‘Ik wil mijn excuses aanbieden aan de vrouw die een Subaru bestuurt’

‘Ik wil mijn excuses aanbieden aan de vrouw die een Subaru bestuurt’


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New York|‘I Would Like to Apologize to the Woman Driving a Subaru’


Parking karma, living where Edna St. Vincent Millay once lived and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.


Dear Diary:

I would like to apologize to the woman driving a Subaru on Sunday evening, Jan. 28, 2018. I was having a bad few weeks with a partner’s illness and I became fixated on finding a parking spot that would be good until Tuesday morning. So I nosed into a spot that I considered mine and nosed you out.

I hope you will forgive me. I did wish you good parking karma and hope you found a spot quickly. I do forgive you for the name you called me.

May the parking gods smile on you.

— Arlene Diesenhouse

Dear Diary:

In summer 1969, I moved from Buffalo to live with my brother in Lower Manhattan. I got a job stripping furniture at an antique store in the West Village.

One day, the owner asked if I would be interested in moving into an apartment nearby. I eagerly accepted. It was a perfect situation for both of us: I lived rent-free and he had someone to watch over the apartment. The only caveat was that I had to leave when his brother returned from Vietnam.

The apartment was in a narrow building at 75 ½ Bedford Street where Edna St. Vincent Millay once lived. I had a roommate named Dan. He was from Tucson, Az.

Dan and I became good friends. He eventually returned to Tucson and I moved back in with my brother.

Before Dan left, we went out for a farewell breakfast at a restaurant down the street from the antique store. I’ll never forget the waitress’s greeting.

“What can I get you two?” she said. “The usual?”

Our lives were complete: two guys from out of town being treated like regulars.

— David Sipos

Dear Diary:

At around noon on a hot August day in 2008, I changed from the 6 to the R at 59th Street and Lexington Avenue.

The train was fairly crowded when I got on. I stood near the door. All of a sudden, three people decided they wanted to get off the train. I got off to let them. As I did, the pink flip-flop on my right foot fell off inside and the subway door closed.

“My shoe, my shoe,” I screamed.

A small group of people gathered around me. My flip-flop was now probably on its way to Coney island, the last stop, I said.

I didn’t know what to do. I was standing there on the platform on one foot.

Two women approached me and offered to help. One gave me a small plastic bag, and the other gave me a rubber band. I created a makeshift shoe.

After thanking them, I got on another R and went on to my destination. Nobody seemed to notice my odd shoe as I got on the train. I was even able to get a seat.

Three summers ago, I was in a coffee shop uptown. A man approached me and said he knew me. I did not recognize him. He introduced himself and said he had been at the subway station that day. He asked about my flip-flop and whether I had gotten it back.

“No,” I said. “It probably ended up in Coney Island, at the last stop.” And it probably had a good trip, I added. We both laughed.

— Marilyn Susan Siegel

Dear Diary:

Overheard in Brooklyn Bridge Park:

First man: Are you going to Budapest?

Second man: Yes.

First man: Why?

Second man: I am going to Budapest because I have a ticket.

— Brant Thomas

Dear Diary:

It was 1989 and I had been dating a guy from the Bronx for several months. One muggy summer night we walked from dinner near 25th Street toward Times Square. We had tickets to see Les Misérables.

At one point, we stopped in front of Macy’s to wait for the light to change. I took my date’s left hand as we waited, and then I saw that his right hand was deep inside an unsuspecting tourist’s open handbag.

No, I thought. Just, no.

I watched as the woman realized his arm was deep in her bag. Before she could speak, he lifted up his hand, and with it the forearm of a teenage girl who was holding a zipper wallet.

No one spoke. My date stared hard at the teenager. She waited a long moment and then dropped the wallet, her sullen gaze never leaving my date’s eyes.

He released her wrist and she backed away silently into the crowd. The light changed and the tourist, speechless, nodded thanks, clutched at her open bag and charged away.

Still holding my hand, my date, who would later become my husband, pulled me to cross the street.

“But why,” I asked, “Why let her go? I see two policemen right there.”

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