‘As a Proud New Yorker Who Loves Giving Directions, I Decided to Step In’

I applied once for a job at Western Electric. It was about 1964 or 1965. They simply sat me down and presented me with a test. Once it was completed I stood there while the test was graded. I had got all the questions correct. Then I was told they were not interested. I never got any explination.

What was the point of running the Watched the Ballgame story? Does Matthew Anish mean to imply some kind of assault will happen to the "two attractive young women?" The JC Oates story is very troubling. This isn't the type of Metropolitan Diary entry I have come to expect.

I don't know people complain NYers are rude. From my experience they are in a rush when on the street and don't like to stand around. Besides one can get run over standing in a crowded sidewalk. NY is also where I got a free taxi ride. I was rushing to a meeting downtown in the early 90s and jumped into a cab I flagged down. The driver was Pakistani and I am Indian American, it mattered not except we could only communicate in English. At the end of the ride he refused to take any money even though I pressed him. Only in NY can two people from "enemy countries" can get along. The second experience was when I had to go crosstown from my hotel for a play and though there was a line of cabs every one of them refused till a kindly pedestrian stopped to tell me it was better to walk because no one was driving crosstown at 6 in the evening, an impossible task - who knew! The third was with an Afghan cabbie very late at night who became very talkative as soon as he saw me and launched into a diatribe about his U.S. born daughter wanting to date outside her community. He got upset when I told him he had to listen and respect her wishes. He wanted to ship her back to the "old" country. I tried to talk him off the plan all the way back to the hotel and hoped he did not make that attempt. NY, NY what a great city.

Jack Buchanan’s Diary entry “Catching the Express” reminded me of studies I read years ago about what are called “mental maps.” These are the personal maps each of us carries in our heads which reflect the ways in which we use and come to know the city—its subways and buses, streets and avenues, bridges, highways, shops, parks, theaters, museums, office buildings, restaurants, monuments, and much else. These are the maps which would emerge if we were asked to sit down at a table with a large blank piece of paper and a pencil or pen and draw the city from memory without reference to any “real” street or public transit maps. Our maps would reveal how little of the city we actually use and know. For example, as a boy growing up in Inwood I came to know the A train quite well from my stop at 207th Street down to West 4th Street. But had anyone asked me a question about a station below West 4th I would have had to have answered as did the man whom Mr. Buchanan approached that morning. I also came to know Broadway pretty well from 218th down to about 178th and then again from 59th down to about West 4th. As for the rest of Broadway, with a couple of exceptions, it was terra incognita. Wherever we live in the five boroughs drawing our mental maps of the city we carry about in our heads is very revealing of the ways in which we use—and do not use—the city. New York is, of course, far to large for any of us to know it the way it appears on the maps.

Thank you, Valerie W. That was a nice story.

Born and bred in New York, I too liked to give directions to strangers. Invariably, however, after I’d walked away for a block or two, I’d realize I’d given them the wrong advice. Saddest of all were the tourists on the subway on the weekends, happily going somewhere, and not knowing about the weekend changes that would make their trip a nightmare of confusion. Other New Yorkers would try to help them. I watched helplessly as the tourists were given bad advice. I wanted to shout, “No, No, That’s the weekday schedule!”

Philadelphia story: Once many years ago my wife-to-be, a vivacious outgoing person (the opposite of me) was chatting with an unknown-to-her but also friendly woman, waiting for the Broad Street subway. It's not meant to be racist or condescending, but to get the full picture, you need to know that the other subway rider was a large black woman of "a certain age". After a few minutes of conversation, the woman gave her a long look and announced, in a true Philadelphia drawl, "Girl, you funny!" My love is now a standup comedian in Israel .

Mathew Anish's contribution reminds me of every single time I have wanted to sit quietly and read in a cafe and have had my privacy intruded on by some guy who for some reason felt compelled to comment on what I was reading or (in his view) should be reading. There have been times I have had to forgo returning to the same cafe because I didn't want the same (or another) guy latching onto me again. This is a good example of how women's being in the public space is curtailed - and "even" by supposedly non-MAGA types. Is it that hard to simply leave us in peace?

I was visiting NYC and stayed at the Upper West side on Broadway and 74th. I had to go to Greenwich village to attend a concert by my old friends from country Georgia (I am Georgian). It was a very exciting night. However, on my way back I took a subway and somehow ended up on a train heading to Brooklyn. I got off that train and waited what seemed like forever for a train to take me to the opposite direction. A young man approached me and asked me if I was having a bad day. He was very friendly and sweet. He tried to help me and finally after realizing that he too was confused about the directions he walked me out of the subway, helped me to get a cab and gave the driver $20. I did not get a chance to properly thank him. I wish I have asked for his name. What a sweet person. People were always nice to me in NYC. I have been in Moscow, Paris, London...But I think that New Yorkers are simply the friendliest people on earth. These diaries are marvelous. Thank you!

Did someone just mention a former Western Electric plant??? Wow. Those were the days....

After my son died I took some of his cowboy boots to a second hand western store to sell. The clerk was shocked when I said, "What will I tell him when he comes back and finds some of his boots gone?"

That a man would approach two women unknown to him and suggest they read Joyce Carol Oates’ classic but disturbing story in which a young woman comes to a violent end at the hands of a strange man is more than a little creepy. Why this is a Met Diary entry is a mystery.

The Metropolitan Diary has become my Monday night bedtime story. I love NY. Thank you, Times, and good night, until we meet again next Monday evening.

I love these diaries. Keep it up. Great human stories, that show we're not lost yet!

Last week my adult children and I had the pleasure of visiting NYC. I too had expected to be honked at, rushed past and ignored if I looked like I was lost or dared to ask for directions. We experienced just the opposite! Oftentimes before we even asked, someone would ask if we needed help and give us directions. I especially appreciate the woman at the Queens subway helping my daughter and I figure out the transfer system between the subway and the bus to LaGuardia airport where we had to take our subway token, put it in a machine to obtain a bus ticket as we were intent on taking public transport from Manhattan to LaGuardia and avoid the $70.00 Uber ride we had taken to get into the city. We met other native New Yorkers who seemed happy to share the history and tales of this amazing place.

I first visited NYC in 1976 as a young soldier and Alabama boy. I had heard the usual horror stories about NYC and rude New Yorkers. The stories were wrong. I found so many people ready to help me find my way around the big city. One person even walked a few blocks out of her way to help me find my destination.

RE: Catching the Express No matter what city I am in, people come up to me to ask directions, language notwithstanding. I guess I just look like I know where I am, which is partially true, as I often carry (and now download, never trusting a connection that might, or might not be available...) maps of where I am staying, where I am going, and a general overview of how to get from one to the other. But to the statement: “I never go past 59th Street.” Reminds me of giving an assignment to students in Brooklyn to visit a Manhattan gallery or museum, their choice. "You mean in THE CITY??? Like, over the bridge???" My impression were these were middle-class kids that drove everywhere, and feared the traffic and the parking. I suggested they take the million-dollar limo that I took everyday: a subway car. After all, they did live in one of the great art capitals of the world, and only needed to leave their own borough sometimes...

As a wide-eyed Canadian lad, I took my first trip to NYC in 1977. A kind gentlemen (though another Canadian) on the plane let me share his cab from LaGuardia to midtown where my girlfriend was living. He insisted on taking the long way across 125th St. and then down Broadway, in a Checker – ‘twas marvelous. At the end of the next day my girlfriend and I ask a shop keeper on the Lower East Side if she could recommend a place for an early dinner. When we seemed confused by her instructions, she insisted on locking the shop up and walking three blocks so that we would not get lost. So, I have always loved New Yorkers. All one has to do is pull out a map and within seconds someone will stop and offer directions. And people say the Canadians are the nice ones.

My father worked for Western Electric for years, and actually got me a job there when I was 18. Then he advised me from from the job offer that was coming from them as he realized the company was headed for the trashheap of history. He was educated by Bell Labs scientists. Glad I could be a part of the culture, glad I'm a biochemist.

I found myself unexpectedly detached while I picked through an entire house full of my recently deceased father's possessions. It wasn't until I started with his shoes that I broke down, just as unexpectedly.

About ten years ago - returning home late in the evening - I walked into my apartment and received the news from my wife that one of my closest friends had died suddenly - and very unexpectedly - of a heart attack earlier that evening - A few days later, I received a bag containing his belongings - including the clothes he had been wearing when he died -- His numerous siblings traveled here to New York City from all parts of the country - where I met them - for the first time - at my friend's apartment -- I had the bag containing his belongings and began to slowly unpack them in fron of his siblings -- Everything was fine - until I took out his shoes -- One of his sisters whispered - "Oh - his shoes..." -- and that was all it took for the grieving to begin -- This caught me a bit by surprise - especially since I was entrusted to take temporary ownership of the man's valuable musical instrument - while his shoes loomed at that moment as connection for his family which meant so much more -- The instrument was eventually donated, and - although I still miss my friend - I never really thought about those shoes again - until I read this story...

These are all wonderful vignettes of NYC. I never lived in NYC but had a mult-year assignment in New Jersey and was told to fly into La Guardia. I did just that and the initial drive out was OK. Coming back, the weekend before Christmas, there was a closure on the freeway and I found myself on a surface road in the city and had no idea where to go. At a stop light I rolled my window down and signaled to the car next to me who rolled his window down. I quickly told him my story and he told me where to go. The light changed I drove two blocks and my direction giver stopped in the intersection where I needed to turn left and I saw an arm come out and point left!! I made my plane and have blessed that man ever since.

I used to drive a taxi in Dayton, Ohio. One one occasion a fellow knocked on my window to ask for directions to the Stoffers Hotel. In my rearview mirror was a huge sign less than a block away with the words, STOFFERS HOTEL. I told him to walk 6 blocks in the opposite direction, take the Dixie Highway and then go to the last stop sign on the right...somewhere in Florida. I couldn't help myself but to watch him start off in the direction I pointed him, but the better of me got hold and I quickly corrected him and pointed back at the actual hotel and the 50 foot, brightly lit sign.. Some people's kids..

Re: Catching the Express As Aircrew, I had a La Guardia Airport Layover, so I was determined to take my First Officer downtown to see Chinatown, and have dinner in Little Italy. We got on the right Q bus, then caught a train, the RE(?) or something. We were looking at the transit map in the car, discussing out loud, which train to take next, when 2 or 3 riders suddenly piped up with advice. One of them, this young woman, (who might have been interested in my F/O) had these incredibly, long pointed shoes, and I though, do women wear these for protection in the subways? Anyways, we made it to the right train, and everyone on the car was very helpful.

“Attractive young women.” Insert eye roll.

Re: Top Siders. It’s amazing how a few words can mean so much. My husband died in November after a brutal brain cancer fight. His running shoes sat in the same place where I threw them before they took his body. I couldn’t touch them. Four months later, our then 20 month old son, went over, said “dada’s shoes” and put them in the closet where they belong. Thank you for telling your story.

As much as I love nyc, when I was new in the country, I had a bad experience with getting directions. I will never forget my first day at work in downtown Nyc when I was lost in the subway system, and after asking over 50 people, nobody stopped for even a few extra seconds to explain directions. I found them to be rude. I circled the stations for 3 hours until I found an old police officer with tears. He gave me the biggest comforting smile and told me "dont ask nobody for directions, do exactly what I tell you to do. Walk up the stairs, walk 6 blocks and turn right, and there you will find your WTC station" I did exactly that. Its been 12 years and I am such a pro at navigating Nyc, always helping people with directions. But the memory of this good policeman will always stay in my heart.

My dad’s shoes were the one thing I couldn’t give away when he died. He came to visit my kids often and always left his shoes in my garage just by the door. On the day he died he left his shoes in that spot. Five years later they are still there.

I especially liked the rare ride story. Those were the days.

I vaguely remember that short story by JCO as somewhat disturbing. Is this what Mets fans do after a game? Weird.