Last night, I was blessed with the opportunity to enjoy the second consecutive evening out with my beautiful friend and her wonderful husband, who'd come to town from Vermont for an appointment she had at Memorial Sloan Kettering cancer treatment center. After a very giggly dinner involving a 65-foot sushi buffet (don't waste the rice--it's rude and you'll pay dearly for it!) and a 30-foot dessert buffet (with only a very minor ice cream catastrophe, relatively speaking), I was absolutely buzzing with love and hope.

I took the downtown 6 train uneventfully to Union Square. Upon exiting the 6, making my way to the L, I passed a bagpiper playing a festive tune, a jazz pianist (who was playing an actual UPRIGHT PIANO--how does one maneuver a piano, not only through the streets of New York, but then through the MTA turnstiles, ramps, and elevators?!), and an accordion player who had a beat-up old fiddle hanging from his tip bucket. Only in New York.

I always wait for the last car of the L, as it's closest to the exit at my stop. Apparently, every other MTA rider follows the same routine; the crowd to get on the last car was huge by the time the train finally arrived. There was a small, elderly woman standing next to me, carrying several overstuffed plastic shopping bags (filled with, among other things, a Nerf football and a well-worn pair of boots). All I could think of was how we were all going to squeeze into the already-crowded tube, and whether someone would give up their seat for her.

The millisecond the doors opened, the rush of people began pushing their way onto the train, even before those who were trying to get off had exited. The woman, head down, shuffled along with the crowd. Someone on the train was kind enough to hold the doors open as we all made our way into the car. The old woman grabbed one of the center poles; I held the rail next to the door. The train took off with a start, and the woman stumbled back, nearly fell. I held my hand behind her back to keep her upright. One of her bags brushed the bag of a middle-aged man who was seated, holding a dozen yellow roses, reading, oblivious. She apologized in an Eastern European accent. He nodded his head, raised an eyebrow, and reburied himself in his book.

Really? Really.

My festive spirit was crushed.

The young Asian woman next to him, however, gave me hope. She excused herself, moved to stand and offered her seat to the old woman. Middle-Aged Flower-Toting Reading Man shook his head and immediately snapped to reality. He quickly stood, put his hand on Old Woman's elbow, and assisted her as she gratefully took his vacant seat.

"You are very kind gentleman. You bring me flowers, too? You are very kind. Thank you."

A smile appeared on every face within earshot. There was even some eye contact, which, if you frequent New York public transit, you know is pretty rare.

"Well, the flowers are for my wife, but you are certainly welcome for the seat." He beamed down at her.

Everyone shared a little moment of communal warm fuzziness, then went back the cold, unfamiliar strangers we'd been two minutes prior.

It wasn't for a couple more stops that the magic happened. Middle-Aged Flower-Toting Reading Man took one long-stemmed yellow rose from his wife's bouquet, and without a word, laid it on the lap of the old woman. Her eyes positively sparkled. Her smile took 40 years from her face. She blushed.

"Ohhh," was all she could say.

He smiled again. "Merry Christmas."

There was no need for another word.