I
was in New York for a long weekend - my first time in Manhattan in more than
one decade. A friend met me in the City that weekend and we were
determined to see a show. We bought last minute seats to a popular
revival and made our way to the theater. We crossed the cavernous lobby
and handed our tickets to the usher, who showed us to our seats. As the
curtain rose, we found ourselves a mere twelve rows from the classic musical
unfolding onstage. For the next two hours, I sat, trying to take in the
scene, the music, the crowd, the experience. This, after all, was my
first Broadway show.
We had been walking for about forty-five minutes, making our way from Manhattan’s South Street Seaport to the Macy’s flagship store on 34th Street. When we were within fifteen blocks of our destination, some of my companions decided that we should complete our journey by cab. Despite my attempts to convince them to keep walking, they were insistent. The trip that ensued was a true New York experience. After a few minutes of trying, one of my companions was able to hail a cab. However, we wanted to go north. The cab that stopped was going south. It did not seem to matter, though, as my companions still got in the cab. One person sat in the front while I slipped into the backseat, between the other two. Hardly before the doors could close, the driver had fought his way into Manhattan traffic. Without warning, he took a sharp right turn onto a side street and began to head north, steadily increasing his speed. Within seconds, the cab was weaving a...
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