Every time I’m home in New York, I ended up seeing someone I know on the street or subway. And I always feel like it’s some small miracle. In a city of 10 million people shuffling around and trying to get places, what are the odds that I see someone I know – every time? Like when I was home for a weekend in May, and saw a girl I went to school with for 13 years out the window of Grays Papaya while stuffing my face with a sauerkraut-loaded hot dog, or two. Or when I saw a girl on the opposite platform who I’d been best friends with for a year in middle school, and she saw me too, after I’d entered the train and waved. Or the multiple times I’ve heard my name called by someone as I’ve walked down St. Marks or taken a seat on the subway. I’ve seen old classmates on the subway, teachers, shoe salesmen, friends, acquaintances, family friends, the list goes on. And it’s because we’re all hurrying to catch a train, whichever way it’s bound.