Here’s a tip for you …
New York City is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
Granted, my recent experience there was mostly limited to taxi rides from LaGuardia to a Manhattan hotel, the blocks between Grand Central Station and the Imperial Theater on West 45th Street and a different route from the hotel back to LaGuardia, including crossing the Robert F. Kennedy bridge. Still, I experienced enough to learn that it’s easy to take the girl out of the South, and much harder to take the South out of the girl.
I was raised to help myself and to help my neighbor.
In the Big Town, it seems people want to help themselves to your wallet.
Before you get the impression that I’m a cheapskate, know that I am more than happy to shell out extra money to thank the pizza driver, the wait staff or the hair stylist for good service.
I was more than glad to do this in New York as well — when the service was worthwhile.
Here, you can sometimes show gratitude by offering a heartfelt “thank you sweetie” and maybe some homemade chocolate chip cookies.
In the Big Apple, gratitude means opening the “I love Country Music” souvenir coin purse you bought at the Nashville airport and draining the contents.
For example, the afternoon my friend and I were to depart for home, I went to the hotel’s bag check area to get our luggage. We’d paid the check charge and tipped the clerk less than three hours earlier.
I handed the clerk a $10 bill.
He stared at me.
I stared at him.
He continued to stare at me.
I stood there, silent. A line of people, impatient for their personal possessions, formed behind.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t sure if he was amused or annoyed. “Did you want change from this?”
Obviously, he’d pegged me as a novice traveler. Must have been my southern belle accent.
I shook my head. “Oh, no.”
I wasted so much time prior to my trip, imagining the worst case scenario — me, lost within the bowels of the city, forced to relinquish my cold hard cash to a mugger with a knife.
All it took to part me from Alexander Hamilton was a bellhop with a razor-sharp eyebrow.
A short time later, my friend and I boarded a taxi after we tipped the hotel doorman for flagging one down for us. Apparently, there’s something in the New York smog that makes people invisible to taxi drivers until a doorman waves and you slip an Abe Lincoln into his hand. As the cab pulls up to the curb, a miracle occurs. The taxi driver can see you. If it’s a clear day, he may even see that 49.99 pounds of luggage you’re toting.
The driver turned to us after we buckled in. “You want to pay the flat rate $35, or you want to use the meter?”
I was more experienced by this time. I let my friend do the talking.
“We want to use the meter,” she said.
“I have to take a longer route,” he said, and mumbled something about lots of traffic.
“We want to use the meter,” she replied.
We made it to the airport in less time than the driver expected.
The charge on the meter? Under $30.
We gave the driver a tip. When added to the charge, we still paid less than his “flat rate.”
Priceless.