Sunday afternoon, on a crowded but not packed subway, somewhere under Brooklyn, two young Canadiens, from near Montreal, visiting New York City. Someone gave the dark haired woman a guitar and she's playing and singing an odd little song about losing her friend, losing her dog, losing her mind, going from French to English and back, her friend harmonizing, both laughing when they get the words wrong. They are having a good time.
Once upon a time, the G train ran from Forest Hills to Smith and 9th Street. In the north it's an abbreviated line now, barely making it into Queens and chugging, four cars at a time, through several neighborhoods in Brooklyn but extended to Church Ave.
I don't know Brooklyn well. I know my way around Manhattan and Queens, and parts of the Bronx, but even though I've been there often, Brooklyn feels like a foreign country to me.
I kid around, telling people that when I go, I take my passport with me. I felt for these two women, trying to see a little bit of Brooklyn before heading back to Canada, but lost, underground.