“Good freaking day to you too!” I screamed at the cabbie who tried to run me down as I crossed Lexington Avenue. After starting the day by being scrunched next to a man in the subway who excreted an unpleasant aroma, then being hit in the leg and arm with a Century 21 bag by a French tourist at lunch and now ending the day with a near sideswipe from a taxi, I was furious at this city. As I stomped through the door of my shoebox-sized apartment, I vented my frustrations to my boyfriend: “I’m done living in this city! I want to move to Stepford where the people are polite, garbage isn’t flooding the streets and I don’t have to walk outside my Smurf-sized bedroom to change my shirt.”

I stormed off to my bathroom, which makes an airplane restroom look large, turned the shower onto steaming hot and jumped into the tub. As I bent over to pick up the soap, which was floating on top of water that should have drained, I fell to the ground, heard a crack (never a good noise) and started crying. My boyfriend sprinted into the bathroom and asked “Are you OK?” 

“No,” I replied, still sobbing. “Is it too much to ask for working plumbing in a $2,000 a month apartment?”

I woke up the next morning with an ankle that looked like it had more collagen treatments than Goldie Hawn’s lips. For an Upper East Side princess, an enlarged ankle is a tragedy. I called out of work and proceeded to the local hospital (which, thankfully, Gov. George Pataki decided to leave open). Three hours later the doctor sent me off with a cast, x-rays, crutches and a note to go see an orthopedist as soon as possible. After convincing my brother to escort me home, I contacted the orthopedist I had as a teenager, who just happened to be on 72nd and York, two blocks from my house, at the prestigious Hospital for Special Surgery. A friendly and sympathetic receptionist was able to give me a 2:30 appointment so I hung up the phone and began my trek down two long streets.

As I exited my building, a young lady on 74th Street gave me an inquisitive look. I guess the image of someone attempting to balance a door and x-rays while limping must have reminded her of Tiny Tim. So, much to my amazement, instead of just walking away and pretending not to see me, the long-legged blonde opened the door, gazed at me sympathetically and asked in broken English, “Are you OK, can I help you?”  I said yes, thanked her for her help and proceeded on my way.

About a quarter of the way down the street, a pile of garbage jumped out in front of me and my crutch got caught in one of the bags. A woman on her cell phone actually told her friend to “hold on” and helped me remove my metal support stick from the mess. “Will you be all right?” she asked. I nodded and gimped the rest of the way downtown.

Somewhere in between 73rd and 72nd Street, I got winded and had to take a break. “Esta Bien?” a woman with a Gristedes bag in hand asked.

“Bien, bien.”  I replied and she smiled as she walked away.

Parched and hungry, I stopped on the corner and bought a Diet Coke and rat-in-a-bun  from a hot dog vendor. As I approached the doctor’s building, a man cleaning the street opened the door for me, and as I got into the elevator and made pleasant conversation with the other patients, I started to realize that New Yorkers are great people. Although fast paced and consumed with all of the worldliness our city provides, we are not without thought of the emotions and well being of others. We help others in need, welcome people from other places and live in a world of diversity with little friction. After having traveled extensively through the world, I can say that what we have here does not exist anywhere else. Where else could you tear a limb at 9 p.m., receive world class treatment for the injury at 2:30 p.m. the next day, stop to have a hot dog on the way to the doctor’s office—and all in hobbling distance. Try doing that in Paris or London or Stepford.

As I limped on home, I saw my neighbor walking her dog who was wearing a cool, pink, windbreaker type coat. As we stopped on the corner she glanced at me, “I love your dog’s coat,” I said.

“Thanks,” she answered as she looked at my new fangled cast. “That stinks, it must be tough getting around with that.”  I just smiled and said, “Nah, the cabbies actually break for me now.”