My New York Trip

On Day Two I left the small bag I carry with my money, passport, and telephone in the cab which was bringing me and my handler back to the hotel after three intense hours in the Met.  The taxi driver found his way blocked at the entrance to 87th street, so had to let us out in the street, in the traffic, which caused me to lose my orientation and my caution and the bag got left behind.  Consternation, on the one hand, a kind of end of life acceptance and calm on the other.  The hotel desk clerk let me monopolize one of the lobby phones as I set about setting things to rights; life grows complicated without a cellphone.  Lo and behold by three o'clock the taxi driver had called to say he had the bag.  This was the miracle of that story: he had looked at telephone numbers on my cellphone and called my doctor's office in Sarasota and they put him on to me, and after calling me with reassurances, next morning when he set out on his job, he stopped by the hotel and returned it.  I did not look into it as he did so feeling that was bad form, and I gave him one hundred dollars for his goodness and effort.  Later on checking the contents I found everything intact except the several hundred dollars packed in an inner pocket.  The disappearance of cash is usually a traditional aspect of lost or mislaid or stolen items, so I took it in good part, although half those I have told this tale to are indignant.  Thereafter the visit proceeded without incident except that it was all I could do to hobble up the distance of a city block for my morning coffee.  One more  day with my excellent escort, thereafter leaning on the arm of my cousin who was visiting Manhattan at the same time.  Dinner dates with lots of friends, some very intimate hours with an old dear friend and former student who was having her drama when as it turned out the gas main had broken under her entry way. She is English and not attuned to when smelling gas represents a threat so it was lucky I was at hand at got her to call 911 and usher her out the door.  The repairs took twenty four hours during part of which time she and I had a marvelous long lunch filled with witty remeniscence (never can spell that word!), in her ice cold house--gas furnace off--and I shivering with the vulnerability of a Floridian.  Most of my days I sat in my hotel room and read the electronic book I had with me.  Kindle is gross and invaluable at the same time.  The room sparsely furnished and lit by glaring overhead light was perhaps not the sweetest reading experience in the world, but, Reader, you must understand:  I just can't walk anymore!  Ghastly.  On Sunday--change of subject--hobbled two blocks to the sung mass in an Anglican Episcopal Church, where I discovered that I still knew the service of Holy Communion in the Book of Common Prayer by heart since last I was an altar boy every Sunday of 1941--42.  Although I am a firm non-believer I still get a glow of happiness from hearing the language of salvation and redemption that are contained therein.  Clouds of incense and gorgeous robes also appealed mightily to my inner gay self.