New York City is much loved by many. However, it is no paradise, and the slings and arrows can easily outweigh the pleasures. I cannot speak to the experience of living full-time anywhere else, but this is no heaven and unless a masochist, the resident is best to lower their expectations for bliss and look for Pockets of Joy and Small Gestures, not Eden. Random Acts of Consideration will stand out and become noteworthy events, set against Acts of Rudeness. Here, acts of humanity come in small bites, not large meals.

Yesterday was Labor Day and for many New Yorkers, the last hurrah of the summer season. The desire to get away is great, and much of the city is peculiarly quiet. For those who have not made the mass exodus, it is an opportune time to indulge in the luxury of leisure with a minimum of neurotic energy. I opted for a day with no agenda, perhaps atypical of the city denizen who seems eternally driven to some purposeful activity.

So it was, that I found myself exploring the city by car with my girlfriend, much as I did as a child with family on the classic Sunday afternoon drive. Our ride took us to the Upper East Side, originally with a mind to visit Central Park. The threat of rain, however, became a deterrent to any out of car strolling, so we agreed that we would spend the afternoon exclusively riding around. I zigzagged the cross streets of the neighborhood, primarily those blocks between 5th and Madison Avenues, often referred to in real estate parlance as the “park blocks,” owing to their abutting Central Park. It is here, along with 5th Avenue itself, that one will find some of the world’s finest residential buildings. I particularly love the limestone mansions and the gracious elegant pre-war apartment buildings. Here, peering into the occasional window, one will often find beautiful cinched drapes as window treatment, not the more common unadorned window or vinyl roller shades.

I dream of the luxury behind those windows – tall ceilings, plaster moldings, ornamental crown moldings, foyers and spacious rooms lit by chandeliers. Architectural details and roomy comfort define these places, and to have the privilege of living in such a home is to enjoy being in what feels like a refuge from the city and a veritable fortress from its ills. Although the stereotypical snooty resident of the Upper East Side would indicate that this neighborhood is likely not my style, I remain fascinated and desirous of a place that is quiet and free of so much of the tacky, touristy shops and crowds that one must tolerate in the Village, where I have lived for over 4 decades.

As we drove, my girlfriend, who herself prefers a diet of small bites and snacks over large meals, expressed her desire for a pretzel. The classic New York City street pretzel is to be found in carts everywhere, and as we turned the corner at 86th Street and 5th Avenue, my girlfriend pointed out a cart boldly advertising $1.50 pretzels. I left her in my vehicle in front of a fire hydrant – this is legal for standing in New York City and typically the only free spots available in most areas of the city.

As I approached the food cart, there was a small altercation. Apparently a member of a group of individuals was bargaining the vendor from $1.50 to $1 for a bottle of spring water, claiming they had only the single dollar between all of them. The vendor acquiesced. I empathized with him and I told him that it seemed to be an impossibility that an entire group of well-dressed people would not have an additional 50 cents between them. We both agreed that is was just a typical negotiating ploy. The vendor, however, told me that business was painfully slow and that he took what he could get. I purchased a pretzel and immediately noticed how warm and soft it felt – unusually fresh for a street pretzel these days. My girlfriend confirmed, and went further to say that it was perhaps one of the best pretzels she had ever had. I concurred.

As I drove away, I reflected on the entire experience – Mohammed’s generosity and kind manner in spite of the rude and aggressive disposition of his previous customers. Although not a momentous event, it seemed worthy of a story. I circled the block, parked again, and I approached the vendor, who I learned was Mohammed Hussien Abdelmohsen and hailed from Egypt. I took a photo, gave him my card, and informed him I would be doing a story. I told him that in the course of the time to circle the block, the story title had already made itself very quickly obvious because here, in New York City, whether it be acts of kindness or well-made pretzels, Humanity Comes in Small Bites 🙂