Francois Truffaut's Day for Night (aka La Nuit Americaine) (1973), is a film within a film. It opens with a street scene. Actors and extras are shown, following the director's detailed instructions, positioning themselves on an open city square somewhere in the French Riviera. Each extra and actor is micro-directed, each movement timed to the second, so that their actions, when they all play out their parts at the same time and the cameras roll, will produce the illusion of a spontaneous crowd scene.

There are numerous cuts, so that we see the same actions over and over again. Until it is perfect.

I'm always reminded of "Day for Night" on my daily journey to work. As if on director's cue, the same familiar commuters make their way to the bus stop on the corner of Second and 96th.

There are the three Muslim girls, who must be students at a local high school. Their Muslim coverings are not so complete as to hide their American teenage garb underneath. There's the blind Asian office worker, who stands alone. There's the white woman with two little Cambodian children, both girls around three and as pretty as picture-books. I always imagine them back in a village playing in the dust under a palm tree. Instead they are in impeccably pressed gingham private school uniforms, waiting patiently for the bus with their mother. There are the black nannies with little white toddlers, barely awake and smelling of toast, on their way to day care. And of course there's me.

It's all so orderly, so predictable. It belies the chaos of yesterday's New York night.

Truffaut's opening screen was shot in the daytime, and filters were applied later to give the illusion of night - at least in the sub-film that Day for Night is all about. And as in the film, the day is not far from night. In the city that really never sleeps, evidence of last night's night is a constant reminder of that fact.

I leave the bus with the Muslim girls, the nannies and the blind man, and walk across the road to wait for my second bus, the one that will take me over the East River to Queens, where I work.

There's a pub on the corner near the bus stop. It's had various names and owners since I first started taking this route about four year's ago. Right now it's called "The Blue Room". Evidence of last night's cavortings is all around. Paper plates with the usual uneaten token tomatoes. Little pools of vomit. Dropped pennies and dimes. Business cards. A scarf bearing the imprints of many tired feet. Cigarette buts. Notes on paper dropped from careless drunken pockets.

The owners of these varied items have long since disappeared into the New York dawn, and this second bus stop is a lonely place. After all, most commuters go from Queens, to Manhattan and not the other way around.

Cleaners from the Doe Fund's "Ready, Willing and Able" street cleaning program, come by, at precisely 8:40 a.m. to clean up. The last traces of the night vanish.

A few minutes later, the Russian woman turns up. She's married - her husband is from Algeria, and lives in Montreal. He holds Canadian citizenship. He's waiting in Canada for his US immigration papers to come through. He's been waiting since I first saw the Russian woman, several years ago. She travels to Montreal every weekend and they play golf when it's not snowing. I know a lot about this woman, except for her first name.

She chatters on till the bus comes and we take our usual seats, far away from each other. We both read. When the bus has crossed the river and come to our mutual stop we alight together and cross Queens Boulevard whereupon her chatting starts up. Her office is closest and we say goodbye. That's how it is. Everyday.

I walk further, along 35th street to my office. It's a wind tunnel. Papers blow around my legs. Broken glass from a homeless person's beer bottle crunches under my feet. No business cards here, but the usual discarded paper plates with the token tomatoes. No "Ready Willing and Able" in THIS part of the city.

I'm at the last crossroad. I avoid being run over by the delivery boys on bikes. They are a continual steam, serving up diner food for the never-ending appetites of the American workers.

I think of my friends back home. I always imagine them sitting in an outdoor restaurant under an azure blue sky. The day is brighter than bright. There are no wind tunnels and no discarded paper plates with token tomatoes. They are drinking white wine and their glasses reflect the bright Australian light. They are etched into my mind like an old photo.

I think of the countless times they have said to me, "It must be SO exciting in New York!"

Yeah! I mount the steps to work. I say "hi" to the receptionist. She says "hi" back.

Another day, another dollar. Predictability has it's rewards. .

Till next time,

Kate Juliff
New York
April 2007