Grand Central

I ended up in Grand Central Station. All I had to decide was what to do and where to go next. As I stood there, a stranger came up and asked me: “Do you need any help?” She was in her early twenties, a fairly plain looking office type but she had a kind face, so I smiled and said thanks and that I wasn’t sure where to go next.

“Well, you looked kinda lost when I saw you,” she said. “My name’s Annie, by the way. I told her my name and the conversation continued, before she offered to buy me a coffee and we found ourselves at the Red Fleece Café nearby.

She seemed trustworthy, so I told her my story. How I had arrived in New York by bus, lost all my money and luggage but thankfully not my passport, although I missed my flight back to London. I said I would call my parents to wire me some money and then fly home. I tried not to sound too much like a refugee.

Despite protests from me, she called up her father, who came and picked us both up. I stayed for dinner with the family, had a shower, and the parents insisted I take a change of clothes from their son’s wardrobe before the father drove me out to JFK. They were so kind, I almost cried when I said goodbye. Later, when I put my hand into the son’s pants pocket, I found $200 with a note saying: “Pay me back when you can.”

I just could not believe my luck. Three times this week that trick had worked but boy, was this the best result yet.