Pizza Party

Late afternoon on Friday, I found myself near John's--one of my favorite pizzerias.

We haven't had this thin-crust yumminess in quite a while, so it didn't take me long to figure out what I wanted to bring home for dinner:

"Large, whole wheat Margherita, double sausage, please."

Since the wait would be 20 minutes or so, I took my knitting and an iced tea to the restaurant's backyard. And, a couple of rows later, there was a pizza ready to take home!




Took the pie home in a cab and the cabbie told me I could either pay the fare or give him the pizza. I love my NYC cabbies, but not that much that I would hand over a John's pizza!

C is for. . .

My Mom taught me never to get into a car with a stranger. But, as an adult living in NYC, I do this all the time.

C is for cabs.

Yes, NYC has a wonderful public transportation system, but sometimes a girl just has to hail a cab.

When she has too many shopping bags. If she’s running late. When it’s too cold. Too hot. When her knees hurt. If it's a bad hair day. And especially when she’s crossing a street and a cab just happens to pull up alongside her.



I take cabs. More than I should. And I may be poorer in cash because of this. But so much richer in exotic experiences.



Some crazies have driven me. The guy who talked to himself. The driver who didn’t realize that a red light means stop. The cabbie that delighted in terrorizing pedestrians.

But there was also the cabbie who taught me how to brine meat. And (via cell phone) I once explained a homework assignment to a driver’s ten-year old. There's been drivers who have waited to make sure I safely got into my building.

Our cab drivers come from everywhere but NYC. And I’ve heard their stories about their countries, their families, their dreams.



Yep. I take cabs.

There's approximately 10,000 cabs in NYC. I've probably ridden in them all.