On Sunday my newspaper carrier made a mistake. Instead of leaving me the Sunday Seattle Times, he left the Sunday NEW YORK TIMES!! I did not call to inform him of his mistake.
Instead, I sat down with the same glorious anticipation I experience before a meal at a gourmet restaurant or when dreaming about Kaiden’s celebrated coconut cake. I read something fabulous from every page, marveled at the headlines, the bylines and the photo taglines. Oh the travel section, book reviews, crossword puzzle, theater arts and museums. The society brides, "Coppel Snopple Durham-Grinder" CEO of thus and such. I scoured the ads for couture, jewelry and retirement homes.
While my eyes greedily scanned each section I became vaguely aware that my mind and senses were being transported back through the decades to a time when New York City was a brief train ride away and The New York Times was my daily bread. I could smell the street vendors, hear the cacophony of cabs competing with the disharmony of musicians tuning up for the overture, I could see and feel the steam rising from the streets and sidewalks. Lovely memories of another me in another time. For a few hours on Sunday I felt very smart and cosmopolitan. Thank you delivery guy for making my Sunday! Next week bring me The Economist.
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