After my first year in college, mid-70’s, I found employment working at Saratoga Race Course, again as a hotwalker, a job I began in my high school years. Days begin early at racetracks and getting to work required having a car. My parents had bought a second-hand 1967 Camaro convertible, Little Red (Big Red was a 1957 Pontiac Starchief, who had died a few years before.) and they lent her to me for that summer. Although she was in relatively poor condition, her red rust competed with the once fire engine red paint, and she guzzled gas and oil with an unquenchable thirst, she was fabulous. Driving to and from work with the top down could only be described as a thrill.

One evening, exhausted from a long day, I pulled into a self-service gas station to fill her up. Ready to pay, an attendant came over and asked, “Did you convert your car?” “Excuse me?” I replied. “Did you convert your car to diesel?’ he continued. “No, why?” I asked.”Well you just filled your car with diesel and if it hasn’t been converted I wouldn’t start it up.”

It took a few days to get Little Red back, negotiating rides to work was not an easy task.

I noticed some time thereafter, the size of the gas pump nozzles were changed. A mistake such as mine could no longer be made. But I am confident that that is one mistake I would not have made again anyway.

Some time in the 80’s, maybe the 90’s, boutiques, particularly in SoHo, began looking very sparse and minimalist. Sometimes an entire retail space might have just a few racks of clothing to look through. It was also a time when I noticed a general aloofness among the sales staff. I could enter a shop, look around, pull a few items off a rack, even try them on before someone working there would say hello.

I was walking down Broadway and saw a shop with a single rack of coats on display. It was November or so and I was in need of something for the winter months ahead. I stepped inside and began looking through the garments. The space was mostly bare and no one was in attendance.

After a few moments, a young well-dressed woman approached “Can I help you?” she asked. “No thank you, I’m just looking,” I replied. “I am not sure what you are looking for, but this is a hair salon,” she added.

It didn’t take me long to realize that the coats I was assessing were not for sale.

The distinctive click of the door as it locked was something I listened for.

I dashed out of my apartment to a small shop nearby-one of few open that Sunday morning, sixteen years ago. My morning attire of comfort casual was discordant with the impeccably dressed Parisian men and women strolling along, but no one seemed to notice.  With my purchase of envelopes in hand, I quickly retraced my steps back home. I reached for my keys, they were not in my pocket, but where I had left them, on the other side of my apartment door.

My boyfriend had gone skiing and wasn’t expected to return until late that evening. I descended the seven flights of stairs and rang the bell of Isabella, the concierge. She was not at home. Sunday she often spent with her family or friends.

I again stepped outside into the chilly morning, aware of the darkening clouds. I knew none of my friends’ phone numbers and asking my neighbors if I could hang around all day did not seem like a great idea.

I bought a hearty sandwich from a boulangerie with about six dollars worth of francs to spare. At some point Eureka, a film, came to mind. I had wanted to see it, but had been dissuaded by it’s more than three and one-half hour running time . It was playing near the Centre Pompidou about an hour’s walk away and the matinee price was one I could afford.

Eureka was an extraordinary film. I enjoyed it immeasurably, but the warm, cozy seat I nestled in for hours undoubtedly added to its appeal.