It was a crisp October day and the wind kicked the leaves up to the second-floor window of 221B Baker Street. My companion Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair and gazed down at the entryway to spy a woman pacing back and forth. Within a few minutes, she was inside, and up the stairs. Sherlock looked unamused, almost annoyed, but, taking a glance at the woman’s somber visage, his own face softened ever so slightly, his tight jaw relaxed,  and he beckoned her in.

“Madame, kindly take a seat. I won’t have you here long, I can already see that yours is a problem you won’t solve here.”

“But… how?” She asked

“Allow me to explain. It’s simple enough-, there are innumerous details about you that even my soft-minded companion, dear  Watson, could see. You’re left-handed, of course, as shown by the watch on your right wrist and the ink stain on the side of your left palm”

I chipped in, “Indeed Holmes, I caught on to that detail about our guest, but if I know you, you have quite a deal more to say.”

“Well, Madame, the details of your situation is perspicuous in innumerable fashions visible from here, I required but a few of them to determine that I am unable to offer you my services. You are anxious about your impending divorce, and you have taken a young lover in the meantime. The anxiety is evidenced threefold- the raw cuticles on your right thumb, the blemish on your chin, and of course the status of your shoes.

The marriage ended sometime well before summer. There’s no ring tan on your hand, yet there is a visible tan line from your fitness watch- its face is new and unscratched, but you recently exchanged the original band for a  thinner, more elegant gold band. Your skin is of a tone that is reticent to tan easily, so it seems you spent a good deal of the summer outdoors, wearing your new fitness watch all the while.”

“But what does my watch tell you about my marriage?”

My dear, you have a rather obvious giveaway- you keep pawing at your ring finger, feeling for a phantom band.

You aren’t divorced yet, but you have a court date set sometime soon. The anxiety is eating at you, as manifest it your battered cuticles. As I mentioned before, there’s the blemish on your chin. No need to cover it, my dear,  your make-up has done a suitable job for the average eye, correct, Watson?”

“Yes, Madame, I would never have noticed.” I assured her, and she dropped her demure hand from her face back into her lap, gathering her finger together.

Holmes was already inhaling to continue his monologue when she tried to pipe in-

“But what does my blemish mean-“

“You are seeing someone new. He’s younger. He works in a job without much customer interaction, something low profile. Perhaps an office job. He’s taller than you. You’ve been seeing him for a few weeks now.”

“How could you know that?”

“Again, Madame- the blemish on your chin. The young man has a job of a nature that requires him to shave, yet he need not be too diligent about the matter. The stubble from his beard irritated your skin when you were kissing him, rather passionately it seems. You’ve picked at the blemish: again, a sign of your anxiety. The blemish itself is a few weeks old now, there is evidence of it healing and being picked at again.”

“But how can you know he is tall?”

“I have already told you all I required: it’s the status of your shoes. The shoes are new, with a modest heel. You are, as you know, of a diminutive nature, but you still haven’t gotten the hang of walking in the heels, and your left ankle is a bit swollen. The man in question is much taller than you, there is a crease in the toe of the leather, where you have extended yourself onto your toes past the height provided by the heels.”

“It’s true. I am much shorter than him- but how did you know his age?”

“Madame, forgive my impropriety, but there is a hickey on your neck. A marking most definitely the work of a younger man, somewhere in his twenties? Again, as I said at the beginning of our meeting- you won’t find your answers here. It seems that the divorce was a good decision, your jacket hangs loose, and your watch shows your commitment to your health, and despite the small scratch below your lip, your skin is radiant. More so than that, the new shoes are meant for dancing, and it seems from their scuffs that you have indeed taken them dancing. These are all signs of a woman restored to happiness, or perhaps on her way there.”

“How do you know why I came here?”

“I know that you don’t know why you came here. If it was looking for a good man, you’ve certainly come to the wrong address. If you wanted answers as to why your anxiety has surged suddenly- it’s likely the dread of the paperwork and legal troubles you expect to encounter soon. You are not as lost as you may feel, Madame. I cannot provide you answers to matters of the heart, but we can provide you with three small favors which will get you back in form.  Watson can surely provide you a salve for the blemish, and a bandage for the ankle. If I am not mistaken, Miss Hudson has some of her famous scones ready, and she is bringing them up the stairs now. Combined, they ought to do the trick,”

I am the 2 tram. Excuse me, Bim zwei, but I prefer you call me the 2 tram. I know what you’re thinking, you’d be surprised to know, English is actually my native language! No German (or Austrian) efficiency here!

My mother was American, an oil painter, she loved watching paint dry. My father was an Italian post office worker. Union man, spent his weeks behind the counter, lording quietly over absolute chaos. In his spare time he tended to his lawn. He liked to watch the grass grow. It’s actually how they met! One summer in the 60’s she painted a picture of it, his lawn, growing in real time: a canvas slowly overcome by green. They spent their first date watching a pot of water boil. Long story short, now you have me. Come aboard, girl.

I am the 2 tram, and I’m always a bit discombobulated. I don’t get the rush all the other trams are in. I prefer to take my time, really consider my options. Especially when I am one stop away from your destination. That’s the best time to take a good long rest, and ponder, where am I really going?
Where are you really going, girl?

If the guy you are off to see is so mediocre in bed, is it worth the tooth-grinding crawl of a trip with me? I see you, texting your friends about him, yawning. Do you really want to see him again? Has he ever made you come? Just saying, you can get off here, or not get off at his place. Either way, you’re going to end the evening frustrated. 

I am the 2 tram and I know you still miss him. Not the mediocre guy you’re off to see, the one before. I see you staring at his picture. Girl, I know you. I know you hate subway poems, but you still love train metaphors. Actually, you love subway poems, even though they’re so tired. You’re so tired, girl. Stay a while. It will be a while. 

But as for trains, and subways,  and metaphors, I am somewhere in between. I am lacking in both romance and speed. I am a literal slow train to nowhere. I am a metaphor for settling.  I am preposterously packed with baby carriages and…Tibetan monks? There’s a lot happening here girl, and you’re missing all of it!

There, you did it again, you dazed off, looked out the window, and started thinking about him again. The guy in the picture, who lives off the U-Bahn, a cozy 15 minutes from your door to his. I can’t offer you that, but I can offer you a stunning view of all the cars speeding by, and a permeating sense of existential dread. 

Hey, girl, pay attention to me, or I will stop suddenly and slide you off your seat! You know what, I am going to do it anyway. 

I am the 2 tram and I am taking you home. It’s almost midnight. I’m empty, save for a smattering of ombré blondes. I am a staccato song. My mind wanders. Oh right- I was supposed to stop there. Oops.

I am the 2 tram and I want you more than any man ever will. Stay with me, girl. Let’s linger here a while. Let me hold you. When was the last time you were held? When was the last time you slowed down?

I am the 2 tram and I am arriving in 47 seconds, and then not again for 15 years. 

Girl, You better run.

Telling someone I am a pastry chef can be pretty fun. Generally speaking, people like sugar. So generally speaking, when I tell people I deal in sugar, they are more prone to like me. Their face lights up and they say
“Oh, how wonderful!”,
and for a moment, I feel a bit magical. As if I am capable of wonder, and mystery, and making their nephew’s 3rd birthday cake.
I wanted to become a pastry because pastry is art which makes people happy. Of course, there are occasions when I feel it’s a thankless task, a job for someone over-indulged and undereducated. Moments when I worry I am not worthy of respect. It’s a learned reflex, after enough conversations with doctors, or lawyers, or those in tech. So, I soften the blow of their disregard for me, the peasant, by saying,
“Would you like to see some photos of my cakes?”

And no one ever says no, because it’s cake.

Then, after viewing an album of selected creative showstoppers they say,
 “Oh, so you’re really serious!”
“So you’re actually talented!”
The implication always being that, without photographic proof-of-pudding, I was some sort of housewife-hack with a dream and a hand mixer.

If you follow up in the conversation, it often goes in very predictable, almost formulaic directions:

• The “Have you seen The Great British Bake Off? You should compete on television!” conversation
  • “I don’t know anything about baking, or television, or competitions. But you, stranger, should sign up for this competition show I like. I’m not just trying to find common ground by referencing popular media which I enjoy, I am genuinely commanding you to stop everything and become a reality tv star.”
  • I’ve seen a few episodes. I was taught to pronounce genoise in a different way. I have no idea what a Victoria sponge is. Victorian sponge? Thank you, but it’s not a competition even meant for professional pastry chefs. Because, I am a professional. I need you to hear that. I am a professional. Yes, they are nice to each other and I love that: It’s a fairy tale, and not how the real world works. No, I don’t want to be on a competition show. No, really, I don’t want to be in a competition. No, I get it,  thank you, but it’s just not for me. I am not interested in being on television! I would end up crying in about five minutes! No seriously, not interested, but thank you. Why? Because I…have a medical reason that I cannot withstand stage lighting? I am in witness protection and cannot risk being seen? Jesus Christ how do I make you stop?!
• The “I always dreamed of being a pastry chef” conversation
  • “I always wanted to do that! Which I feel I am absolutely qualified to do, because I once baked muffins and it was fun, and thus baking muffins for ten straight hours in a hot kitchen while your boss yells at you must also be fun. Your job is easy, and something I, a person with no experience in a real kitchen, could do just as well as you, if only I decided to do it.”
  • This is a person who has only ever seen pastry chefs in movies. Most likely Hallmark Christmas movies, where the small town candy-cane-cake shoppe is on the verge of demise, and the evil, vague corporate-y company wants to buy it on December 23^rd. Before the logical, black tie, small town candy cane ball. You know, movies where pretty Canadian girls bake inexplicably small portions of the small town’s signature candy-cane-cake, all the while violating innumerable health codes: their hair hanging down, not a hair net in sight. Licking their fingers. Inviting the visiting evil corporate real estate guy to enjoy an evening of massive potential liability if he gets burned. (Is it real estate he works in? All we know is there is a deadline of December 23^rd, and an impending E. coli outbreak). Then some bizarre entrepreneurship 101 project saves the day: we just sell candy-cane-cakes on Easter!
  • They have also seen The Great British Bake Off.
  • They also think I should become a contestant on The Great British Bake Off.
• The “You Should Be My Grandmother” conversation
  • “Have you heard of this obscure pastry from my culture? This pastry that you would be culturally appropriating if you actually made it? This is a thing my grandmother made, and you should open a business selling only that thing. It has a shelf life of 12 minutes, and one of the ingredients is an obscure flour that is cheap in my hometown but unfathomably expensive here. You should open this bakery below my apartment building, in Manhattan, where the rent is so cheap. Because there is a massive market, in my mind, for this pastry that I want to eat each morning. Plus, opening a business is so easy. Everything you have ever done, any art you ever made from sugar, is irrelevant. They are nice, but they are not this one specific ugly lump of wheat and obscure flour that I love. You should make this one obscure thing, so that I have a place to buy it. “
  • “Also, have you seen The Great British Bake Off?“
• The “Have you seen that video of that cake that looks like a….” conversation
  • Yes, I have seen the fucking video, 18 people posted it on my Facebook when it went viral six weeks ago.
  • Yes I have also heard of The Great British Bake Off
• The “My penis makes me an expert in high risk business ideas!” conversation
  • Yes, because the only thing standing between me and running my own business, at a massive financial, emotional, and physical cost, is you, some dude, telling me to do it. Some guy I just met at a dinner party, or was on a first date with. I just needed you to give me the bright idea that I could sell cakes. Sure, I studied food service management for 4 years and got a degree in it. Sure, I know the profit margins and the risks involved. Sure, I’ve worked at Michelin-starred restaurants, and bakeries around the world, but it’s you, someone blessed with a big old man brain, who has enlightened me to the fact that…bakeries exist?
  • It is likely, but not confirmed, that these men are the same men who write the business plans which save the small-town-candy-cane-cake-bakery in the aforementioned Hallmark movies.
  • They have never heard of The Great British Bake Off.