Exhibit B: Is that you, Gene Kelly?

I'm singing in the rain,
Just singing in the rain...

Where is that coming from??  Eyes forced to the pavement by the driving drops under the cover of my umbrella, I could scarcely believe my ears.  Maybe I imagined it; nobody would be singing in this rain.  Third Avenue is a disaster in a bad rainstorm.  The puddles span several feet wide and are ankle deep at the corners, and if you have the misfortune of getting caught at a red pedestrian light…watch your boots and pants, folks; you’re bound to get splashed by a passing taxicab.  I had the soaked jeans to prove it.

What a glorious feelin’,

I’m happy again

I’m laughing at clouds,

So dark up above…

Now this time, I was sure I’d heard it.  With the ghost of Gene Kelly nowhere in sight, and knowing my propensity toward pointing out musical references, I was confident that my ears were not playing tricks on me.  After some umbrella shifting, I managed to remove my stare from the sidewalk, dizzy from staring at the polka dots on my boots but now able to look around.  My eyes were up just long enough to watch my umbrella flip upside down in a fresh gust of wind, and after a slew of cursing and wrenching at the flimsy metal spokes, I managed to get it back down, showering my hair with cold raindrops.  And that’s when I saw it.

A flash of bright yellow against the grey concrete and the sea of black rain boots.  It was a small flash, but I knew what I’d seen.  One hand firmly holding the top of my umbrella down, I bravely gazed downward again to look for its origin.

“Sing it again, daddy!”  The yellow galoshes belonged to a pint sized New Yorker, who was now tugging at his father’s trench coat, giggling all the while.

I’m signing in the rain,

Just singing in the rain…

And there he was, the source of the background music: Tall, bespectacled, hoodless, umbrella-less, and smiling as people zoomed and dodged around him and his son. 

“See, we don’t need an umbrella!  Just keep singing!”  The little boy jumped into a nearby puddle, splashed both of them, and gave the song a try.

“No ‘brella!  Just sing!”  They laughed and laughed, and I laughed with them, sad that I was now only a few feet away from the subway station, and would have to part from their musical interlude.  I had to wonder- was mom back at the apartment, shaking her head at the forgotten umbrella in the hallway?  Was he just trying to keep the kid from complaining about the weather?  Or, was it intentional…had this New York dad, rather than hopping in a cab to stay dry on the way home, seen an opportunity to spend a little extra time with his son, and maybe even teach him a song along the way?  And to teach him that even if it’s true, than when it rains it pours (and trust me, it was pouring), sometimes we have to just accept it, and try to enjoy getting soaked?

As I reached the stairs and they moved on, before I even had the chance to shuffle down to the platform, my umbrella once again fell victim to the wind and flipped up to show its useless underside.  But this time, rather than wrestle it back to neutral and bemoan the drops down my neck, I decided to let it go and try their method.  ‘Brella in the trash can, and rain on my face, I quietly sang down the stairs.

Let the stormy clouds chase

Everyone from the place

Come on with the rain,

I’ve a smile on my face

Just singing in the rain…

Exhibit A: Patience on the Scaffolding

Though this took place in November, I had written it down so that I wouldn’t forget it had happened, and as I would like for these entries to go in chronological order…I’ll start here as Exhibit A to prove existence of a sweet core!

If you hail from outside the New York City area, you might guess that our biggest (and, perhaps, only) feel-good event of the year is the Thanksgiving Day Parade.  I wouldn’t blame you; balloons, kids on parent’s shoulders, Broadway performances and Santa at the end…what’s not warm and fuzzy about that?  But if you do happen to be from the Apple, and have been to the parade, you know the truth.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love the parade just as much as the next tryptophan addict.  Yes, it’s fun.  Sure, the marching bands are great.  But if you’re watching street level with the tourists (which probably means you got there at the crack of dawn to grant yourself a few inches of standing room, or camped out overnight), after about an hour of the screaming, cymbal-crashing, stay-standing-in-your-spot-or-lose-it-forever mayhem, it starts to lose some of it’s warm and fuzzy feeling.  You’re better off watching it from a rooftop, or on NBC curled up on mom’s couch with your cousins while the turkey’s getting ready for roasting.

Thus, I have to say that NYC’s biggest and best feel-good annual event is the New York City Marathon.  You simply will not find another day where New Yorkers across the boroughs come together for one simple and beautiful reason; to cheer on loved ones, and perfect strangers, and people who are maybe somewhere in between.  That’s it.  Thousands of people (many New Yorkers, some just “posing” for the day) line the streets to encourage runners from all over to just keep going.  And last marathon Sunday, as I stood out on the corner on First Avenue watching and cheering away, I witnessed something beautiful.      

There was a guy, maybe in his late 20’s/early 30’s on the opposite side of the street perched high up between two poles of scaffolding.  I could just see a few renegade brown locks poking out from beneath a blue bandana atop his head.  He donned black jeans and a puffy coat, but I was getting colder just watching him.  As the wind nipped and bit at my face, I imagined how the ice cold metal must sting against his legs (and his rear, for that matter), and how the chilly air must be even sharper higher up- wasn’t he freezing?

Every time I moved my gaze from the throngs of runners to the scaffolding, he was still there, staring down the avenue and waiting.  For over an hour he sat, shifting his weight every so often, just staring.  This guy is out of his mind, I kept thinking to myself.  He hasn’t even taken a break to go to Starbucks.

Then, suddenly, he bellowed: "CYNTHIA!" And scrambled down from where he had been watching.  A girl in a bright blue vest and brown pony tail bouncing behind her jogged over to his side of the street. He looked so proud and happy as she swung her arms around his neck, kissed him (practically mid-stride) hard on the mouth, and then re-joined the sea of joggers. He leaned over the railing to watch her go until she was unrecognizable among the numbered runners, beaming and cheering until there was no way his cheer could have reached her ears.

Then he turned and left and disappeared up 64^th street. And I thought… how amazing it must be, to have someone who would do that.  Who would sit and wait for over an hour in the cold, simply for a kiss and to root their special someone on.

Many of us will never run the New York City marathon.  We may not even know somebody who did or will someday.   But perhaps we can learn something from our determined, scaffolding-bound boyfriend; that even in New York, a place infamous for rushed citizens and zooming cars, we can find the patience and make the time to ensure we are there at the split second a loved one needs us.  You can be from the city and still have the capacity to wait for that moment, even if it takes over an hour on a 20 degree November afternoon.  We are not just professional time savers, people-dodgers and subway hoppers.

New Yorkers are tough enough to wait.