I am a native Minnesotan. Born in the State. Raised in the State. I have spent my life in Minnesota, an environment where no matter where I am, if I want to drive a few miles I can be pretty much alone. If I am tired of office buildings, within minutes I can be in the middle of the woods. Even our major cities are graced with parks, their streets lined with trees. I am uncomfortable when I leave on business trips. I have no assurance that I will find as gracious a climate in other places as I find at home.

I am not exactly terrified of New York. Despite my upbringing I have been around the block a few times, know how to hail a cab and tip a bellman, ask a cop for directions. I have some traveler’s social skills so I am not terrified of New York. "Deeply uncomfortable," is probably more accurate. This is just not my kind of place. Too much concrete. The buildings are too tall and set too close together. There are too many people and they are in too much of a hurry. They are too direct in their demands and in their conversation for someone raised as I was to imply to the waitress what I might want if she and the cook were willing.

On one of my few trips to New York I was on an upper floor of the World Trade Center in a cafeteria line, hoping to spear my lunch from the midst of the ravenous New York hordes. I was in doubt that I, a gentle Minnesotan, would be allowed my place as pushy New Yorkers struggled for their hamburgers. Then, as I was next up to tell the cook what I wanted, just as I expected, two old New York ladies, undoubtedly long accustomed to these battles, apparently selecting me as the sucker that I am, attempted to slip in ahead of me. I was having none of it. I moved my bulk between them and the cook. Feigned ignorance of their fluttering behind my back. Placed my order, received my hamburger, stalked to my table victoriously, and let them cut off the next person in line who happened to be a friend and colleague of mine.

When that friend sat down she asked me why I had blocked the two old ladies from their meal.

"I am tired of pushy New Yorkers," I said. "They tried to shove in ahead of me. To heck with them. I am not taking it."

Very gently she replied, "They are not New Yorkers. I heard them earlier. They are visitors. They were ten places ahead of us in line and the cook asked them to be seated while he prepared their salads. He had just called them back to the counter when you blocked their way."

What I wonder is this: Do you suppose that when they went back to Kansas or wherever they are from they told all their friends about how rude New Yorkers are? Do you suppose their prime example of a rude New Yorker was the fat businessman who prevented them from collecting their tuna fish salads? Do you suppose their fellow Kansans will come to New York ready to do battle at the drop of a hamburger patty? What if they set off riots in Broadway ticket lines? Fights in elevators? Shoving matches on subway platforms?

I will have to find out second hand. Having started what I have started, never again will I go to New York. It’s dangerous. There are people like me there.

The author of this essay is John Cowan. He has written two books of similar essays: Small Decencies and The Common Table Each is approximately 160 pages in paperback. To purchase either book by mail send a check for $10 per book to him at 1498 Goodrich, St. Paul, MN 55105. Price will be negotiated for any order over 20 books. If you wish to discuss consulting or speaking engagements or attendance at a workshop he may be reached by e-mail. His address is Johnedie@aol.com

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