Too Happy to be a Native

There is a park that follows the Hudson River all the way along the western shore of Manhattan. Even in the dead of winter when I was training for the marathon, its paths, though lined with snowdrifts, were hugely popular among bikers, joggers, and walkers. In theory, there are two paths, one for those on foot  and one for those on bikes and roller blades; this is designated by figures painted on the asphalt and gives you an idea of how long it's been since those figures were painted there. (Roller bladers? Really?) I say "in theory" because while walkers tend to stay off the biking path, it is the stomping ground of just as many bikers as runners. The runners generally keep to the outer edges leaving plenty of space down the middle, so there is little conflict.

The southern part of the path

Farther north

The other day, Ed and I were nearing the end of a 6-ish mile run along the path. We had just passed another twosome jogging in the same direction we were when a middle-aged woman came cycling by. "This path is for bikers!" she yelled as she passed. Ed joined the two runners behind us in calling very sarcastic thank-yous after her, and I could hear continued muttering behind us from the disgruntled joggers as we pulled away from them. I burst out laughing, because only in New York will you get told off for pointing out a rule that is absolutely correct. This woman was right: We weren't supposed to be on that path. But that didn't stop all four of us from being seriously annoyed that she had the nerve to point this out. Several times now, someone has asked me where I'm originally from, nodding as I tell them and explaining that they knew I was "too nice" or "too happy" to be a native.

I'm slowly assimilating, though. This morning I crossed the street with the signal and found myself playing chicken with a station wagon. It was intent on making a right turn across the crosswalk, and I was intent on not letting it, since it was clearly my turn. It slowed, and when the woman behind the wheel realized that I wasn't going to back down, she stopped the car and waved magnanimously at me, as though she were doing me a huge favor. I gave her a cold little smile and terse wave of my own. I'm sure she narrowed her eyes behind her sunglasses at the same rate as I narrowed my eyes behind my own, as we "smiled" at each other and went on our way. This city can make the most common of courtesies extended to strangers feel like grand gestures. It's not that people are outright rude, it's just that they can't seem to be bothered to be nice. Does this bother me? Fugghetaboutit, I'm too busy staring down cab drivers to think about it.