If New Yorkers are always this nice, we'll take Manhattan!

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

NEW YORK - I awaken to sirens these days and horns blaring and scrapes and thuds, trucks picking up or dropping off something. City sounds, foreign sounds to me.

There's an air-conditioner in the bedroom, but we sleep with it off and the window open. Closed, this place is hermetically sealed. We could be anywhere - in a barn, in a bubble.

I want to remember where I am: New York City.

At home, last month, I ate breakfast every morning outside on the patio and read the newspapers there, attending to the sounds I usually take for granted: birds singing, children shouting, the milkman making his rounds, my dog barking.

I wanted to memorize everything about suburbia down to the rustle of leaves and the whisper of grass, because I thought that when I got to New York I would need those memories to sustain me.

Perhaps I will. But so far I have been so intrigued by what's new all around me, that I haven't ached for what's old.

I listen to pigeons and think how they sound like owls. I hear thumping above me - children's feet - and think how incredible it is that so many people live in small spaces and manage not to get in each other's way. I exist in three tiny rooms and wonder why at home I need so much more.

None of this is what I anticipated. I came prepared to endure my tiny apartment, the teeming crowds, the constant congestion.

I came expecting sneering, snarling people. I was steeled for rudeness and indifference. Yet so far all I've encountered are hospitality and concern.

The fellow who runs the corner newsstand said it would be no problem for him to get the Boston papers for me, though he had to go out of his way.

The owner of Divino's, a great Italian restaurant recommended by another New Yorker, sent over appetizers and dessert wine when he found out my daughter and I were new in the neighborhood.

"Welcome to New York," he said.

Welcome to New York? This happens in Norwood at the Olde Colonial Cafe, but I certainly didn't expect hospitality here.

So much of what I've experienced has been unexpected. On buses, young people get up and give their seats to old people. Not all young people. And not all the time. But it happens.

A woman dropped a quarter as she was getting on a bus. The quarter rolled down the steps and under the wheels. She didn't have another quarter (you need exact change) and was getting off the bus, when someone behind her handed her one.

All these things are striking not because they happened - but because they happened in a city known more for its worms than its sweetness.

At Houlihan's in an outdoor cafe near Central Park, we witnessed the ultimate this-can't-be-New-York. A waitress was serving an Italian tourist. She poured his water, brought him wine, took his order, served his meal. She brought him capuccino, then presented him with a check.

"The gratuity is included?" he asked.

"No, sir, it's not."

"There is no tipping?"

"Yes, there's tipping," she explained politely. "The way it works here is that you tip when you get good service."

The man handed her some bills.

"Did you mean to include a tip, sir? Because you haven't. This just pays for the meal."

"I was not pleased with the service," he said.

The waitress looked at him.

"Were you pleased with your meal?"

"Yes."

"Was it served promptly?"

"Yes."

"It's the custom in this country, sir, to tip for these things."

"I was not pleased with the service," he repeated. Then he stood up and walked away.

The waitress didn't chase him. Or scream at him. Or attempt to kill him. She simply smiled and said, "Oh, okay. Well, then, have a good night."