Note: This one of two contrasting blog entries involving encounters with international tourists here in New York City. The other entry is "An Angry Encounter."
A Good Deed
It was early July 2003. I had just finished dinner with a friend at an establishment on West 43rd Street, between Fifth Avenue and Sixth Avenue, and I was walking westward towards Sixth Avenue while my friend headed the other way, eastward. I was surprised to see that traffic was backed up as far as I could see. I was more surpised to see a Greyhound interstate bus on 43rd Street, which runs one-way westbound, as such buses usually stick to main thoroughfares such as 42nd Street. I was most surprised of all to see two people exiting the bus. These interstate buses generally only let off passengers at Port Authority Bus Terminal.
The two people were a man and a woman, both in their mid-twenties, both in jeans and a t-shirt, both with backpacks, the man carrying what looked like a musical instrument case in his hands. It was too small to be a violin case; it was about the right size to hold a clarinet or a flute.
"Can anybody help?" the man said in a British accent. "I must get to 147 Columbus Avenue and I must be there by 7 o'clock sharp. The traffic is impossible. I want to take the underground, but I .."
"Follow me," I said, interrupting him. "Quickly," I added, looking at my watch.
I began to jog westward on 43rd Street, with the couple jogging after me. We were a mismatched trio as I was wearing a jacket and tie, as required by the establishment where I had had dinner. I turned south at Sixth Avenue and, halfway to 42nd Street, slowed to a brisk walk and descended the stairway to a subway station.
"Go through," I said to the woman, after running my MetroCard through the card reader at a turnstile. She did.
"Now you," I said to the man, after running it through again. He did.
I used the card a third time and entered the station myself. I walked down the stairway to the uptown trains and waited. The couple waited beside me.
"You know where 147 Columbus Avenue is?" the man asked me.
"Yes," I said. "I know where it is, at the corner of 66th Street, and what it is, the headquarters of ABC Television network."
"Right," he said, "ABC. I've got an audition there," he added, gesturing with his instrument case, "and they instructed me to present myself at the reception desk at the entrance at 7 o'clock sharp. The bus we boarded in Boston was supposed to be in New York City by half past five."
"Brutal traffic on Interstate 90 out of Boston, I'm guessing," I said.
"Yes, and more brutal traffic in Connecticut," he said sadly, looking at his watch.
I looked at my watch and said, "If a B train or a D train comes in the next three minutes, you'll still make it on
time."
"That bus driver was mean," the woman said. "He didn't want to let us off the bus. I had to cry to make him let us off."
"Yeah, he'll probably be fired if any of the other passengers inform on him," I said. "They don't want the liability if you get run over exiting the bus on the street."
At this point an uptown D train arrived and we all got on it.
"Listen," I told them. "Now you will make it on time, but here is what we'll do. At the 59th Street station,
follow me off the train. I'm going to walk briskly towards the exit on Broadway and 60th Street. Just before going out, I'm going to look for an uptown #1 train on a different platform. If one is coming, then we'll get on it and you'll be there with about five minutes to spare. If not, then follow me up the staircase and we'll have to jog six blocks north on Broadway, turning onto Columbus at 65th. In that case, you'll have about one minute to spare, so don't stop to ask questions, just jog after me."
They both nodded. It turned out that there was a #1 train in sight when we got there, so we boarded it and rode it one stop, to Broadway and 66th Street. We walked normally from there half a block to 147 Columbus Avenue. It was 6:55pm.
"What do I owe you?" said the man, reaching for his wallet.
"Nothing," I said, "you're a guest here in New York."
"At least I should pay for the ride on the underground," he said.
"Forget it," I said. "Do one thing for me. Years from now, when you're back in the UK, conversation may turn to New York City. Somebody may say something like, 'New Yorkers are the worst people on earth, mean bastards.' If that happens, then you say, 'No, they're not. Certainly not all of them.'"
"I will do that," he said, and we shook hands. The woman kissed me on the cheek. They entered the building.
I don't know for what show he was auditioning and I have no idea whether he got a job at ABC Television network. But it certainly made me feel good to have gotten him there in time.
A Good Deed
It was early July 2003. I had just finished dinner with a friend at an establishment on West 43rd Street, between Fifth Avenue and Sixth Avenue, and I was walking westward towards Sixth Avenue while my friend headed the other way, eastward. I was surprised to see that traffic was backed up as far as I could see. I was more surpised to see a Greyhound interstate bus on 43rd Street, which runs one-way westbound, as such buses usually stick to main thoroughfares such as 42nd Street. I was most surprised of all to see two people exiting the bus. These interstate buses generally only let off passengers at Port Authority Bus Terminal.
The two people were a man and a woman, both in their mid-twenties, both in jeans and a t-shirt, both with backpacks, the man carrying what looked like a musical instrument case in his hands. It was too small to be a violin case; it was about the right size to hold a clarinet or a flute.
"Can anybody help?" the man said in a British accent. "I must get to 147 Columbus Avenue and I must be there by 7 o'clock sharp. The traffic is impossible. I want to take the underground, but I .."
"Follow me," I said, interrupting him. "Quickly," I added, looking at my watch.
I began to jog westward on 43rd Street, with the couple jogging after me. We were a mismatched trio as I was wearing a jacket and tie, as required by the establishment where I had had dinner. I turned south at Sixth Avenue and, halfway to 42nd Street, slowed to a brisk walk and descended the stairway to a subway station.
"Go through," I said to the woman, after running my MetroCard through the card reader at a turnstile. She did.
"Now you," I said to the man, after running it through again. He did.
I used the card a third time and entered the station myself. I walked down the stairway to the uptown trains and waited. The couple waited beside me.
"You know where 147 Columbus Avenue is?" the man asked me.
"Yes," I said. "I know where it is, at the corner of 66th Street, and what it is, the headquarters of ABC Television network."
"Right," he said, "ABC. I've got an audition there," he added, gesturing with his instrument case, "and they instructed me to present myself at the reception desk at the entrance at 7 o'clock sharp. The bus we boarded in Boston was supposed to be in New York City by half past five."
"Brutal traffic on Interstate 90 out of Boston, I'm guessing," I said.
"Yes, and more brutal traffic in Connecticut," he said sadly, looking at his watch.
I looked at my watch and said, "If a B train or a D train comes in the next three minutes, you'll still make it on
time."
"That bus driver was mean," the woman said. "He didn't want to let us off the bus. I had to cry to make him let us off."
"Yeah, he'll probably be fired if any of the other passengers inform on him," I said. "They don't want the liability if you get run over exiting the bus on the street."
At this point an uptown D train arrived and we all got on it.
"Listen," I told them. "Now you will make it on time, but here is what we'll do. At the 59th Street station,
follow me off the train. I'm going to walk briskly towards the exit on Broadway and 60th Street. Just before going out, I'm going to look for an uptown #1 train on a different platform. If one is coming, then we'll get on it and you'll be there with about five minutes to spare. If not, then follow me up the staircase and we'll have to jog six blocks north on Broadway, turning onto Columbus at 65th. In that case, you'll have about one minute to spare, so don't stop to ask questions, just jog after me."
They both nodded. It turned out that there was a #1 train in sight when we got there, so we boarded it and rode it one stop, to Broadway and 66th Street. We walked normally from there half a block to 147 Columbus Avenue. It was 6:55pm.
"What do I owe you?" said the man, reaching for his wallet.
"Nothing," I said, "you're a guest here in New York."
"At least I should pay for the ride on the underground," he said.
"Forget it," I said. "Do one thing for me. Years from now, when you're back in the UK, conversation may turn to New York City. Somebody may say something like, 'New Yorkers are the worst people on earth, mean bastards.' If that happens, then you say, 'No, they're not. Certainly not all of them.'"
"I will do that," he said, and we shook hands. The woman kissed me on the cheek. They entered the building.
I don't know for what show he was auditioning and I have no idea whether he got a job at ABC Television network. But it certainly made me feel good to have gotten him there in time.
I hope that there is some pizza at the party which I...