We call it the Fun train. The F, that is. The train we know and love.

The F: it gets us where we need to go. Even if it is slow and always very, very crowded during rush hour.

And what a crush of cultures it is: Hasidim pray ocking as they read their prayer books; junior and high students goof and push; parents and children recite names of the stations like an urban alphabet, twenty-somethings to and fro rom jobs in Manhattan; tired office workers; artists, musicians; the same old subway beggers year in, year out…

An oh the places it goes: Park Slope, of course. Coney Island all the way to the last stop. The elevated platforms at Smith and Ninth for its sweeping panoramic views.

Carroll Gardens, downtown Brooklyn, DUMBO.

Chinatown, the Lower East Side, the East Village, the West Village, SoHo and Chelsea, where I used to work back when I had a job in the city. Up Sixth Avenue to Rockefeller Center. It even stops on the same block as my dentist.

Those are the places I need to be.

Before I moved here, a friend, who lived near Delancey Street, called the F-Train a "mail train" because, she said,  it makes sooooo many stops. And she didn’t even ride it all the way to Brooklyn.

Second Avenue, Delancey Street, East Broadway, York Street, Jay Street, Bergen, Carroll…

After September 11, when I developed subway anxiety, the F was the only train I could ride without heart palpatations. The 2,3 and 4 trains went past the World Trade Center and riding those trains I would brace myself in fear and grief until we were well past Lower Manhattan. I would clench again for Times Square or Grand Central, obvious targets for mass annihilation.

But I could ride on the F without fear. And when it rose above the city at Smith and Ninth and Fourth Avenue, I felt blessed by its symphonic views. Teetering on the elevated tracks, it was my daily roller coaster ride. Sometimes stopping for a breath, waiting for the G train ahead of us. Cell phones ringing — spouses, parents, friends, lovers checking in. Then down under again and home to Seventh Avenue.

The F. It’s taken me where I need to be since 1991 when we grudgingly made Park Slope our home, economic exiles from Manhattan. Over time, we grew to love our new borough and the train that took us there.

The F.  Let’s get an express. It’s a train problem we can do something about.