When on vacation

My mother had a theory on eating out: "If you're going to order what you could have at home, what's the point of eating at a restaurant?" she'd say. I think of this often, especially when I'm eyeing the chicken entrees at some eatery! 

I'm going to expand her philosophy by saying" "If you're going to do on vacation what you do at home all the time, what's the point of going on vacation?" 

In that vein, here's one of the I-don't-get-to-do-this-at-home activities that Anne and I are enjoying this week on vacation: slowly and purposely reading newspapers, in this case the Sunday New York Times.

It has opinions, columns, arts and leisure, and news articles from everywhere/about everything. But here I am sharing with you my favorite feature, "Metropolitan Diary." Every week on this 1/2 page they run four or five little vignettes from New Yorkers, about their everyday life in this huge gathering of people, pace and possibilities.

Here's one from last Sunday's issue, shown above. You can google it and get a free session to read a few of them without the standard fee.

Dear Diary, I was waiting for a cab to take me from an urgent care clinic near Lincoln Square to a nearby emergency room. I had fallen the night before while leaving the theater, smashing my knee and face on the sidewalk. After an interminable wait, I spotted a lone cab stopped at a red light. The driver indicated that he would pick me up as soon as the light changed.

Then in a clear breach of taxi etiquette, a man who was maybe 20 years younger than I, jumped into the street ahead of me. He saw me and must have realized I was waiting for the cab. He obviously didn't care because when the light turned green, he hopped in brazenly. I was angry. Then the unthinkable happened.

The cab approached me, the taxi thief opened the door, asked where I was going, invited me in, waited as I hobbled aboard and told the driver to take me where I was going, which was a few avenues out of this man's way.

He told me he was late for a doctor's appt. and asked how I had gotten hurt. I said I had fallen after leaving the theater. He asked if I worked in theater and said that his wife did. When we got to the emergency room, he wouldn't accept any money for the ride and asked just one thing in return: He wanted me to tell his wife what I had told him: that he was the nicest person to ever steal a cab from me.

"She needs proof sometimes that I'm nice," he said.

I didn't get his name or his wife's, but hopefully she will read this. Gwen M.