During rush hour, the commuters’ protocol is simple: head down, find your spot and hold on. Standing on a crowded subway platform, the goal is to make sure you are situated to get on the train and plant your spot. That protocol makes it almost impossible to absorb your surroundings until after the doors on the subway have closed.

Last night, I wiggled my way into a spot where I could hold on to keep from falling (I suppose I am a little like Jennifer Lawrence in that way, prone to the occasional fall – yes, I understand that is where the comparison ends). Once the doors close, I quickly noticed that every commuter around me was using some article -- of clothing, a newspaper – to cover their nose. And then it hit me. It was really, really bad and it was coming from the man who was sleeping on the bench directly behind me, his head in his hands.

So many straphangers around me scoffed and joked. I could find no humor but instead was struck by a profound sadness for this man who has a life story but whose story had deteriorated to a subway car and a dozen New Yorkers (including myself) finding new use for their scarves.

Perhaps one might call this a classic New York experience – I call it a sad one.