A sweet cultural exchange, a happy landing at J.F.K. and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.
Cupcakes
Dear Diary:
After a night out in the West Village, my friend and I decided to grab some cupcakes before going home. It was late, and the bakery was packed. When it finally came time to order, we indulged and bought a half-dozen.
We devoured two immediately, and then ate two more as we walked toward Eighth Avenue to hail an uptown taxi. We got one before too long and, our bellies full of sugar, jumped in.
The cabby was talkative, and we quickly struck up a conversation. He told us he had recently immigrated to the United States and was excited to meet new people and learn more about the local culture.
Sitting between my friend and me were two yummy, uneaten treats. We asked the cabby if he had ever tried a cupcake. He said he had not and didn’t know exactly what it was.
We asked him to pull over and to keep the meter running. Then we offered him a cupcake.
He accepted the unfamiliar treat and took a minute to try it. Afterward, he thanked us and said it had been “pretty good.”
With traffic passing us on its way toward Midtown, we were thrilled to have just one cupcake left.
— Derek Layes
Happy Landing
Dear Diary:
I was returning to New York from Los Angeles last April and was eager to get through J.F.K. and away from the crowds as quickly as possible.
I hurried to the baggage claim and maneuvered my way carefully through the other travelers to get closer to the carousel. Knowing it would be a while before my bag emerged, I prepared myself mentally for the wait.
When the carousel finally started up, out from the chute popped my blue carry-on, first and alone, sliding down to the edge.
I was so surprised that as I ran up and grabbed it, I shouted, “This never happens!”
Everyone around me burst into applause.
— Connie Nichols
Regular’s Review
Dear Diary:
Some years ago, I had a Saturday afternoon subscription to the New York City Opera at Lincoln Center for several seasons. At every performance, I sat next to an older woman who said she had been attending the opera for decades.
One afternoon, we were presented with an avant-garde, atonal work featuring, among other things, singers dressed as large, iridescent worms that writhed across the stage. I noted that my neighbor had fallen sound asleep and was snoring quietly.
When the performance ended, the audience responded with what might best described as polite applause mingled with some not-so-polite booing that was loud enough to wake my seatmate.
“Oh, God,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes, “please tell me there isn’t a second act.”
— Stephen Phillips
On Second Thought
Dear Diary:
In the spring of my senior year at SUNY Maritime College in the Bronx, beneath the Throgs Neck Bridge, I and the other N.R.O.T.C. cadets were invited aboard a brand-new Navy destroyer that was making a port call in Manhattan.
After the tour, we changed and headed out for an evening on the town. I left my uniform in a cheap-but-nice-looking fake leather bag in the back seat of a classmate’s VW Beetle. At the time, I was not concerned that the door locks didn’t work.
When we got back to the car, it was immediately apparent that my bag was missing. What took a while to figure out was that the thief had apparently had reservations about stealing a Navy uniform.
It had been placed in a Gristede’s bag and returned to the car.
— Robert Fey
Subway Snip
Dear Diary:
A friend of mine from Wisconsin came to visit. We promised to give her the true “Big Apple experience” because she had never been to New York City before.
First, we took the Staten Island Ferry so she could see the skyline in all its glory. Then it was onto the subway to begin the rest of our carefully chosen itinerary.
As we took our seats in the subway car, my friend sat down next to a young man. Maybe 10 seconds into the ride, she touched my leg and pointed to his arm.
There, on the sleeve of his obviously brand-new suit jacket, the sewn-on label was still attached. He looked like he was on his way to an interview, my friend suggested.
She tapped the young man’s arm and pointed to the label.
Going somewhere important? she asked. Other passengers were now observing the scene.
Oh my gosh, he stammered while trying to rip off the label.
No, my friend said, don’t do that.
Another passenger who was sitting nearby reached into her large, I-have-everything-in-here bag, pulled out some small scissors and handed them to my friend.
She looked at the young man for permission and then proceeded to carefully snip the threads to cleanly remove the label.
When he got off at his stop, we wished him good luck.
— Sedra Schiffman
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