Blogable events. . .catching up

During my contemplations about creating a blog, several things happened. . . or rather, I got myself into several situations. . . that seemed to me blogable, at least to allow others to recognise that I haven't gotten any more sophisticated or sensible since my arrival in the Big Apple.

Like last week. . . I persuaded myself that it was time I got into shape, and decided to take advantage of the free gym at Columbia. Only, the gym is about eight blocks from where I live, and I didn't want to walk through campus in my running gear. . . don't ask why, that's a question for a shrink! Anyway, armed with my water bottle and campus map, I marched off along Broadway, from where, according to the map, I should have been able to get to the gym. But my map was lying, and the gym was nowhere in sight from Broadway.

So I decided to be innovative and try to get to the gym through what my map told me was the neighbouring building. I walked in confidently, congratulating myself on how much my sense of direction had improved in the past few years, and on how innovative I was being in trying to find new ways to do things. I reached a door in the building with a sign that said, in essence, that there was no access to the street from that exit, and no entrance back into the building, without authority with Columbia ID. Ha, I thought, I've got a Columbia ID, so I've got authority, and promptly marched through the door, letting it bang shut behind me. . . only to realise that I was in some no man's land with no exit. It was a deserted, unkempt back "garden" (in extremely generous terms), with piles of garbage bags, uncared for bushes and. . . eek. . . mice!! The place was surrounded by high metal bars, and a locked gate, through which I could see the street and people walking by.

Ok, I thought, so this is not it. But my trusty Columbia ID will get me back in the building, and I'll just be on my way. I took out my ID with a flourish and swiped it on the little swipy thingie that was next to the door.
Nothing.
Ok, so it sometimes doesn't work on the first try. Let's try again, I thought.
Again, nothing.
Ok, so I guess I don't have authority. Now what?

No problem, I thought. I'll just stop passers-by and ask them if I could use their phones to call campus security. Now, most normal people would (if normal people get themselves into such situations) just stop the first person they see, as long as they look relatively decent, and explain the situation. But no, I had to find a certain type of person. . . preferably female, so that members of the opposite sex wouldn't see what an idiot I am, preferably alone, so that the number of people who see what an idiot I am is kept to a minimum, and preferably a saint, so it wouldn't occur to them to judge my idiocy.

So, after eliminating the people walking by for about five minutes, I found my ideal candidate. Excuse me, I called out. She looked at me, slightly startled. I have a slight problem. . . and explained. Do you have a phone I could use to call security to let me out? Sorry, she said, I don't have a phone.
I think she felt guilty then to leave me in my prison and continue on. She stood there, and looked around helplessly. It's ok, I told her. I'll just ask someone else. Ok, she said, looking relieved, and walked off.
My next saviour I decided, was a woman wearing a crucifix around her neck. And went through the same exercise. She too didn't have a phone.
Now in London, the first person I asked would have had a mobile on her. But in this technological wasteland, it was not to be.
It took another five minutes for my next candidate to come along. Excuse me, do you have a phone? I asked her. She looked at me suspiciously and took a step back. I'm sorry to bother you, I said, and went into my spiel again. She, miraculously, had a phone, which she pulled out of her bag, dialed the number (which, for once, I knew) and I explained my situation to the operator. When I was done, I thanked the woman profusely. Do you want me to wait with you, she asked. Touched to the core, I told her I would be fine, and waited until a very amused security guard set me free, explaining that only certain people with AUTHORITY, and not misguided young women, could get back into the building.

What would happen if there had been a fire, I asked as he was escorting me out of the building.
Oh, there won't be a fire there, he replied confidently. And if there was, you'd just have to jump the (25-foot high) gates.
Oh, hehe, I said, nervously. I guess things could have been worse. . .