Night in Manhattan, the rain has intensified, making the express bus commute to Brooklyn anything but express, subway now the only available option. Few people on the train, fewer still when we reach Downtown. At one stop three men rush in, singing Jingle Bells, mixing the lyrics with bebop. Their deep, soft voices are a little off key – a possible reason for the lack of applause. At the next stop the trio leaves, but the doors refuse to close, jerking back and forth for a good couple of minutes. Those with the least faith in the New York transit desert at once, just in time before the doors finally close for good.

Suddenly, the train makes eerie squeaking sounds. One passenger closes his ears in annoyance, while the other one, wearing headphones, does not notice. We are approaching Cortland Street - the World Trade center subway connection. The noise stops as we slowly enter the platform.

Cortland is no longer a true New York subway station full of advertisements plastered on the white, tiled walls. Instead, the walls are covered by plywood or peeled paint. Thin, tired tape of indeterminable color runs a few feet above the ground, marking the virtual divide between the platform and the train tracks. There are no people in sight - a sinking feeling that reminds you of how life, no matter how dirty or overcrowded, is so much more preferable to this emptiness. One couldn’t say how long this station has been in decay; only the light bulbs enclosed in the metal cages testify that someone still comes here.

For a $2 admission fee, looking at Cortland though the windows of the passing train, I am brought face to face with American history. The World Trade Center's site is hidden by the tall metal walls while Cortland's abandonment is for all to see, viewable by thousands of commuters every day. Ground Zero is just few steps away and I imagine walking those steps, had the train opened its doors. Life respectfully slows passing Cortland Station and then moves on, accelerating. At the next stop humanity boards the train in the shape of a tall panhandler who announces “Good Evening” to the empty car. The coins, he tries to count, do not fit in his large hand, scattering all over the subway floor. Stepping outside onto the flooded Brooklyn platform, he does not say Good Night. Still, I am glad to see him.