I’ve been working with the same trainer for almost eleven years. Peter is 6’3″, has a toned, muscular frame, perfect posture, and moves with unusual grace, especially for a man of this size.  I will never forget our first session when he asked me what I thought he did before he became a personal trainer, “That’s easy,” I replied, “you were a ballet dancer “. I’m sure he had asked that same question many times and gotten the same answer because his grin appeared before I had uttered a word.

  “No,” he replied, “after college, I played semi-professional football”! Still, all these years later, watching him move, I marvel at this revelation. In my opinion, Peter also has all the attributes of an outstanding trainer. He watches my every move, gently making corrections when needed, and is very kind and patient (long-suffering is probably a more apt word considering his ability to put up with me and my very erratic schedule).

  A few months ago, Peter injured his ankle, and although he was in pain and limping, he never missed a session. I, however, recently missed five weeks of training while I was in PT for a sciatica issue.  As soon as I started to feel better at the end of October, I rescheduled my training sessions.

  The Pilates studio where we meet has a no-shoes policy, so I found it odd that Peter was wearing shoes for the first time. I didn’t say anything until he slipped them off to demonstrate the correct position for one of my exercises, and I noticed he had what looked like a soft brace on his foot.   I asked what happened, wondering if this was still related to the injury he had sustained more than two months ago. “I promise I’ll explain later”, he said. Not being one to forget a promise, as soon as my hour of training was up, I demanded an explanation.

   Here is what he told me. (The Pilates studio where we meet is on 75th and Columbus, which is relevant to the story, so stay with me here.)  About two weeks ago, on the first day he was fully healed and allowed to remove the brace, Peter was parking his car on 74th Street, between Columbus and Central Park West, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple with a stroller running, not jogging, running. Thinking it was odd but not giving it too much thought, he continued to focus on parking until he saw what looked like a vagrant running behind them.

   Just as the man passed his car, Peter heard screaming and what sounded like a woman yelling, “Help.” Without hesitation, he jumped out of his car and ran towards the disturbing screams. Assessing the situation and seeing that the vagrant was actually chasing the couple, he quickly closed the distance between them and tackled the man. Fortunately, a jogger was close behind and jumped in to help Peter hold the man down until the police arrived. Meanwhile, a doorman from a nearby apartment building had called 911 and hurried the couple and their baby into his lobby. Once, thanks to Peter and the jogger, the man was clearly no longer a danger, the woman came out to thank them and explain what had happened.

  She and her husband and baby, were visiting from Israel. Since it was a beautiful day, they had decided to go out for a walk, but as they were stopped at the corner of 74th Street and Columbus waiting for the light to change, suddenly, out of nowhere, an arm reached into the stroller and attempted to snatch their baby. Thankfully, the child was firmly strapped in. They immediately started running, but, undeterred, the man was following close behind.      

  Many things, besides the drama and heroism of this event, struck me as I replayed the story in my head.  The family lives in the Middle East, a region plagued by war. How awful and ironic that this terrifying event occurred in NYC in broad daylight and on the very tony Upper West Side. Then there is the question posed by Peter and the jogger (and me), one that will forever remain unanswered, why was the wife pushing the stroller and running for her life and that of her baby, while her husband ran ahead of them?

  Fortunately, for this family, the mother’s screams were heard by someone who not only didn’t hesitate to help but by someone who also knew how to run and how to tackle! By the time the police arrived, Peter was late for his training session and couldn’t wait around, but hopefully, that extremely dangerous man is off the streets.

  Unfortunately, as the saying goes, sometimes no good deed goes unpunished (in this case, I emphatically think an exception should have been made). While performing this incredible mitzvah (good deed in Yiddish), Peter reinjured his recently healed ankle, only this time it’s worse. He has had cortisone injections, has to wear a brace again, and may be facing surgery.   

 I marvel at this life-affirming story of heroism, told to me as if it were no big deal. And, yes, in spite of his injury and pain, Peter said, of course, he would do it again.  

  Although I’ve been trying to learn not to talk to strangers, sometimes it’s an actual, honest-to-goodness learning experience. For example, I just came back from a weekend in Colorado, celebrating, a little belatedly, my son’s birthday. Wonderful time with family and friends, perfect weather, the impressive Rocky Mountains, which seemed to follow me everywhere, and the fresh mountain air —crisp in the mornings and 70’s in the afternoons —made for a very special weekend. OK, now for the talking to strangers part…

  As anyone who lives in Manhattan knows, unless you are willing to take a few trains or a complicated bus ride, a cab or a car service is the only way to get to any of our three airports. So last Friday morning, my trusty car service picked me up exactly on time and dropped me off at LaGuardia, my usual two hours early (I know!). Noticing the driver had an unusual accent, I asked where he was from. “Cairo” was the unexpected reply. He had been a chemical engineer in Egypt, and when he got married 30 years ago, he and his bride moved to New York to start their family. They raised two (very successful) sons, one of whom, you will be sad to hear, is in the middle of an ugly divorce. So ugly in fact, that both parties have restraining orders against each other, and my driver transports his granddaughter between parents an hour each way twice a week!  I also learned that natural honey offers many more health benefits than processed honey, and that adding Tilo tea to your diet provides antioxidants, soothes irritated throat membranes, and combats inflammation. Now, aren’t you glad I spoke to a stranger? You’re welcome! 

My next conversation with a stranger was with the Lyft driver who took me from the Denver International Airport to downtown Denver, where my family was meeting me. While this one may not improve your health, it will definitely reinforce your belief that NYC is the center of the universe. Amadou immigrated to the U.S from Afghanistan only four years ago. In excellent English, he informed me that he was very nervous about his upcoming wedding in two weeks and was working 18 hours a day to help defray expenses, yikes! The belief that NYC was the center of the universe part came when this man, who hadn’t been outside of CO since arriving four years ago, asked me what I thought about Zorhan Mamdani for NYC Mayor! (I have no idea why my son and daughter-in-law laughed and rolled their eyes when I told them about these very informative conversations.)

  Although I don’t seem to have much control over it, those two conversations are on the plus side of my talking-to-strangers dilemma. However, on the not-so-good side, was my elevator experience last week.

  I was meeting friends for dinner and the weather looked iffy, so as I left my 39th-floor apartment, I grabbed an umbrella.  When the elevator doors opened and I stepped on, a well-dressed, normal-looking older couple greeted me. They didn’t have umbrellas, so I casually said something about possible rain-MISTAKE! The man looked at me pointedly and exclaimed that this was between the weatherman and God. “Do you believe in God?” he demanded. My astonishment must have been evident because his wife (or female friend) said something about not seeing rain in the forecast. OK, end of conversation, I hoped. But it was not to be, “She was born a Hebrew (!) and doesn’t believe in God, do you?” he demanded again. This was beginning to feel like a combination of harassment and the elevator ride from hell, when, thankfully, we reached the lobby. As I made my hasty exit, I said I was on her side (or something to that effect).

  So what have I learned about talking to strangers? I’ve learned it’s much more informative (and safer) to talk to livery drivers than to people in my own building. Also—and perhaps more importantly—when in an elevator, never mention the weather!

  Friends recently pointed out that I seem to be a magnet for “unusual encounters”. Since moving to New York, I had my suspicions, but then I assumed that everyone who lived in NYC had these types of experiences, they just didn’t write about them. “No, my friends assured me I was unique! Maybe so, you be the judge.

   On a lovely evening in late spring, I met my grandson and his girlfriend for dinner in Chelsea (how lucky am I?!). After dinner, it started to rain, so I decided to walk up a few blocks to Tenth Avenue (for non-NYers, Tenth was the closest avenue going in the right direction) and catch a cab home.  I saw cabs go by before I got to the corner, but when I got there….cab desert! As I stood with my arm outstretched, an attractive young woman came up behind me and said she had been watching me (really, why?), stating that she had “cab karma” and was going to help me.

   Did she think I was too old to be trying to catch a cab, I wondered?  I thought I looked pretty cool in my short white sweater, casual slouchy trousers, and much-loved Converse sneakers. But she was behind me, so how was that even possible? As it turned out, she had zero “cab karma” but for some odd reason, wanted to be my new best friend. I, however, needed a cab, not a new best friend, and continued to stand with my arm outstretched as she continued talking.  Introducing herself as Nicole, she asked my name. “Florence,” she exclaimed loud enough to cause a few people to turn around, “that’s my favorite name!” (Believe me when I tell you that it’s no one’s favorite name!) I didn’t want to be rude, but I had to get rid of her, and decided to call an Uber. She, however, was not to be deterred.

   “Oh no, I will get you a cab,” Nicole said as she ran up the street. With no cabs in sight and determined to get home I called an Uber. Wow, a car was two minutes away, and I was getting a discount, so it would only cost me $15!  Meanwhile, Nicole actually had found a cab and was shrieking my name and frantically motioning to me from across the street. I shook my head no and yelled I was all set. Just then, a police car pulled up behind the cab with its lights flashing. She was still yelling my name and waving at me, so to make her stop before one of us got arrested, I crossed the street. The word ‘Uber’ was hardly out of my mouth when she grabbed my phone, punched in some numbers, and informed me she had just canceled my car. What?! Who does this? I grabbed my phone back and knew I needed to end this crazy scenario quickly. As “take-charge Nicole” headed to the police car to explain an unexplainable situation, I decided to make my escape and jumped into the cab. But wait…it wasn’t over yet. Before the cab could pull away, Nicole’s head appeared in the open window. “Get my lady home safe,” she instructed the driver, and then shouted, “I love you,” to me as the cab pulled away.  

  My ick factor was over the top, not to mention, this was the most expensive ride home ever, $25 for the cab and $15 for the Uber (which was not cancelled).  Will I ever learn not to talk to strangers?!

  (This was written last June for my Writers Workshop. Considering there are only a few more days left to comply, I thought it extremely timely, and deserving of your immediate attention!)

Not only were these trips an exercise in patience (never my long suit) but this post may also prove to be very educational for the reader.

  Before phoning for an appointment with the NYS DMV, I carefully read the instructions, gathered all the required documents, and then called for an appointment. All the required documents that is, except my Social Security card, which I had lost years ago. I kept meaning to apply for a new one, but circumstances, too boring to relate, kept me from schlepping down to the other end of the world (Lower Manhattan) to the SS Administration office. Fully confident and reassured by the list of documents needed, including the correct tax forms to bring if you lost your SS Card (Aha! I’m not the only one), I trekked uptown to Harlem to the closest DMV office.

   Despite my pointing out that the DMV website listed a Federal Tax form with my Social Security number and current address would suffice in place of a lost SS card and polite as I was, the supervisor of the Harlem DMV said I had read it wrong (even though I was showing her the printout in black and white). “No matter what the website says, you have to have your card or your 1099”. How do you argue with the DMV supervisor when your lying eyes are obviously to blame?

  I am nothing if not persistent so I let a few months go by and decided to try again. This time, however, I was not going to believe the website. Instead, I called the DMV (that’s another story for another time), got the list of documents needed, compared it to the website, and decided to bring everything on both lists just in case.

   I had filled out the application form at home, triple and quadruple checking every line and box, and showed up early for my second appointment. The gentleman at the door smiled, thanked me for my efficiency, and checked me in, a very promising start. Within five minutes, my number appeared on the 30 screens hanging over the service windows, and I received a text to go to window #7. Exuding positivity, I pulled out the 15 or so documents I had brought, but was quickly informed that this window was only to take my photo. Photo taken (“No, you can’t see it, but you look fine”), so with a smile on my fine-looking face, I went back to my seat in the huge waiting room.

  Glancing around, I couldn’t help but notice a man standing at one of the windows who kept bending down and putting his head almost through the opening at the bottom of the Plexiglas screen which covered each of the stations. Odd, I thought, and it held my attention off and on for the next fifteen minutes or so.  The man left and my number showed again, this time directing me to the window the bending down man had just vacated. Mind you, my hearing is excellent, I can even hear the ding of the elevator bell down the hall through the closed door of my apartment. Exuding positivity once again I smiled and pulled out my reams of papers. I could tell the agent was talking because I could see his lips moving, but he was barely whispering. Now I understood why the man before me was bent over double with his ear pressed to the opening. I, too, had to put my head almost through the opening to hear him. Since his hand was outstretched, I assumed he was asking me for my application and papers, so I handed him everything I had brought, consisting of

1. My unexpired NYS Driver’s License, with my photo
2. My current, also unexpired, passport, also with my photo
3. This time (AHA), my 1099 tax form from the SS Administration
4. My most current bank statement
5. My 2023 Federal Tax return
6. My 2023 State Tax return
7. And finally, ME, standing in front of him with the same face that appeared on my Driver’s License and my Passport

      “Oh no,” he whispered, “no Social Security Card?”!

   Finally, 35 minutes later, after conferring with his supervisor and the two of them studying each page (I swear the supervisor recognized me from my last attempt and therefore dragged her approval out as long as possible), he scanned every page of every document, processed my $47.00 fee, and I was free to go with the warning that my application could still be rejected because I didn’t have that little blue and white card.

   Success! Three weeks later my enhanced driver’s license arrived with a photo of me looking a lot less than “fine” but no friend or family member will ever ask to see my photo I.D.

   A few weeks later I was flying to Detroit. I have CLEAR, a much faster way to get through airport security. With CLEAR, the agent looks at your boarding pass, scans your eyes or fingerprints, and escorts you to the person who is checking driver’s licenses… or so I thought and I couldn’t wait to show off my hard-earned Enhanced driver’s license. After breezing through the first step and with my license in hand, I stepped up to the window. “Go right through,” the agent said. “Wait” I replied,” don’t you want to see my license?” “We have a new system now; your information and CLEAR photo (which FYI, is definitely not “fine”) are on file” she replied. “Once you show your boarding pass, there is no need to show your driver’s license anymore”. “But wait,” I said again, “I just got my new enhanced driver’s license. Can’t I just show it to you?” I asked, waving it in front of her face.  With an indulgent smile, she said, “Maybe next time,” and waved me through.

I will eventually get over the disappointment, but I’m sure you will agree, it was all very unfair.

They represent the future, and their smiles should give us hope

The following paragraph is taken from Heather Cox Richardson’s nightly newsletter Letters from an American. I thought it struck just the right chord and should be shared with my one or two devoted readers.

… But today, Illinois governor J.B. Pritzker took a different approach, trolling Trump’s claim that the Gulf of Mexico would now be called “the Gulf of America.” Standing behind a lectern and flanked by flags of the United States and Illinois, Pritzker solemnly declared he was about to make an important announcement.

“The world’s finest geographers, experts who study the Earth’s natural environment, have concluded a decades-long council and determined that a Great Lake deserves to be named after a great state. So today, I’m issuing a proclamation declaring that hereinafter Lake Michigan shall be known as Lake Illinois. The proclamation has been forwarded to Google to ensure the world’s maps reflect this momentous change. In addition, the recent announcement that to protect the homeland, the United States will be purchasing Greenland, Illinois will now be annexing Green Bay to protect itself against enemies foreign and domestic. I’ve also instructed my team to work diligently to prepare for an important announcement next week regarding the Mississippi River. God bless America, and Bear Down [a reference to the Chicago Bears football team].”

Early yesterday morning, I was standing in the freezing cold waiting for the M5 bus to take me across town for an appointment. Other numbered buses went by, but finally, after 10 shivering minutes, my bus arrived. It was crowded with NYers on their way to work, and because most of them were glued to their phones, the bus was amazingly quiet. There were no empty seats, but I was so grateful to be out of the freezing cold I was happy to stand even though I had to hold on tight to the pole because the driver seemed a little reckless. He was weaving in and out of traffic on Broadway as if he was driving a car rather than a big NYC bus and screeched to a stop when we got to Columbus Circle. A few people filed off, and a seat became available, grateful I wouldn’t have to keep holding on for dear life, I sat down, pulled out my phone, and soon became engrossed in scrolling through the morning’s news.

  I ride this bus frequently, so I wasn’t paying much attention to the overhead announcements, but suddenly I jerked to attention as the bus turned right onto 7th Avenue. It wasn’t supposed to turn until 5^th Ave. Puzzled, I figured maybe 5th Avenue was closed off for one reason or another, as it sometimes is, and the driver had to take an alternate route. I glanced around and saw a few puzzled looks, but no one seemed concerned. A few blocks later, as the driver continued on this odd route, I became convinced I had accidentally boarded the wrong bus and started to get up to check with the driver. About 10 other people were of the same mindset and were heading up the aisle in front of me. After talking to the driver, a woman turned around and announced to us that the driver had forgotten what route he was on. Huh?! Seriously?! Fortunately, I had left early (surprise, surprise) because what was supposed to be a 15-minute trip took 45 minutes as the driver cut down a side street filled with bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  I think what may have shocked me even more than having a reckless, absent-minded NYC bus driver take the wrong route, was the continued silence inside this wayward bus. No outward signs of frustration or anger were expressed by anyone. Who would ever imagine a busload of New Yorkers, all most likely late for work, would just get off at various illegal stops without uttering a word of complaint?

One of the many reasons I love New York is its unexpectedness!