Dear Diary:
The night of Tuesday, April 16, I indulged in a $20 bowl of soup. It would ultimately turn out to be a great bargain, though I would not determine its remarkable value until later - after I had finished eating, paid my bill, found my way to the nearby First Avenue L station, and come upon some familiar-looking strangers.
Heading through the turnstile, I observed the same father with his two children whom I had been quietly observing during my meal. Noticing that the father looked confused, I asked where the family had been traveling from and where they were now headed.
“We’re from Boston,†he said, explaining that they had been in their home city the previous morning when two bombs had gone off along the route of that city’s marathon. Escaping the ensuing commotion, they had traveled to Manhattan and at present were headed uptown following dinner in the East Village.
“I guess you New Yorkers are no strangers to this feeling,†he continued.
I guided my visitors to their destination. I explained that they had entered a one-way subway station headed in the wrong direction, but that they could ride with me and switch to the appropriate train at the next stop.
They agreed. I connected with Gary and his kids about the tragic events in their city, while trying to be a welcoming face to mine. As we arrived at my stop and they thanked me for my help, I felt a tangible value to our meeting - a value unforeseen when I had first ordered my soup next to a father eating dinner with his kids.
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