When one says one rides the New Haven Line to the city, one does not mean one rides all the way from New Haven.

Then again, if one is named Steven Padla, one does, in fact, do that 180-mile commute from New Haven to New York each day.

It’s enough to warm the heart of even the coldest landlord.

To wit, the following entry in the NY Times’ “Metropolitan Diary“:

Dear Diary:

I recently participated in an article about reverse commuters published by a Connecticut newspaper. Thousands travel from the city to Stamford and Greenwich every day, but I’m one of the few who travel the entire length of the New Haven Line.

A couple of days after the story appeared, I received a mysterious voice-mail message at the office with only a name and number. Intrigued, I returned the call.

The man on the other end had read the newspaper story and expressed his condolences for my daily commute. Then he offered to rent an apartment to me. He told me that he and his wife were very selective about their tenants and that the apartment in question had been vacant for three years.

I declined as politely as possible, explaining that my seemingly unusual situation was a choice and that I actually enjoyed the commute, both of which are true.

What I didn’t tell him is that considering the blood, sweat, tears, bank statements, tax returns, other miscellaneous documentation, brokers’ fees and security deposit — not to mention the character references for, and in-person interview with, my dog — required before my rental application was accepted only 18 months ago, I’d sooner commute to the North Pole than move again. A hundred eighty miles a day to and from New Haven is nothing!

Steven Padla

From reader Meq:

Can anyone solve the door mystery of the 5:38 New Haven train leaving Grand Central?

Normally the train doors are open well in advance of the train leaving. Regulars can find their favorite cars and settle in, leaving only a few latecomers to throw themselves on and straggle through the train at the last minute.

Not this week. The week that kids are off school and the first warm days appear, MTA decides to keep the doors firmly shut until 5:20…5:25…leaving regular commuter anxious and daytrippers confused, huddled in groups outside the doors, waiting to surge in all at once.

And not enough train cars to boot, leaving many standing and rightfully angry. What used to be a somewhat pleasant and quiet ride home has turned into a stressful noisy situation. And when I look around and see the regulars shaking their heads in disgust, I
know I’m not alone.

As it gets warmer and then downright hot, I don’t want to worry about waiting on the platform sweating until allowed on the train as a kind of sick relief (if indeed the a.c. is working that day).

We all know the cars on the New Haven line are gross. To be honest though, as a regular on the “bloodline,” (named for the red motif used on the trains,) the squalor isn’t usually forefront on my mind. I learned pretty quickly to recognize and avoid the dreaded bathroom cars and to keep my carry-on luggage off the floor to avoid contact with the miscellaneous muck that has congealed there.

Now and then though something happens to remind you just how nasty the New Haven line is. A couple of months back I was sitting in an aisle seat on my normal train home, when a certain scurrying on the floor caught my eye. “Ok it’s just a roach” I thought. “No big deal.” He was a row up, well out of footshot, and heading to the seats on the other side of the aisle. To my dismay, a few moments later another one appeared. Despite his resemblance to the first guy, it was apparent based on his trajectory that he was not the same bug. A moment later yet another one appeared.

At this point it was apparent that the car was alive with bugs. Here’s where things get confusing…what does one do in this situation? Should I make a bold move to stomp anything within 10 feet? Should I run up and down the car warning my fellow commuters like some kind of entymological Paul Revere? Or should I just keep focused on defending my own personal space and allow others to fend for themselves?

As options one and two seemed to go against the commuter code of non-interference, I went for number three. I spent the rest of the ride tapping my feet at random intervals and convincing myself that that tickly feeling was just my imagination.

As for the rest of the riders I did hear a scream or two from a few rows back, but strangely the guy across the aisle didn’t to seem to react when one disappeared up his pant leg.

Yeah I saw it happen, but what was I going to do?

Longest headline ever, or what?

The new Mileposts is out, which Trainjotting readers know tickles TJ to no end. Among this month’s factoids and findings: The winner in February’s on-time performance race was, for once, not the darling Hudson Line. Indeed, the Harlem Line was best in class, posting a 99.2% on-time* performance (*”on-time” of course means within 6 minutes of being on-time according to the MTA’s stringent standards). That was a tenth better than the Hudson.

New Haven, true to character, pulled up the rear with a 98.1%.

Speaking of the New Haven Line, all its riders are eagerly awaiting the arrival of those flashy new cars (and, more important, the demise of those crappy old cars) in 2009. But lest one think that means you’ll be zipping along to Rye in a hot new M8 within a year, you’re in for a longer wait. Mileposts says all of eight cars will be on the line in the last half of 2009, with 10 more joining the fleet each month until the whole of the New Haven Line has new trains by…get this…mid 2012. So get used to the blue ooze of cleaning fluid and urine spilling out of the bathroom, and all inherent odors.

On the bright side, the M8s will feature higher ceilings, auto-flush toilets, individual headrests and looped armrests that promise not to tear your trousers.

It’s the second of three installments of “The Great Train Revelry,” the Metro-North pub-crawl feature that appeared in the Journal News mag INTown. Part I focused on the Harlem Line, and Part II on the New Haven Line. Extra added bonus: A drag queen sighting!

The New Haven Line

Unlike on the Harlem and Hudson train lines, the New Haven’s cars are ancient, dark, and more prone to breakdowns. But that’s more than made up for by some of the liveliest downtowns in Westchester, which will serve us well as we endeavor to reach the next four bars. Our spirits are further lifted as, heading out of the city, we’re treated to the spectacle of a full-grown, full-blown transvestite high-stepping into the car somewhere between Harlem and Fordham.

About 6-foot-6, he’s wearing a mesh dress and faux fur coat, a platinum blonde wig topping a massive latte face. The conductor tells us he’s “Paris” when glammed out and “Rocky” while wearing his guy duds—he apparently being a regular rider, too.

The train pulls into Pelham as Paris describes his fearsome footwear to a young female rider. From here, it’s a short walk down Fifth Avenue before the Publick House comes into view. The Publick smells like a bar should—eau de cheeseburgers and beer. There’s all sorts of sports memorabilia on the walls: an ancient pair of boxing gloves, a program from a high school football game back in 1957, the Daily News from when Joe Torre was named Mets manager—yes, he managed the Mets, all the way back in 1977. We order a round of Buds, the drink of choice at the Publick. After a game of pool and a few rounds of Big Buck Hunter, we’re back on Fifth Avenue with a hop to our step. The Stamford local ambles along, and three minutes later we’re in New Rochelle.

A couple of cops man the platform, a reminder of New Rochelle’s urban landscape. As we head up the staircase to Bridge Street, we pass a moving van unloading its wares at a brand new Avalon apartment, a reminder of the city’s growth. We pass Mason’s Pub and Mo’s New York Grill, owned by Yankee legend Mariano Rivera. Every time we visit the city, there’s something new and interesting. Sure enough, like Rivera closing out the opponent in the ninth, Main Street comes through once again. We happen upon a sleek storefront, artfully lit and looking, for all the world, like a tornado lifted it up from Chelsea and dropped it in the middle of New Roc.

How new is Gnarly Vine? So spankin’ that a woman is hanging a cardboard sign, “Gnarly Vine” written in marker, in the window. The menu’s got tapas and small plates, such as a bruschetta with white bean, shrimp, rosemary, and olive oil, plus an endless wine list, ranging from a $7 Bogle on up to a bottle of something called Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, which sells for a cool grand (uh, is that negotiable?).

Cursing my limited budget, I order the Bogle. There’s an open kitchen and an array of loungy couches. The house music plays Coldplay from before they got lame. We chat with Ray Schramm, who says he opened shop with co-owner William Leon just days before. He says he wants Gnarly Vine to grow via word of mouth—work out the kinks and build a local clientele before the press catches wind of it. The dark lighting, soothing tunes, and comfy couches beckon us to order a second Bogle, or even try that Domaine de la Romanée, and hope InTown doesn’t happen to notice the four-.gure tab. But there are bars to see, tipples to topple, and new memories to make—so we wish Schramm luck and hustle back to the station.

The train is late—get used to it, it’s the New Haven Line—which gives us a moment to ponder our mission. We’ve hit six of the 12 bars on our dance card; shouldn’t there be some sort of halftime show? I close my eyes, but no Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction is forthcoming, not even a crummy Aerosmith concert.

When we arrive in Larchmont, Globe Bar & Grill looks enticing, but since we’ve met our quota of upscale joints, we instead opt for the Cellar Bar next door. True to its name, Cellar Bar is a little hole in the ground; manager Gary says it looked old even when it was new. Built in an old warehouse, Cellar’s got a vaguely hip energy—there’s a guy in a vintage Miller High Life hat at the bar, explaining the code of hockey violence to a pal; there’s a giant parrot mural in the men’s room; and Dave Matthews fills the cozy space. We order up a round of Guinness. Matthews rips through a Hendrix-inspired version of “The Star Spangled Banner”; maybe it’s the booze talking, but we get a little choked up. Then we spy the “No Sniveling” sign behind the bar. It’s our cue to move on.

The station is all of about 50 feet from the Cellar; one could very easily take the pub-crawl concept literally, but fortunately we’re not at that stage yet. We make liberal use of the cash machine on the platform and hop on board.

Next stop is Mamaroneck, and we can see the Town House II from the station—bar number eight is within spitting distance! Unfortunately, upon closer inspection, the dusty old joint is about as inviting as last week’s sushi. The evening isn’t too cold, and a walk down Mamaroneck Avenue will surely get the blood pumping, so we venture onward.

Next we stumble across the bar that time forgot—a perfectly preserved German brauhaus, with stained glass in the windows and an ornamental gnome lugging a keg on the door. Unfortunately, it’s locked, and looks as though it’s been that way since Friends ruled Thursday nights. Some locals tell us it’s the Hofbrau, and it’s indeed shuttered. Zum Donnerwetter!

Mamaroneck is making things difficult on our tiring gang, but the notion of doing what no Westchesterite has done propels us forward. We head toward the harbor, past Sal’s Pizza and its new gelato offspring next door, and our perseverance is rewarded as the Duck Inn comes into view. The room is done up in, yup, ducks: hunting decoys, stuffed animals, ceramic ducks, rubber ducks. We order a round of lager, and I endeavor to count the ducks.

It’s a bad idea. First count, I come up with 112. Second count, it’s 131. I ask my friends to give it a try but they know better. I give up and gaze out the window, where the boats sway with the waves. Mercifully, there are no more ducks.

Eight bars down, four to go.

PUBLICK HOUSE Pelham

ORDER A Bud by the bottle—the preferred potable here (139 Fifth Ave.; Pelham).

GNARLY VINE New Rochelle

ORDER A Glass of the Gnarly Head Zin from Sonoma, in keeping with the wine bar’s

gnarly theme.

PUB GRUB Try the gorgonzola, caramelized fig, and balsamic vinegar bruschetta or the shrimp, octopus, and baby clams in Mediterranean vinaigrette (501 Main St.; New Rochelle; 355-2541; thegnarlyvine.com).

CELLAR BAR Larchmont

ORDER A Pint of Guinness. “Freshest Guinness in town,” promises manager Gary.

PUB GRUB No food, but the bartender will order pizza if you ask nicely (8 Railroad Way; Larchmont; 834-8723).

DUCK INN Mamaroneck

ORDER A “Fluffy Duck”—pink grapefruit juice and vodka. (Regulars call it “Duck Juice.”)

PUB GRUB Freebie shepherd’s pie during happy hour (128 W. Boston Post Rd.; Mamaroneck; 835-8791). 

The new 5:57 a.m. train rolling out of Waterbury, Conn. yesterday kicked off with much more of a whimper than a bang, reports the Hartford Courant. The good people of Waterbury petitioned the MTA for the early train (the earliest used to be the 6:40), and Metro-North obliged.

Only problem is, the petitioners don’t seem to be riding the new train.

The new 5:57 seemed almost deserted for much of the trip, with some of its seven cars entirely empty. Conductor Theresa Murdock collected about three dozen tickets between Waterbury and Bridgeport, but predicted many of the usual 6:40 riders will switch when they hear about the early train.

Some 36 riders across seven cars…that’s about five people per car, folks.

Our blogger brethren StationStops says Metro-North’s marketing efforts, or lack thereof, are to be blamed for the lack of riders on the 5:57.

Know what would be a good way to let people know about the train? How about instead of Nickelodeon ads on the posterboards on the train, they put up a notice letting people know THERE IS ANOTHER TRAIN AT 5:56 STARTING APRIL 7th AND ITS NOT CROWDED!

I think that would work pretty good.

Or how about this - while she is collecting tickets on the 6:40, the conductor lets everyone know about the new 5:56 train starting on April 7th ?

[photo Michael Kodas/Hartford Courant]

ConnecticEnergy tells us about an interesting flare-up on the train from Stamford this morning. A woman with no ticket–and, apparently, no money–was getting grilled fairly hard by the conductor.  She was giving it back to the conductor with some vehemence as well, enough to yank some commuters out of their sleep, newspaper, Blackberry, etc.

After a few minutes of pyrotechnics, a man–nattily dressed, black–from a few rows back spoke up, said he’d cover the woman’s fare, and extended a 20 to the conductor.

You’d think it would end there, but it didn’t. The conductor continued to dress down the woman (she was black as well) even after taking the man’s money and issuing a ticket. The well-dressed man spoke up, something to the effect of, she’s got a ticket, leave her alone.

The conductor made it clear to the well-dressed man, the woman who had no ticket, and everyone else on board, for that matter, that the woman really, truly needed to understand that she was not to ride trains without tickets.

ConnecticEnergy seemed to think he was a bit hard on her.

There’s a funny bit on Derailed about Conductor Bobby’s interaction with a photo-shy VIP rider en route to Fairfield. Bobby, who possesses a Gump-ian knack for bumping into famous people, took the ticket belonging to Justin Long, who’s best known either as the cool Mac hipster in the Mac/PC commercials, or as Drew Barrymore’s boyfriend.

Long was on the New Haven Line for a visit to his folks’ place.

The next time I passed by him, I stopped and explained that I write a blog called “Derailed” and it contains a lot of stories about my celebrity encounters. I then began to reach for my cell phone and asked if he’d be willing to take a picture with me for one of my posts…

I was tempted to thumb through the “pix” section of my phone and show him my photos with Gwen Stefani and “Mikey” from the Life Cereal commercials.

“What,” I’d ask, “You think you’re too big for my little blog? You think you’re a bigger star than Gwen or Mikey? Huh punk?”

I lost my nerve, and in the end I thanked him for his time and wished him luck.

[image: adweek.blogs.com]

Funny item in Page Six of the NY Post Friday:

CANADIAN-born journalist Ashleigh Banfield, who’s studying for her US citizenship exam, got some unexpected help the other day. She was sitting next to CBS News and “60 Minutes” correspondent Scott Pelley on a Metro North train to Connecticut, when he offered to work with her on her questions.

“Then Ashleigh proceeded to quiz him,” said our spy. Pelley was doing great until he had to answer, “What US Citizenship and Immigration Services form is used to apply for natural citizenship?” The answer? Application for Naturalization, which had him stumped.

[photo: Mediabistro.com]

If you’re tired of those solitary less-than Happy Hours that involve you, Mr. Sam Adams, and someone else’s copy of the Post, here’s a gang of souls intent on bringing commuters together: Beer Train Friday.

“We’re just a small group of train commuters that enjoy a cold one at the end of a long workweek and even longer commute,” says the copy on beertrainfriday.com. (Sounds like a scene for Mr. Big Jokey Guy!)

The way it works is, when Friday rolls around, bring your hooch to the back of the train on the New Haven Line, and bask in all the bonhomie one man (or woman) can stomach for the next hour or so.

“Our purpose is simple - on Friday, the rear of the train is Happy Hour!” says BeerTrainFriday.com. “No matter where you are, what country you’re in or what language you speak, the rear of the train is a place to meet new people, imbibe, kick back and tell outrageous stories.”

One deduces that, should you be caught in the rear car and not find yourself in the mood to hoist a few with a few with a car full of strangers, simply move to any other part of the train to reclaim your splendid isolation.