What We Have Conquered

by ArgonTheEngineer

Aang is the laid-back and easygoing conductor of the Metropolitan Opera. Azula is the assertive and decisive conductor of the New York Philharmonic. These two superstars will be embarking on a two-week festival where they get to conduct each other's orchestras. The problem? These two despise each other. How did they even agree to this idea?

A/N: Hi all, Argon here! I have not succumbed to the writer's curse! This is an idea I have had for quite some time, and have been working on it behind the scenes to get it out there. Hope you enjoy it, and do please leave a review!

Metropolitan Opera House, New York City:

"Maestro Aang, what are you looking forward to the most in this Mahler festival that your Met Opera and the Philharmonic will be organising?"

Aang looked up at the journalist, someone from the Times or the Post or some other news outlet the name of which he'd already completely forgotten in the flood of journalists who had approached him in the past few days. Turns out the announcement of a two-week-long festival dedicated to the music of Gustav Mahler, music that was to be performed by both the Met Orchestra and the New York Philharmonic would make waves in the music world. Who knew? Still, the Met's publicist had made it very clear how he had to play nice with the press, so here he was, music director, and now answerer of a billion journalist questions.

"Well… Mahler, obviously." By this point, Aang had heard nearly every variation of this question, but he was determined to at least give an honest answer to the journalist sitting in front of him. "Every conductor dreams of Mahler, and we all dream of completing a full cycle of the nine-ten-eleven-ish symphonies in our lifetimes, so we'll gladly jump at a chance to tick off so many of them at once. There's so much more than that, but just the logistical hurdles of a Mahler cycle alone are so steep that when an opportunity like this comes our way, we'll take it!"

Even though it was already evening and all he wished for was to go home to a comfy bed and a cup of hot chamomile tea, Aang did his best to smile as the journalist scribbled on her legal pad, something he found was odd in their digital day and age.

"Of course, that must be rather difficult, right?" The journalist, whose name he forgot (bad Aang!), had a quizzical look on her face. "I mean, if you're going through 5 of them with both the Met and the Philharmonic for this festival, and going through them within a matter of days, is it difficult to keep your concentration and focus on delivering a good performance for each symphony? Or does everything just blend together eventually?"

A profound musical question? Aang was used to the usual puff-piece journalists seeking to ingratiate themselves to him, often to mine more gossip about the Met's soloists or next year's programmes, so it was a breath of fresh air to hear a proper musical question. Maybe he should endeavour to remember at least this journalist's name and whoever her employer was.

"To be honest… absolutely it is difficult." He didn't expect such an honest answer out of his own mouth like that, especially when he knew how easily a journalist could twist his own words, but something about her apparently very honest question struck him. "Mahler always said 'a symphony should be like the universe, it should contain everything', and the trouble is that each of his symphonies presents a different universe. So you're absolutely right, for each of his symphonies a conductor must embody each very different universe for the performance to really land."

Aang was glad to see the journalist smile at his response. Very endearing, he thought, as she kept scribbling away.

"So if it is so difficult, then… how do you do it?"

"Ah, another difficult question." Aang chuckled, finding himself enjoying this interview, as surprising as that was. "The answer is… I try. I mean, conducting here at the Met already requires a lot of that universe-switching. Each opera has a different composer, a different story, a different staging, and oftentimes a different language. And we're not like a symphony orchestra that does two or three concerts a week of a particular programme and then never revisits that music for years, no, we have to juggle dozens of performances of several operas again and again and again, so the musicians of the Met and I have gotten very good at all that universe-jumping, so to speak. And even though the universes are so different, with Mahler there's always a common thread, Mahler himself. So if we can understand the man, if we can understand him and how he was when he composed these works, then his universes open themselves for us to explore."

The journalist was furiously scribbling now, something that Aang found heartwarming. When so many others who had interviewed him used voice recognition or just recorded the conversation, this rare journalist spent time to ask hard questions and record every word of his answers. Remarkable.

"So the challenge of handling these symphonies all at once is what's really driving you in this festival? Is there anything else you're looking forward to?"

"Of course!" Aang chuckled, rather delighted that these questions were well beyond open-ended, always a sign of a good interviewer when it comes to the arts. "I mean, beyond the challenge of handling so much at the same time, there's also the music itself. To feel and hear and create those universes for myself and the orchestra to hear, that's already amazing, but to share it with the thousands of people in our audience, it becomes something even more special. Not to mention, it won't just be a case of me conducting only the Met, but I'll get to share in the music making with the Philharmonic too, which is always nice. I haven't had many opportunities to conduct them, so…"

The journalist again continued to scribble, but Aang could see a hint of a quirked eyebrow on her face, and he was curious to see what would come next.

"It's funny that you should mention the orchestra switching, Maestro—"

"Please, call me Aang. I'm barely a Maestro when on the podium anyways."

"It's funny that you'd mention swapping orchestras, Aang, because if I understand the programmes that have been published, then you'd be switching orchestras throughout this… and so would the director of the Philharmonic. That's a very interesting arrangement, is it not? Especially considering your… shall we say… history?"

"Ah." Aang shifted in his chair, the room closing in on him ever so slightly. "There is that."

"So you would agree that you might harbour some… strong feelings towards the director of the Philharmonic?"

"You could say that, yeah."

"Are you worried about taking her podium? And vice versa, what concerns do you have for when she will take yours at the Met for her concerts?"

"Am I worried about taking Maestra Azula's podium at the Philharmonic?" Even saying her name was difficult for Aang, that much was certain. "No, I'm not worried at all. I think those poor musicians deserve some freedom from their Supreme Leader. That I'm not worried about. It's when the Supreme Leader marches across Lincoln Plaza and over to the Met that worries me."

"So you're worried about how the Met musicians will be treated under her leadership?"

"You would be too under Her Royal Highness's command." Aang almost struggled to keep his sentiments under control. "Music making is a collaborative process between the conductor on the podium and the musicians. What Azula does is bend the musicians to her will, and thus she bends the music to her will."

"So you're saying her playing is bad? Or does she not make music?"

Aang had to commend this interviewer for finding a sore issue and wedging it wide open the moment she latched on.

"Well… I wouldn't dare say that, no." He had to choose his words wisely. "Azula and the Philharmonic, there's no doubt in my mind that they create music. Orchestral music especially, it requires the precision and unity that she's able to command in any orchestra she touches, so no, she is not a bad music maker."

Aang paused, both to collect his thoughts, and to let his interviewer capture every word of his thoughts.

"I don't for one second doubt her ability to bring an orchestra—any orchestra, really—together into one coherent instrument. It's a very old-school approach, like that of Karajan or George Szell, or even Mahler himself sometimes, where the conductor is at the centre and all the musicians are extensions of the conductor's mind and soul. The unity and clarity that comes with such an approach, it is absolutely admirable. Orchestral music is, in large part, elevated from other music in how it requires so much coordination between the hundred-something musicians onstage, and Azula certainly has achieved that."

There definitely was a quizzical look on his interviewer's face as she wrote down every single word he'd just said.

"If so, then… why is there such tension between you and Maestra Azula?"

"Well… In my view, what is perhaps… unwise in her approach, I think, is that music is more than just command and control over musicians. At least, after five years on the podium here at the Met, I've found that so much music is made not when we are in control, but when we let go of that desire to control everything. When we go with the flow of the music, we can achieve so much more than when we assert so much control over everything. And I believe that's what is missing in Azula's conducting."

"I see. So if you are so opposed to her style of conducting, then why did you agree to this arrangement for the Mahler festival?"

"Well, I did say that any conductor would have jumped at an opportunity to do five Mahler symphonies in a row, right? And besides, if Her Royal Highness is taking over my podium, then I would rather be here so I can keep an eye on things."

"So you'll be sitting in on her performances and her rehearsals as well?"

"Performances, yes, absolutely. Rehearsals, if I have the time. Prepping five Mahler symphonies at once with two different orchestras is a time-consuming task. In all honesty, I think this exchange is good because it promotes learning from such opposite perspectives. I'm sure the musicians of the Philharmonic will benefit from some freedom as much as the Met will find Azula's conducting to be unerringly precise. And maybe she will learn something from an orchestra that has the freedom to make the bold choices in music. And who knows? Maybe I'll learn something too!"

The journalist seemed surprised at his very frank admission, Aang thought. Perhaps she would have expected him to have more bile in his tone? Regardless of what she might have expected, he was certain that she'd write rather fairly and transparently about the matter. After all, it would be courteous after he was so transparent with her. Anyways, before he could say anything more, a quick glance at his watch indicated it was nearly 9PM, almost time for him to get home. The journalist seemed to notice too.

"Anyways, Maestro—I mean—Aang, it was really nice to meet you and I am so thankful that you've been so transparent today about the upcoming festival, you've really helped a lot with what I'm writing for the Times."

Ah, so that was her paper. Aang was sure he'd already gotten interviewed by the Times before but with the billions of press people having flowed in and out of his office in recent days, he wasn't too sure of anything.

"I'm glad to be of help, Miss… forgive me terribly, but I kinda forgot your name. It's been a long day, lots of rehearsals, and also a billion journalists in and out of my office these days…"

"On Ji. My name's On Ji. Very nice to meet you, Maestro Aang."

"Likewise!" As the journalist—On Ji, he had to remind himself—stood up, Aang also got to his feet. "And do please contact me with any questions, either my office or the Met's publicist will be happy to help you."

So it was that Aang led On Ji to the door, and said a quick goodbye before he returned to his office, packed his bag, and headed straight to his train station, 66th Street-Lincoln Center, for an uptown train towards home.

As for our friend On Ji, she would also walk, but not to the 1 train. Her destination was right across Lincoln Plaza, at Philharmonic Hall itself, for a different angle on the same story.

---

8:57 PM Eastern Time, Philharmonic Hall, New York City

As the clock in her office ticked away, Azula was deep in thought as she examined the score of Mahler's 6th symphony. The ticking clock gave her the precise tempo for the opening of this symphony, an endless and inevitable march into tragedy, strife, pain and horror. In other words, the perfect symphony.

As she proceeded through the opening bars, the music burning in her mind and her soul, Azula brought up memories of hearing other conductors' attempts at the Sixth. Just these opening moments alone were enough to distinguish between a poor recording and a great recording. Herbert von Karajan's attempt with his Berlin Philharmonic only brought out the old titan's worst excesses. Though it was natural, she thought, that a man obsessed with infusing his music with beauty would not dare to descend into the gritty, ugly depths of the Sixth, it was here that his tendencies became stark naked. Mahler's inevitable march into terror became Karajan's brisk walk in the park. No, no, this was not how she would perform this.

Thinking of past attempts meant her mind was now deep in recalling other recordings and concerts that she'd heard, every one of them containing lessons for her to learn or warnings for her to avoid. Her mind turned to the recordings made by her own pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-pre-predecessor, and his several recordings. Leonard Bernstein was, of course, one of the architects of the Mahler Renaissance, but it didn't mean that he was the divine authority for Mahler. There was no denying that he felt the music in every cell of his body, but whether it was Bernstein's music or Mahler's music, that question remained rather unsolved. Azula knew she had an ego, yes, but never to the point of overwhelming a work's own concept.

The same went for many other conductors' attempts at the Sixth. Some, like Barbirolli, turned the opening march into a dirge, reaching the despair and tragedy prematurely. Others were too reserved, like Boulez, marching into the terror with a sense of irrepressible calm and rationality even as Mahler's universe collapsed around them. No, no, that was not how Azula would do it. There had to be a balance. Terror mixed with an inexorable sense of purpose. Emotion and nostalgia and passion without overextension. And pacing, the tension must always build. She could not allow the soul of this symphony to die merely because of loosening the tension. So it was that she scribbled in another note into her score, pock-marked with so many colours of pencil that she had scribbled in over years of studying this same score. Her mind continued to race with thoughts of the Sixth's intensity when her train of thought was interrupted by four knocks on her office door.

A quick glance at the clock again told her it was 9PM exactly, and Azula remembered again why she was here in her office and not home, smothered in a warm blanket with hot tea by her bedside.

"Come in!"

Under normal circumstances, Azula would have barred any appointments after 6PM so she could at least get home and rest, but these were not normal circumstances. As much as many would ascribe to her the title of Supreme Leader of the New York Philharmonic, even Supreme Leaders had forces to which they would kowtow. Public relations was one of those rare forces. After all, one must somehow provide the bread and circuses.

So it was that the Philharmonic's publicist had scheduled this interview and billions other interviews for her these past few days. Azula abhorred the puff pieces that these journalists inevitably wrote no matter how deeply and how substantively she answered their questions. But of course, in setting up this Mahler festival, the public had their right to know and she was the only one who could satisfy their thirst for information, so here she was, answering a revolving door of journalists and their 99.9% identical questions. Still, it was unwise to scowl so much in an interview, so Azula pasted on her public relations smile and waited for whoever would come through the door.

To her surprise, the person who came through was a young woman, dressed in reasonably formal officewear, carrying a small backpack, and clutching a legal pad in her hands. She'd almost venture to guess that some newspaper had just sent out an intern for some information gathering rather than sending one of their tenured journalists. As such, Azula reminded herself to put kid gloves on and not be too cruel. She knew of her own reputation, and it was a useful one for commanding respect, but it was not kind nor particularly worthy of her time to abuse a low-ranking member of the press like this.

"H-hi, Maestra Azula?" The journalist (or just an intern?) spoke with admirable courage, Azula knew that, just from how much the poor girl tried to stifle the tremor in her voice. "I'm On Ji, with the New York Times?"

"Hi On Ji, thank you for being on time, especially when it's so late." She did have to commend the girl's punctuality. So many other interviewers of hers hadn't even given her that basic courtesy. "How may I help you?"

"Well, I'd love to ask you some questions about the Philharmonic's upcoming Mahler festival. I know there's been a lot of buzz about it so I wanted to go straight to the best source possible."

Before her was a very clever intern, it seemed. Enough honesty to not feel disingenuous, but not without a dose of flattery. Not at all bad signs, for a journalist.

"Of course, please have a seat and we can get started." Azula motioned for On Ji to take the seat in front of her desk. "I'm sure you have many questions."

"Y-yes, there's a lot." The journalist sat down with haste before taking out a pen for her legal pad. Pen and paper in this digital age? Azula had to commend such dedication. "But I want to start with the important stuff."

If the next words to come out of this girl's mouth were to be related to fashion, Azula would be ready to explode. And so, she almost hesitantly nodded.

"Well, Maestra, I'll be honest with you." Azula could almost roll her eyes with how journalists had baited her with feigned honesty to mislead her with some inane nonsense. "I came here because I know the rest of your interviews have been pointless."

"Really?" Now that was a surprising turn indeed, certainly not something she expected from a fresh journalist. "And pray tell, how have they been pointless?"

"Well, I've spent the last two days reading everything that's been said of you regarding the upcoming Mahler festival and… none of them have said anything of substance."

"A bold accusation for you to make so openly, On Ji. How long have you been at the Times?"

"Almost at a year now, Maestra, and no, it's not so bold. Half the articles talked about your outfits and the other half about your trailblazing as the first woman conductor of the Philharmonic. But I know you don't care about any of that. You care about the music, and so do I. So I want to ask you the real questions. Is that alright?"

Azula had to commend such honesty and such courage on On Ji's part in daring to lay out all her cards in so little time. It was a plea, and this time she found herself wanting to answer said plea. A breath of fresh air, she thought.

"You're going places, On Ji, if you keep working like this." Azula rewarded the journalist's honesty with a smile as she leaned over her desk. "Tell me what you'd like to ask me first, and I shall answer."

"Thank you, Maestra, I really appreciate—"

"And please, call me Azula. I'm only the Maestra when on the podium."

"I really appreciate your own honesty, Azula. My first question is… what are you looking forward to the most in this festival?"

Not at all a bad start, Azula thought, seeing as this was likely the first time an interviewer had asked her a question like this for the Festival.

"There's a lot to look forward to, no doubt, but for me… rarely do these opportunities arise, to conduct so much Mahler in such a short time. Even when he only wrote nine complete symphonies—ten if you count Das Lied, the Song of the Earth—plus the incomplete Tenth symphony, each of them requires a massive effort between the conductor, the orchestra, and the choirs, and any soloists that Mahler demands. Not easy to coordinate all of them for a singular symphony, much less all of them. So when the stars align and these forces join together, I am more than happy to take the reins."

On Ji seemed more than satisfied with such an answer as she scribbled on her legal pad, and for once Azula was delighted to answer a journalist's questions. If the girl kept going along this path, there's a strong chance she might even get attached.

"So just the logistical difficulties alone make any opportunity to conduct Mahler a worthy opportunity?"

"I would say yes. There is more to it, of course, but getting to conduct so many at once, I know other conductors would be delighted to tick that off their lists."

Indeed, Azula could think of a few more unscrupulous colleagues who saw Mahler as merely another stepping stone in their careers, or just a feather in their caps. Half-hearted dedication was not her way, however.

"Isn't that rather difficult?"

"How so?" Azula quirked an eyebrow at On Ji's new line of questioning.

"Well, I mean… you'll be conducting Mahler's Second, Fourth, Sixth, The Song of the Earth, and his Tenth. They're all very different works, are they not? How do you find a way to manage these at once, especially when you and the orchestra will be rehearsing these works pretty much simultaneously?"

A deep-cutting question born of thorough musical insight? Azula would almost say the journalist in front of her was wasting her skills in journalism, but also she did not dare intrude like that. Someone with such determination and depth likely had the same conviction in their career path.

"Very good question indeed, and the answer is… lots of study." She flipped open the pages of her score to Mahler's Sixth, showing them to On Ji. "I have been studying Mahler's scores since I was seven, and as much as I still have to learn, I will say that I have developed a knack for switching between, say, the Second and the Sixth. They all have their own flavours and their own universes, and it's a matter of knowing which universe one is in before doing anything else. But of course, they're not independent works either. Mahler wrote his life into these works, so if we can understand him, then we will understand his music."

"I see, that's really insightful, thank you. And how will the orchestra cope with switching around so often?"

Another deep-cutting question. So often journalists tended to forget how important an orchestra was. As much as she enjoyed the spotlight, she could not let the contributions of the hundred-something musicians onstage be unheard.

"They are naturals at jumping universes, I should say. Both of them, too, the Philharmonic and the Met, because I'll be conducting them both. The Philharmonic is a well-oiled machine, like a classic car that's been nurtured and cared for by everyone lucky enough to be at the wheel. They've handled more terrains with ease than I can count. Our repertoire isn't just the classics, we bring in new compositions every day and every member of the Philharmonic has adapted to each new piece with ease. So when we jump between Mahler's universes, we're doing what we have trained and studied and practised for our whole lives. And then of course there's the Met Orchestra, they're naturals at this."

On Ji's furious writing was more than a clear indicator of how much she had been waiting for such answers. Azula was more than pleased. Rarely did those on the periphery of this field actually care about the music.

"Interesting that you mentioned the switching of orchestras there, because that confirms something very strange that I found when I was reading the program."

"Oh?" Azula had some clue of what On Ji would say next, and if she was right, then this would be a very enjoyable part of the interview for her.

"Well, it's to do with how you will be performing with both the Philharmonic and the Met Orchestra."

Bingo.

"I see. What exactly about this plan is strange to you?"

Azula almost smiled at where she knew this exchange would go next.

"It's the fact that not only will you be conducting both orchestras, but so will Maestro Aang."

"And you're asking whether I am concerned that he will get his grubby fingers on the Philharmonic?"

On Ji's absolute bewilderment at her frank response made Azula smile. Here she was, ready to pounce.

"I—erm—yes. I know that you and Maestro Aang have a… history, with each other, so—"

Azula always found it enjoyable to hear however many euphemisms the papers would have for her little tizzy with Aang.

"What you call a history, I prefer to call it a mere… professional disagreement, On Ji. And no, I'm not particularly worried about when he will step onto my podium here at the Philharmonic, nor am I concerned when I have to take over his at the Met."

Another bewildered look from On Ji, and Azula was overjoyed to see such a vivid response. This interview turned out to be leaps and bounds more fun than she had ever expected.

"May I ask… why you're not concerned? I mean, your past remarks about him make him seem like he is a disastrous conductor."

"Oh I wouldn't go so far as to say that, you know." Azula paused, hoping to find the right words for the situation. "Aang is a fantastic conductor."

"A… a fantastic conductor?"

"Well, on a good day, yes. That's the trouble with his approach. Aang relies too much on chance and spontaneity to deliver a good performance. As conductor, there are moments where he makes the orchestra guess. When they guess correctly based on his lead, everything goes well. When he and the orchestra are mismatched, then things don't go too well for him, I'm afraid. But we conductors aren't judged based on those peaks, we are judged for every performance, and that is where Aang and I disagree."

Azula had to hold back a grin as she laid out her criticisms of her counterpart at the Met. Rarely did she get a chance to enunciate her misgivings so clearly.

"If so, Maestra, then… why are you not concerned that the Philharmonic would be led by an inconsistent conductor on the podium?"

"Because I know that they will always deliver a good performance." Azula couldn't help the pride audible in her voice. "The Philharmonic aren't just a collection of 100 very good individual musicians, no, they have been practising and rehearsing and playing together for so long that they are one. So if Aang forces them to guess, they will guess and make the same choice and the same, unified decision, together. I'd go as far as to say they could play the whole thing in spite of his wobbling about on the podium like one of those inflatable tube-man things."

Azula felt a tinge of sympathy for poor On Ji, who had to scribble down every single word coming out of her mouth.

"And what about the reverse situation? Why aren't you concerned about taking over the Met podium then? If they've been, perhaps, mishandled under Maestro Aang, then would it not be difficult for you to enter that environment?"

Azula made a mental note to remember this journalist's contact in case she needed a journalist in her own pocket. Someone with this much musical insight and a presence in the press would be a worthy ally.

"Because any good orchestra playing under an inconsistent conductor would have to train itself to be good independent of whoever is on the podium. And the Met isn't just good, they're one of the best. Which is why Aang gets his rave reviews. When he does well, he will indeed be spectacular, and when he misses something, the Met will cover for him."

There was a quirked eyebrow on On Ji's face, Azula noticed, as the journalist kept writing down every word that she had just said. One had to admire this girl's dedication to pen-and-paper in this modern world.

"It does sound like you are describing him as a disastrous conductor, Maestra Azula."

"There is a distinction between a disastrous conductor and a merely inconsistent one, On Ji."

"How so?"

"Any conductor who can step onto the podium at the Met and command the respect of the orchestra is already a great conductor. Musicians aren't robots, they won't tolerate a disaster at the reins, not for one season, or two, or five years under a disaster. I see it as the Met musicians having made a choice. They have to pick up some of the slack now and then, in exchange for the moments when the stars align and the music is propelled to the heavens. It is their system and evidently it has worked out well, as with us here in the Philharmonic and our methods. So I won't ever say Aang is a disaster. He and I just happen to have disagreements on how to achieve such standards."

Azula found the gears turning behind On Ji's eyes to be terribly sweet, as if the young girl was perplexed by what had just been said, but also determined to work her way through said words and actually understand them.

"Does that answer your question about my concerns?"

"I—erm—yes, Maestra."

Whether On Ji was surprised or overjoyed or just some combination of nervous after receiving an overloading volume of information. She had no doubt that the journalist had intended to get some new insights or knowledge from this interview. Whether she planned to receive this much, that was up for debate. Regardless, Azula could see On Ji's eyes flitting to the clock in her office, which showed it was already 9:24 PM.

"Anyways, Maestra Azula, I think we're out of time, so I want to say how—how I really appreciate that you took the time for this interview, I don't know how I can thank you."

On Ji's utter sweetness was charming, Azula thought, though perhaps too bubbly for her.

"Keep asking more of those insightful questions and I'll be pleased, On Ji. Keep up the good work!"

"Thank you, Azula." The journalist's ear-to-ear smile as she stood up almost radiated enough to give Azula her own smile. "Anyways, have a good night!"

"You too." Azula waved at the journalist as she stood up to lead her out. And then she had an idea. "But before you go, here…"

Grabbing a business card of hers from her desk, Azula brandished the card and thrust it into On Ji's hands. One never knew when one would need a friend in the press, so this was her chance to secure such a connection.

"I have a strong suspicion that my counterpart at the Met will have, or might already have had, some… strong words about me. In that case, I would like you to help me give him my own, shall we say, very strong words. You'll be the only journalist to actually get my word out, if that is what you would like."

"Oh my goodness, Maestra, I… I can't thank you enough."

"Thank me by helping me get one over him, and I'll keep giving you tidbits of how things really are going on the inside."

The flabbergasted journalist was speechless, taking Azula's card in her hand and wordlessly waving her goodbyes before speeding out of the corridor and into the frigid February evening chill. Azula smiled, knowing she just gained a good acquaintance with whom she could advance her eternal game of chess with Aang.

A glance of the clock again showed her that it was 9:31 exact, and an insuppressible yawn told her that it was time to head home. After returning to her office to grab her coat and her bag, she too would make her way out and head for 66th St-Lincoln Center station to take an uptown 1 train home.