The old security guard at the Met who told me the secret spot I could stand to see the two Chagall paintings they have, even though the gallery was closed.
Alda and Eileen, the two chatty grandmothers who sat next to me during Hair and wished me luck on my trip.
The driver of the first cab I’ve ever hailed who moved here at 25 from Indonesia and wasn’t scared because if you only have to be scared if you commit crimes. He also felt strongly that his subway navigation to the JFK International Airport was far better than those written on a piece of paper left for me on the breakfast table which I clutched as tightly as my passport.
Dumpling Man
The team of strangers who guided me, handing my sweaty, dehydrated self with my humongous duffle and wildly swinging video camera off between them through the subway.
The earthquake in Virginia that shook New Yorkers into looking up perplexed and going “Whoa.”
The old woman who yelled my question into her husband’s ear who then wrote the answer in the air because he had just come from the dentist.
Jullian, the French musician who asked if what I was writing right now were lyrics to a song.
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