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One can meet tons of people in trains, trams or subway cars. Especially in New York, especially during rush hour. When I got into the train of the F-line train on the 62nd Street in Lower Brooklyn in the morning, I heard Spanish and Polish, which is not surprising, because there are a bunch of Catholic temples with European names and dressed in similar architecture styles in the area. Unless the heads were bowed down to the phones, dialogues were heard here and there from time to time. Mostly about politics or diapers - two extremes, very important in the life of a migrant with a threshold close to the lowest average wage of 30 thousand a year. A few stops before, Chinese people entered a car with a peculiar habit of yelling at the whole wagon until someone asked to stop. In Brooklyn, seems like 99 percent of all laundries belong to them, and on Saturdays, when I had to use their services, I had to explain with a strange combination of humming noise and motions what powder I needed (a dollar portion in a red box) and what laundry I would prefer if there was a choice. "Eh, maybe try and learn Chinese?" I thought at that moment. By the way, I still do not understand how, living in the US for 20 years or more, different national minorities have not learned English - strange to me but oh well. Most of them feel alright the way they live. Among their own. Crossing Upper Brooklyn, the car was infiltrated by several young lads, white, most likely middle-class, because the location of life was not cheap, and from the conversations of employees, I heard that there are hipsters and because of them, the price on mangoes doubled in all over the city. You can immediately see the most trendy things - mango salad and strangely coloured socks were in the top rankings that year. "So why not eat some exotics since we are in NYC?" - apparently, they thought. After all, with their youth maximalism, they came to conquer the world, and it is difficult to do on an empty stomach and with cold feet. After a few stops, business people pour in. I sense a bit of a chill. I realized that we had already crossed the bridge and ended up in Manhattan. Wolves of Wall Street. A tribe of People who hardened their hearts with half-truths, brutal laws of economics and professional seekers trained to smell the money from a distance. Spiky and glossy eye look. Suits and ties, shiny shoes - not too shiny, because it scares away potential customers. These seem to have no interaction at all, and then I realize that they communicate with the numbers and the dry language of the New York Times economics and statistics column. When they leave the car, they usually leave the newspaper, because after a few stops, the "Times" is picked up by African Americans. At that point it usually becomes warmer. After the freezing cold of Wolves from Wall Street, the atmosphere in the car improves somewhat. I understand that Harlem is a former ghetto for blacks in Manhattan. Black Panthers pick up wolf people's newspapers and bite into them. Such greedy reading can only be seen from the typical nerds from the central library - where they have their own four-eyed mini-party. That's it, it is my stop. I and a few other adventurers end their adventure in the upper Manhattan. On the mountain. In silence, we gaze at the smooth, murky, probably polluted streams of the Hudson River. Should I walk back? Because the underground brings only the reverse sequence of human bodies.