Yellow handlebars, blue body, golden rubber-rimmed tires and a rear rack. Forty years previous and in mint situation.
A Craigslist advert directed me to her throughout a summer season at dwelling. Bike scarcity no extra: I had discovered my wheels.
There was no room for the bike in my Hell’s Kitchen condominium — there was barely sufficient for my mattress — so out on the road she stayed. It was my first mistake as a bike proprietor in the metropolis.
Ready for a 7 a.m. spin, I pulled on my spandex, stuffed my water bottle and jogged downstairs. In the bike’s place was a lock that had been reduce in half like a stick of butter.
I started to scour lost-bike pages on Instagram and web sites obsessively. In the meantime, I discovered a second set of wheels. Two months handed, and I continued to scroll.
At one level, a image caught my eye: dozens of bikes piled up underneath an overpass. The caption mentioned that they had been taken to the 20th Precinct.
I seemed extra intently, and there it was: yellow handlebars, blue body, golden rubber-rimmed tires and a rear rack.
Now I’ve two bikes in my Hell’s Kitchen condominium. Who wants a mattress anyway?
— Hunter Travers
Steps of the Met
I used to be strolling off a full day spent in entrance of screens, reacquainting myself with the exterior world and pure gentle.
As I wandered down Fifth Avenue towards the Met, a full moon was arising and a summer season breeze tugged at the archway of timber. It was a exceptional enchancment from three hours earlier.
A lone accordion participant was swaying to his music at the backside of the museum steps. He appeared to be having fun with his night a lot that I sat all the way down to do the similar. The notes of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” floated by the air, overlaying the rush of the fountains.
If he was aiming for suggestions, he had definitely picked a sparse time of day. But as he performed, an older couple paused, after which stopped. The doormen throughout the road edged nearer. Three youngsters dropped down on their skateboards.
Eventually, the accordion participant waved good evening to the safety guards. He loaded his instrument into the again of a parked cab. Then, he obtained into the driver’s seat and turned the gentle on.
Down the subsequent block, a girl in heels flagged him down.
— Lucy Cross
Very early one dreary, darkish winter morning, my daughter, Sadie, and I had been strolling to her faculty.
From simply behind me, Sadie requested if my heel was chilly.
“No,” I mentioned. “Why?”
“There’s a hole in your tights,” she mentioned.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, we each heard a feminine voice asking whether or not I wanted an additional pair of tights.
“What?” I mentioned, turning to see the girl who had requested.
She pulled out three pairs of black tights and provided me one.
Shaking off my shock, I accepted, thanked her and wore them the remainder of the day.
— Jane Silverman
After a pickup at college in Manhattan, I rode a rush-hour F to Queens with my daughters.
The practice was packed. The child began screaming. There was a collective groan amongst the different passengers.
When toys didn’t pacify her, I jingled my keys. That made her squeal with laughter, however she would wail after I stopped for even a second.
By the time we obtained to Jackson Heights, the practice had began to empty out. It was silent apart from the keys’ rhythmic jangle.
A brand new passenger obtained on.
“What’s with the keys?” he shouted, not holding again on the expletives.
I finished mid-jingle, however then different folks jumped to my protection.
“Don’t listen to him!”
“Go ahead, lady, jingle!”
One man who had been using the practice the entire method put his hand to his coronary heart.
“You are a beautiful mother,” he mentioned.
I gave the keys one final shake. The child was quick asleep.
— Jess deCourcy Hinds
The man I’ve now been married to for greater than 50 years and I had been nonetheless courting at the time. We had been strolling alongside decrease Fifth Avenue on a Saturday night when a automotive pulled up.
“Where is the Electric Circus?” the folks in the automotive yelled out.
For those that don’t know, the Electric Circus was a nightclub on St. Marks Place that was a in style vacation spot for the metropolis’s hippie tradition in the late 1960s.
My husband defined the place it was.
“How is it?” they requested after thanking him.
He had by no means been and in truth disdained such institutions, however he answered anyway.
“It’s great,” he mentioned. “You’ll love it.”
After they drove off, I requested him why he had mentioned that.
“They were going anyway,” he mentioned. “Why spoil it?”
— Michelle Braverman
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee