry riding credentials.
But the novelty of the thing forced me to pay attention. And in that paying attention, I allowed myself to be overwhelmed by the experience.
My camera reel is now filled with pictures of the ferry stop… in the morning, as the moon hangs in a pink sky… in the evening, as the Empire State Building and its contemporaries sparkle into the night.
I hope, even still, that I can hang on to the feeling. That I can choose every day to pay attention. That I never fully take for granted the novelty of a ferryboat.
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