He winces, throwing a look out the window to the underground innards of the city. “I just know how stressed out you’ve been about, y’know, Columbia and stuff. I didn’t want to rub it in your face or anything. I mean, it’s not Columbia but . . .”

As the train comes to a stop, I close the tablet and give Ming a back pat that nearly knocks him off his seat. “Ming, that’s stupid. You got in! Your dream school! That’s unquestionably a good thing!”

I had told Ming about my disastrous interview with Donielle, and while part of me is sad knowing that Ming’s college future is so secure while mine is so not, of course I’m also happy for my friend.

“Well, not yet. Not officially.”

“Trust me, I’ve read all the forums and message boards from collegeconfidential.com to Reddit. ‘We hope you’ll consider us’ is code for ‘Prepare for jet lag when you land at the nearest airport.’ That’s truly awesome, dude!”

“I finally get to see the homeland.” Ming smiles before going on to give me every detail of his Peking University freshman year master plan, which involves him spending as much time as he can in Mandarin electives to absorb as much of the language as quickly as possible.

“This little Chinese lady on the subway stopped me the other day. You could tell she needed directions. I look the part, and I couldn’t understand a word she was telling me. I think she thought I was faking it in order not to help out. Like, it’s my mother tongue, technically,” he adds. “It’s weird that I don’t speak it.”

The space, which amounts to half a warehouse with barricaded stained windows, is cramped but well laid out and tends to feature a lot of web-savvy retailers with boldly advertised handles prompting passersby to check out their social media and online stores. Even the flea markets are getting gentrified. Every kiosk belongs to a specific hobby. There is one for knitters, another for old-school, refurbished video game consoles and cartridges. Ming and I pass a new station that seems to traffic in only specialized editions of Scrabble. There appear to be no other board games, only different editions of Scrabble. It’s kind of cool how so many people in the city have a single, soul-consuming passion that very often looks nothing like the rest of their lives.

Today, a crowd of aspiring fashionistas is surrounding the display of rolls of fabrics and hanging feather boas managed by “Tara Newone,” a drag performer in full wig and makeup. They appear to be having a half-off sale and people are, very unwisely, getting rowdy. Tara also has a reputation for body-slamming anyone stupid enough to try to pocket something from the kiosk while under the misguided impression someone in heels won’t give chase. It’s a heck of a show.