One of the earliest forms of graphic design in my mind is cartography. An elegant production of visual communication that has been refining itself since the dawn of man. Yeah, I like maps.

This past spring here in New York City, the MTA unveiled a new subway map, the first update of the map since 1998. And while the map has been reviewed in the press, as a designer, map lover and most importantly as a rider, I wanted to give my thoughts.

The old subway map suffered from an overwhelming amount of information some of which was really unnecessary for most riders. For example, the bus information always was an annoyance to me. It’s always just served as clutter the map.

One striking thing about the new map is the decision to reduce the size of Staten Island in relation to the other boroughs. This allows the other boroughs — where most of the trains (and people) are — to be enlarged. Apparently, there was some uproar about this decision, but personally, I’m fine with it. Guess what? I’ve lived here six years and never met anyone from Staten Island. All the other boroughs? Yep, lots of people, lots of times. In fact, I’ve never even been out to Staten Island. Maybe someday I’ll go, but I’ll probably take the ferry. Reducing it’s prominence on the map — even if the geographic proportions are not accurate — is a good design decision.

A large portion of the distracting bus route information has also been removed which I whole-heartedly approve of. It allows the map to focus on it’s main goal — the subway system.

One thing I don’t like about the new map is the color change for the parks. They’re no longer a true green and are much more subtle than in the previous map. The colors of the parks and the surrounding city are so similar as to make the parks almost unnoticeable. While I like maps, I also like parks and since many of the viewers of this map are tourists, I would think the city would want to highlight the green spaces.

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Update: I’ve noticed that the version of the new map that actually is posted in subway cars contains even less of the pop out bus information boxes making for a cleaner (and clearer) presentation.

I dug up this old advertising pamphlet in my mother’s basement and beyond the New York City connection, I was inspired by the retro artwork of 1960’s advertising (not to mention the cocktail culture which it was a part of).

A few other interesting notes:

• The Unisphere (which just underwent a $2 million dollar renovation) appears to be a registered trademark of United States Steel and copyright of the New York World’s Fair 1964-1965 Corporation. I never would have guessed that.
• The entire brochure is produced by Southern Comfort and is essentially a product tie-in for the World’s Fair event. For every category of cocktail in the brochure, they provide a Southern Comfort enhanced version. I guess some things never change.
• Strangely enough, I do take pride in how the pamphlet boasts of the skills of New York bartenders (or mixologists to use the modern vernacular). This has nothing to do with my sampling of the wares of said mixologists and more to do with my belief that NYC is the center of the universe.

Stay tuned for more 1960’s advertising dug up from my mother’s basement.

Want to know what it’s like to live in NYC? This short film pretty much captures the feel.

THE BEAT OF NEW YORK from tim hahne on Vimeo.

Yesterday, I really felt like a New Yorker. The weather was getting warmer and as I walked around town smoking a cigar with Archie, I must have had the magic, the vibe, the luck that made everyone think, “I need to talk to that guy.”

We were repeatedly stopped by people — and not just for the ubiquitous, “OMG! That is the cutest dog EVER!” comments (which Archie is soooo over).

What really made me feel like I had arrived though was that for all of the questions — I had an answer. And the correct answer at that!

Now, I’ve been asked for directions many times before in NYC and usually I don’t know where the person is trying to get to — or — in a few select worst case scenarios, I’ve given out the wrong directions.

Yesterday? I was on it. I knew the best route, the cross streets, answers to follow up questions, alternative locations for the store they were trying to find, everything.

I was no longer a tourist, no longer a transplant. I was obviously a well seasoned New Yorker.

Heck, only took 4 years.

(Although I’m sure many actual born and raised New Yorkers would put me to shame. And I’m also not resting on my laurels too much — I still don’t know enough about the city. I just got lucky in a neighborhood I knew well.)

Lucky days, indeed.

Walking down the street yesterday and someone behind me kicks, steps or trips over Archie.

First Sign of Stupidity: Don’t bump into stuff in front of you.

Then this person weaves around me to my left (Archie was walking on my right) — big butt, tight jeans, big 80’s hair, loud pattern shirt, talking on the cell phone.

And that’s when I overheard her say into the phone:

“Oh my God! You’re, like, Paris Hilton with a ring!”

Second, Third and Fourth Signs of Stupidity: “OMG” “like” “Paris Hilton”

I responded by saying, rather loudly, “Stupid fucking whore,” but to no avail.

Oblivious wins again.

PS: Archie was not injured in the incident. He may be short, but he’s like a cement block.

So yesterday was the official start of summer and while the calendar may be scientifically correct, I tend to notice the arrival of summer by two other events.

The first way to know it’s summertime in NYC is that the subway platforms escalate to unbearably high temperatures. Combine the blistering temperature with the dank underground humidity of the seeping drainage water and you find yourself sweating while standing perfect still. For a person who read way too many fantasy and science fiction novels as a child (such as myself), the summertime subway becomes the stuff of myth. A dark, putrid cave whose heat and humidity are obviously caused by the demonic lava that flows beneath the tracks fueling the trains as we orc-wage-slaves shuffle and push towards another scrap of food in our daily toil to please an unforgiving Over Lord.

In many parts of the world, the subway platforms are air conditioned. Now, I’m not crazy enough to call for that kind of humanity. After all, the NYC subway is over 100 years old. An industrial sized fan is all we really need. Please.

The second event which signifies the arrival of summer in New York for me is a small change in my routine as I climb up the five flights of stairs to my apartment. Instead of just toiling up the stairs as usual at the end of the day, I find myself stripping off my clothes piece by piece, floor by floor as I head up with the rising heat. By the time I reach my apartment on the top floor, I’m half naked and it’s all I can do to unlock the door and prostrate myself in front of the air conditioner and it’s cooling goodness.

In many parts of the city, building common areas are air conditioned. Now, I’m not crazy enough to think that I’ll ever be able to afford to live in one of those buildings, but heck, who knows? I play the lottery. After all, if my landlord has the gall to leave trash in the hall outside my apartment — from the previous tenant — for two years and then to send me a note asking for me to remove it, I’m not thinking their concerned about the health and well being of their tenants.

Just about every aspect of New York life that goes on above ground also takes place underground in the subway system. And when you cram that many people into a confined area, you’re bound to create opportunities. Musicians find listeners. Sellers find buyers. Sinners find redemption. On and on it goes.

And sometimes, lovers find each other.

Now I’m not talking about teens cause everyone knows they’ve got nowhere else to go (or anywhere to be for that matter). They can’t make out with each other in their homes and they can’t get a hotel, so there only option is the PDA. Given their transient nature, the subway is often a favorite haunt.

And I’m not referring to the nice old couple who sneaks a kiss on the train after a night at the opera. While it’s cute and all, it’s also respectable. It’s descent. Seniors generally don’t get dirty in public (unlike the teens).

What I’m talking about is the covert rendezvous. The stolen kiss. The forbidden encounter planned down to the second and geared to occur amongst the crowds to raise no suspicions.

Sometimes if you’re lucky and observant you catch this moment and if they’re good, it takes you a second to realize what just happened.

Times Square underground during the morning rush hour. A man waits at the top of the stairs leading down to the N, Q and R lines heading downtown. A woman walks from the across the open space from the downtown 1, 2, and 3 lines. She heads towards him. There is no recognition at all. Travelers of the world swarm in all directions, each focused on their own destination. Musicians set up their instruments for the first show of the morning. The mans stands dead still. The woman approaches fast with a crowd from the 1, 2, and 3 lines at her heel. She approaches him and in a flash kisses him. They do not speak. Only their lips touch. The kiss is brief but no accident, no sentimental gesture, no hello, no goodbye.

And she is past him heading towards the Queens bound N, Q, R lines.

And he is down the stairs and headed in the opposite direction.

One brief moment. One brief kiss to hold all that emotion. To communicate all that meaning.

I smile as recognition sets in. Spring must be around the corner. At least the sun is shining underground.