By Yvonne Vávra

 The other day, I was sideswiped by a small existential crisis—courtesy of the Rag’s comment section. Nothing too serious, just one of those record-scratch moments when joy runs into a wall of perfectly reasonable questions: Why care? Why does it matter? What’s the point?

What set it off? An article about a 10 train pulling out of the 103rd Street 1 train subway station. Yes, that 10 train—the one discontinued in the late ’60s. I guess the city’s wild old heart wasn’t quite finished with us after all. My sense of wonder was all in—the not-supposed-to-be-there always flips the switch. My brain perks up like, 10 train? Tell me everything.

The city’s full of weird little glitches like that. Here are just a few I’ve come across in the past two months: A bra slung over the railing leading up to a Chase bank. A Croatian book—not for sale—on a CVS shelf. A man casually eating spaghetti while leaning against his car. That last one might not sound so strange at first, but take a second to picture it: a whole bowl of spaghetti, eaten standing up on the sidewalk. That’s not a beginner move—that’s a confident choice in the world of snacks-to-go.

But back to my inner child’s glee over the 10 train and the moment it took a hit. Someone in the comments asked why everyone was so obsessed with a wrong train number. Why was it worth writing about? Another reader jumped in, lamenting the waste of time and internet space on a simple error. Oof. Sudden jolt of perspective. Precious pixels, squandered. The joy had left the station.

Then it quickly rolled back in.

The comments only deepened the intrigue, sending my wonder into a fresh new direction. Because isn’t that fascinating again? Why do we care about the things we care about? One person lights up while another yawns. I’m thinking about my nephew, who knows everything about garbage trucks worldwide; my friend, the walking IMDb page; and another friend, who’s obsessed with noodles.

To me, a noodle is a noodle—however it shows up, I’m here for it. But I’d have a hard time telling exceptional noodles from mediocre ones. I just don’t have that kind of palate. Maybe I haven’t found the right noodle to blow my mind yet, but as long as something’s got a good hit of salt and comes in happy colors, I’m going to have a good time eating it.

My friend, however, keeps a list of noodle spots on his phone—linked to a map showing all the places his noodle joy has yet to take him. He goes on and on about flavor, balance, and toppings up and down Broadway and Amsterdam. Many words about hand-pulled, fermented, fried, and steamed. It’s all noodle to me. But I do love watching the passion in a fellow human’s eyes.

Meanwhile, I’m a sucker for buildings. And I’m so happy to finally have found the right moment to share this with you: there’s a hollow section in the facade of the Dorilton at 71st and Broadway. I haven’t brought myself to find out why yet—and honestly, I’m not sure I want to. The mystery of it all is such an alluring space to bumble around in. The building is solid stone until… knock knock, knock knock—it’s plonk plonk. Suddenly hollow. I get a kick out of knowing that now.

And how do I know? Because I touched the Dorilton. Why did I touch it? For absolutely no reason. I was just walking toward Broadway, minding my own business, touching the buildings—and then, by chance, knocked on a hollow piece of the Dorilton.

But every time I tell someone, I’m left a little disappointed. The hollow facade doesn’t seem to spark much excitement in my companions. No one gasps. No one seems to wonder what in the world of architectural shenanigans is going on here. If you know, please tell me. Or wait—don’t. Once I know, it’ll just be… that thing I know.

Actually, I’m kidding. I’d love to find out. No, seriously, I insist. Tell me. Kill the wonder, if you must.

Interest is wildly individual, and isn’t it wildly interesting to see what makes someone else’s brain light up? Even if we don’t get it, we get them a little more—and inch a little closer together. How fascinating that we’re all out here, caring fiercely about things all over the map. Or maybe that’s just me again. In which case, I’m sorry if I’ve wasted precious internet space. In the end, everything’s all noodle to someone—in the best or worst way.

Yvonne Vávra is a magazine writer and author of the German book 111 Gründe New York zu lieben (111 Reasons to Love New York). Born a Berliner but an aspiring Upper West Sider since the 1990s (thanks, Nora Ephron), she came to New York in 2010 and seven years later made her Upper West Side dreams come true. She’s been obsessively walking the neighborhood ever since.

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