Terminal Lunch
Dear Diary:
In February 1976, I hitchhiked from Cleveland to New York City with my friend and classmate Fitz. We had flunked out of college and did not want to face our parents.
Fitz’s older brother Chip and Chip’s girlfriend, Ellen, had offered to share their three-room railroad flat at 73 East Fourth Street.
There was a blizzard, and the trip was difficult. The Pennsylvania Turnpike was shut down. Fitz and I got stuck with dozens of other travelers at a rest stop Howard Johnson for 22 hours.
When the turnpike reopened, we got a ride on a tractor- trailer into Newark. Our final ride was with a man who had lost his job that morning. He was understandably angry.
As he dropped us off at the Hoboken PATH terminal, he gave us his pack of cigarettes with four cigs left in it, plus four quarters.
We had coffee, a doughnut and a smoke at the terminal lunch counter. Feeling revived, we took the PATH to Christopher Street and started walking to East Fourth Street.
— L. Paul Burke
Some Wallet
Dear Diary:
I had a great day at the beach at Fort Tilden on Labor Day, but when it was over, I couldn’t find my wallet. I looked everywhere, but it was gone.
A few hours later, I got an Instagram message from a stranger who lived on the same Bed-Stuy block as me and had found my wallet floating in the ocean!
— Gabe Fowler
In the City More
Dear Diary:
On a Sunday afternoon, I went with my husband and my dog, Babka, an exuberant miniature Bernedoodle, to the dog run at De Witt Clinton Park in Hell’s Kitchen.
After running in circles frenetically for a while, she started to sniff at a woman on a bench. Soon, Babka was on the bench sitting snugly between the woman and a man she appeared to be with.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, trying to lure Babka off the bench.
“Don’t worry about it at all,” the woman said. “I love dogs.”
We began chatting about dog breeds, her recent retirement and how much she missed her own dog, who had died not long before.
“Do you live around here?” I asked. “You’re welcome to play with Babka whenever you’d like.”
“No, I don’t,” she said. “Actually, I’m just visiting. But I’ve been coming to the city a lot more nowadays.”
The man looked at her and grinned.
“Why don’t you just tell him what’s been bringing you to the city more?” he said.
With Babka perched between the two of them, she smiled and told me that a few months earlier, she had been visiting her daughter, who lives in the city, when she decided one morning go to a bagel shop to buy breakfast.
She had been confused about what to order and the man, standing behind her in line, had chimed in with suggestions.
“And that’s how we met,” she said. “He waited around till my order was ready and then sat at a nearby table to eat and chat some more. He made me laugh so much! Before we parted ways, he nervously asked for my number.”
The man put his hand on her shoulder.
Nearly 40 minutes later, as Babka and I were getting ready to leave, the woman pulled out her phone.
“Do you mind taking a photo of us with your dog in it?” she said.
I took a few.
“Come to think of it,” she said to the man, “This may actually be our first photo together.”
— Lala Tanmoy Das
Junior Year Abroad
Dear Diary:
My first experience with New York City was in 1969. I was taking a ship to France to begin my junior year abroad. A fellow student who had grown up in the city drove me there.
I had a little over $300 in the bank to last me nine months. I had lived frugally through college so far, working for my meals. I knew I could do it.
We stopped at a diner in the heart of the city, and I ordered a bowl of soup. I made the packet of crackers last the whole meal.
I had my eye on a tall glass dish of red Jell-O topped with fruit cocktail and whipped cream. It reminded me of home.
I asked the waitress how much it cost. Whatever she said, it was more than I could afford.
I said, “Oh, OK, thanks,” and looked away.
She turned and gently placed the dish in front of me.
It’s on the house, sweetie, she said.
— Tom Ross
Chirping
Dear Diary:
I returned to New York to visit for the first time after having moved to Spain.
Sitting outside my former go-to coffee shop on the Upper West Side, I saw two sparrows on the sidewalk chirping and an older woman walking toward them quickly.
“Stop fighting!” she yelled.
— Sergii Pershyn
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