Oh, the sights are spectacular...but the people are really what....

We just got back from New York City. Had a great trip.

Flying out, Hattie, my wife, and I met a family sending their only daughter off to the Big Apple. The young lady had just graduated as a journalism major from Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois. She'd grown up in Peoria. This was her first venture away from home, and her mom was pretty shook up about the girl heading to NYC to make her way in the publishing world. The mother cried. The young lady cried. Hattie told the mother that she would look out for her daughter--help the girl get through O'Hare and La Guardia—make sure she safely met up with the cousin who was supposed to pick her up at the New York airport. The mother appreciated it.

Visiting with the young lady as we waited to board the connecting flight to Chicago, we found out both parents were from Viet Nam. The father came to the states after the fall of Saigon in the 1970's, then sponsored his wife to the U.S. a few years later. He works as a machine operator in a factory. Mom is a seamstress.

Well, we made it through the maze that is O'Hare, and had an uneventful flight to La Guardia, where the young lady exchanged e-mails, phone numbers, and mailing addresses with Hattie. Then she left with her cousin. She's going to do great. I'm sure of it.

New York City is all I had hoped for, and nothing like I had dreaded. Oh, the sights are spectacular: the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Empire State Building, but the people are really what impressed me.

An Arab cab driver took us straight to midtown Manhattan. None of this all-around-New York stuff I'd been warned about. Nice guy. Patient with us out-of-towners with our rural ways. Took time to explain the route we'd just traveled.

People from the Caribbean seem to keep the New York City subway running. Black ticket tellers, some with braids and locks, took the time to explain the automatic ticket process and directed us to the right train so we'd end up in the right place.

Our first day on the subway a young man sat across from us, and after passing a few stops, he asked if we were visiting the city. Is it that obvious? I asked myself. Of course, the answer was “Yes.” I gave him my usual line of questioning: Where are you from originally? What do you do? He seemed eager to answer everything I asked. Or at least he was patient with an old man. “I'm from
India--Bombay. I came here to work on my master's degree after graduating from India Tech.”

“You live right in the city?” Hattie asked.

“Yes, but not Manhattan. Across the bridge on Staten Island.”

“Oh, yeah, what do you do over there?” I wanted to know.

“I teach chemistry at a branch of the City University of New York while working on my PhD.”

“Wow,” was all my wife and I could respond. Chemistry—PhD.--must be a genius, I told myself.

The train pulled up at our stop. We started off. “Take care,” the originally-from-Bombay India-now-living-on-Staten Island young man said. “Enjoy the city.”

We thanked him and went through the turnstile. Nice kid. He's far from family and seemed lonely.

As well as the subway system, West Indians apparently keep New York City's tour bus business moving. Standing beside huge, colorful buses wanting to sell you a ride around town. Never have seen people so organized to make a buck. Mind you, they're not pushy, just assertive. When you tell them “No,” they politely move on to someone else.

The subway is fast, but we took city buses most of the time. A Latino bus driver explained the bus system to us. In fact, several bus drivers representing several different ethnic groups had to keep us on the straight and narrow regarding the buses. Good thing or we'd probably be wandering around the Bronx somewhere.

On Sunday we waited in a long line to go out to the Statue of Liberty. Behind us was a family speaking French. I didn't understand a word they said until the mother spoke to her little boy in English. Then I struck up a conversation. They were from Belgium. The mother had to be in New York for a medical conference, so the family made a vacation of it. When a couple Belgian high school kids with a tour group found out they had countrymen in the line, they rushed over to visit, switching unconsciously from French to English and back to French.

Every crowd has a loud mouth. Our loud mouth for the day was a tall middle-aged guy with a spa tan and an oily hair-do parked on a bench directly across from where the Belgian people were talking.

“Belgium, is that even big enough to have an airport?” he quipped.

The reply came from from the father. “We have four.”

Then our lanky bench warmer asked: “Now that you're here in the U.S., is there anyone left in your village?”

Fool that I am, I couldn't keep quiet. “Where are you from?” I asked.

“L.A.”

Sometimes all the useless information I have actually ends up being useful. “Hey, Mr. L.A.”

“What?”

“Did you know that Belgium is big enough to be the headquarters for NATO?”

The conversation was over. The Belgians all smiled.

Walking to Times Square I sneezed, and someone among the passing throng yelled, “Bless you!”

At times square I heard what seemed like a million different languages all being spoken at once. The Naked Cowboy was there. He was in more than his underwear: he was in the height of his glory because he'd just won a big court case. And while women lined up to have their picture taken with him, I spotted a Hasidic Jewish mother and her children talking to a fellow from the Church of Scientology who was selling that religion's wares. Strange—yet not strange. After all, this is America.

Somewhere between Forty-Second Street and the Longacre Theatre, on our way to see BOEING, BOEING, Hattie remarked about how many beautiful women she had seen representing so many different groups. I'd already thought it, but wasn't about to say a word.

On Monday, we headed Uptown to Central Park and took a handsome cab ride through the park. Naturally, I had to know about our driver. From Istanbul Turkey he told us. Been in the U.S. for six years. Has a master's degree in psychology. He graciously thanked us for the business.

At Sixty-Sixth and Eighth Avenue in front of the ABC Studios, a group of people had gathered, waiting to try out for a game show. All of them wanted to be “millionaires.” They were trying out for “Famous Names” week. I visited with as many as I could.

I asked a young Black man with a beard and brief case what his name was. He gave me a wry smile.
“Dave Crockett,” he says. “Davy Crockett.”

I laughed. Not a mean laugh. However, I apologized anyway.

“No need to apologize,” he says. “You certainly aren't the first to get a kick out of my name.”

“Where you from, Dave?”

“Newark.”

“Newark? With that drawl?”

“Originally from Virginia.”

“That explains it,” I said.

“What do you do for a living?” Then I spotted the “Case Western Reserve Law School” shirt. “You a lawyer?”

He laughed. “No, I'm the other dirty 'L' word.”

I was puzzled.

“Lobbyist.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Where'd you go to college? Or did you start working in public policy right out of high school?”

“No, I went to college. Washington and Lee University.”

Interesting, I thought. An African American guy graduates from a University named after two slave owners. I also couldn't help but think—hope—that George Washington and Robert E. Lee might be pleased about David Crockett, a Black guy, getting a degree from a school named after them. Later I found out that “Davy” Crockett made it into the pool for WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE to be a contestant during “Famous Names” Week. Look for him.

Our last night in New York City, Hattie and I strolled the streets of Midtown looking for a restaurant.

We passed by several Indian places, one that even offered a kosher menu. But we finally settled on Italian food. A nice quiet Italian restaurant. It reminded me of Louie's Restaurant from the GODFATHER. You know, the one where Michael plugs the drug dealer Virgil “The Turk” Sollozzo and McClusky, the corrupt police captain.

Hattie had spaghetti and meat balls. I had ravioli. It was fabulous. The waiter was very friendly. I remarked about how great the food was. He went back and told the chef. I heard excited but indistinguishable conversation.

“So are you from Italy?” I asked when the waiter returned.

“No, Mexico,” he answers in an accent that sounded more like Brooklyn than Tijuana.

“Mexico?”

“Yes, Mexico.”

“Then the chef, he must be from Italy?” said Hattie.

The waiter shook his head. “No, he is from Ecuador. He just came here to learn how to cook Italian food so he could work in an Italian restaurant here in New York.

“So is anyone here Italian?” I asked.

“No,” came his reply.

There you have it: Great Italian food, cooked by a gentleman from Ecuador, served by a waiter from Mexico, and eaten by a couple Midwesterners. Ah, New York City--America--Diversity!