I ventured out of my apartment today despite my sore back to buy some kosher chicken thighs from the Shop Rite on Ave I. Not the best thing for my back, but it alleviated some of the cabin fever I’ve been experiencing and I also ended up with quite a tasty meal and confidence that I can indeed make cholent.

The Coney Island-bound F was skipping several stops today including Ave I, Bay Parkway and Ave P, and proceeding straight on to Kings Highway. The conductor announced that there was no Coney Island-bound service to these stations and for these stations one would have to transfer at Kings Highway for the Manhattan-bound train for the bypassed stops.

I was reading a book and when I looked up the train was pulling into a station, and a woman looking very distressed was asking another woman, in broken English with a thick slavic accent, what she was to do. The other woman tried to explain briefly and then walked away. The poor woman stepped out onto the platform and looked around, clearly still bewildered.

I walked up to her and she said to me “Excuse me… Avenue P… Wait here?”
“No,” I said, looking her in the eye and pointing to the opposite platform. “We go to the other side.”
“Avenue P? Not here?”
“No, the other side. Come, I’ll show you. I go to Avenue I.” I began to lead her to the exit where one transfers to the opposite platform and she suddenly stopped, looking more distressed than before.”
“Other side? Is Manhattan!”
I smiled and pointing north said “Yes, back toward Manhattan, Avenue P, and Avenue I.” She suddenly seemed to understand and followed me, looking very relieved. We got to the other platform and I said “And here we wait.”
“Thank you, thank you. Thank you very much,” she said to me. I replied, as I do, “no problem” and leaned against a beam to continue my book.
We got on the train and ended up next to each other.
“Cold,” she said “here is cold.”
“Yes, it’s a cold day,” I agreed.
“In Manhattan, no, here cold.”
“You think so? You think it’s warmer in Manhattan?”
She shrugged. “A little. Warmer yes.” She pointed out the window to the low apartment buildings and houses of Brooklyn. “Is no buildings.”
“Ah, yes…” I said. “The buildings… they block the wind.”
And there was a pause. It could have ended there.
“Are you from Russia?” I asked.
“Eh? No… Ukraine.”
“Ah, Ukraine… I don’t speak Ukrainian.”
“You speak Russian?”
“No, no… I wish I did!”
“Ah… I speak Russian… Ukraine, Russia, now…” she put her hands close together “neighbor.”
“Yes, very close. How long have you lived in America?”
“Four year.”
“Four years? Very nice. You have family here?”
“No… my grandson, he come… four weeks… no four months… school in emmm… computers. He visit summer, and then, he go home.”
“How old?”
“How old? Twenty-One!”

Then it was her stop. I said goodbye, and wished her a very good day and she thanked me again and went on her way. I returned to reading Tevye’s Daughters by Sholom Aleichem and felt a little bit like I may have done a good thing.