Another Jeter picture can't hurt...

I’ve got New York on my mind right now (I’m in a New York state of mind??) because of all the Yankee talk on the blog yesterday. Plus the fact that MSN has two NYC-related stories on its homepage this morning – one is about how New York City was named the “most polite city” in the world by Reader’s Digest. (Reader’s Digest, of course, being a serious authority on urban culture and foreign travel.) And the other is a story about Derek Jeter, which I thought was worth sharing for any baseball fans out there:

http://msn.foxsports.com/mlb/story/5674456?FSO1&ATT=HCP&GT1=8297

I do love Derek Jeter… and not just because I have the teensiest, tiniest crush on him. As the article clearly illustrates, Jeter is just plain fun to watch, because he has an uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time.

But one of my favorite New York memories has to do with being in the wrong place at the wrong time. In fact, it was the very first time I ever had the chance to visit the city, when I was a freshman in high school. My history class, led by our intrepid teacher Mr. Saewitz, took the hour-long bus ride into the city so we could visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And the Met didn’t have an “admission price” per se – visitors were expected to give a “donation” amount of their choosing, at which point they would be presented with a colorful little button to attach to their clothing. This would demonstrate, to the various guards posted around the museum, that each visitor had paid the required “donation.” (Isn’t a “donation,” by definition, given freely, of one’s own accord??)

But since my history class was a group field trip, we weren’t required to pay the “donation,” and, therefore, were not presented with buttons. And we were told by a museum curator to stick together in a group, so those little buttons wouldn’t be needed. But I had a five-page questionnaire about art history to fill out for class, and no time to wait around for everyone in the group to finish every question. And besides, how long are a bunch of fourteen-year-olds going to stick together when they’re set loose in a giant museum?

So my friend Ali and I ended up downstairs in the basement of the Met, our questionnaires completed and wanting to visit a costume exhibit we’d seen on the map of the museum. To get there, we had to go upstairs and around to the other side. So we confidently headed for the stairwell, chatting about silly, girly, fourteen-year-old stuff, when we were suddenly stopped in our tracks by a gruff voice.

“Ver ahr your BAH-toons?”

Ali and I looked up, seeing a guard standing at the foot of the stairs. He was standing severely straight, as if his last job had been at Buckingham Palace, but his accent was perplexing. German perhaps? Ali and I looked at each other, neither one of us, I’m sure, exhibiting any sort of comprehension in our faces.

“Excuse me?” Ali ventured.

“Your BAH-toons! Ver ahr your BAH-toons!”

It finally dawned on us that the guard was inquiring about the whereabouts of our colorful little required donation buttons. After several minutes of confusing conversation, during which time Ali and I were certain we’d be trapped in the basement of the Met forever, the guard finally allowed us to pass the magical stairs to the enchanted bridge that led to the castle of the dragon kingdom. (Er, actually, he just yelled at us to stay with our group and herded us up the stairs.) We completely forgot about the costume exhibit, instead deciding to hunt down Mr. Saewitz and whine about what happened. We found him in a large hallway filled with statues –

“Mr. Saewitz! Mr. Saewitz! We got in trouble!”

Mr. Saewitz looked at us with large, round eyes, and then quickly glanced around at the heavy statues in the hallway. The look on his face suggested he thought perhaps we’d knocked one over in some sort of rowdy game of touch football.

“We don’t have our admission buttons!”

A look of obvious relief passed over Mr. Saewitz’s features, and he rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, THAT – if someone asks you again, just say, ‘oh, there’s my group!’ and run away…” You’ve gotta love a teacher who encourages you to defy authority. :)

After that, Ali and I had a great time wandering around the Met, employing the “there’s my group!” distraction maneuver several times. And when we left, we made sure to pick up a couple little green donation buttons, to remind us of the day. I still have mine, stuck to a bulletin board in the extra bedroom in my house. And every time I see it, I think of the first time I visited New York City – the first time I realized (most polite city in the world or not) that I’d love that place forever…