New York giveth, and New York taketh away

I lost my gloves on the subway the day before yesterday. They were beautiful gloves that I got for Christmas in 2005. I had told my then-boyfriend that what I wanted for Christmas more than anything in the world was beautiful black leather gloves exactly like my friend Nezabeth’s, and he got me those exact gloves. I have had them for years, and I am desperately attached to them. They are so soft and warm, and five years on from when I got them, they were just like new.

I was on the B train, which I have only taken once or twice before, and I was reading Beau Geste (best book ever, seriously). I recently switched to a smaller purse (mistake), so I had set my gloves in my lap underneath my purse, rather than sticking them safely into the purse itself. When the train stopped at my station, I thought I still had one more stop to go, and only noticed at the last second that it was my stop. Of course I crammed my book back in my purse, leapt up, and dashed off; and of course, my beautiful gloves tumbled, forgotten, to the floor. I have submitted a claim to the MTA, but I do not necessarily expect that busy New Yorkers will have found my gloves and bothered taking them to lost and found. Everyone here is very, very busy. I can tell by the way they all rush about.

My response to almost any unfortunate turn of events is to find someone to blame. Often it is me. On this occasion it was New York. “Goddamn New York goddamn city,” I grumbled, stepping in a puddle on purpose to increase my sense of aggrievement. “This would never have happened at home in my car,” I thought sadly. “And if it had I would have had a puppy, and my mumsy and daddy, and my sisters, and my friends, and I could have told them all the woeful tale of losing my gloves, and they would all have felt sorry for me. Poor me! What a terrible mistake to move to New York, the city where people switch to smaller purses because they have to walk really far and big purses are heavy. The city where people drop Platonic gloves on subways and probably never get them back. The city where street corners have puddles full of slushy newspaper and people step in them completely accidentally just when they are already having a bad day. Dreadful, terrible New York! Why did I ever come here? It is clear that I have failed at New York and I should move home immediately!” I even wept one or two forlorn little tears (yes, Anastasia, this definitely happens!) over my woeful, far-from-home fate.

When I got to work, though, my publicity department had emailed everyone to offer free copies of a book whose author was discussing and signing it at a downtown bookstore that evening. A free book and a free bookish event! I had just been thinking that I deserved, but could not afford, a treat to make up for the loss of my gloves. And lo, New York — probably feeling repentant about the gloves and the puddle, both of which were completely its fault and not mine at all — decided to give me one. Thanks, city! If you also fancy sending back my gloves c/o the Metropolitan Transportation Authority Lost and Found, I wouldn’t say no.

P.S. New York — and you may or may not know this — is very full of things. Every time I go on the internet, I find a new intriguing thing I want to do in New York. And every time I find a new intriguing thing I want to do in New York, the internet is also very willing to tell me whether it’s worth doing. Leonardo’s Last Supper, by Peter Greenaway? NOPE. Exhibition of statues of heroes from ancient Greece and Rome? Don’t care what the internet says at all because OBV I am going to hit that up. Oh, New York. You and I are going to be the best of friends. Once you’ve given me back my gloves.