After I gave the man directions, he explained to me that he was unfamiliar with the subway system because he was a foreigner. From Canada, so you wouldn’t know. A diplomat in fact.
“Oh really? Do you have diplomatic immunity then?”
He was in his late twenties and wore thick-rimmed glasses. Except for his suit, he could have been anyone from Williamsburg. He was grinning now.
“Of course.”
“Well, what do you do with it?
He glanced furtively to one side, hesitating. I thought his answer would have to do with the illicit contents of his diplomatic pouch, which could not be searched at the border.
“I talk to cute girls on the subway.” I must have looked quizzical. “I sit next to them, and I ask them what they are reading. I chat with them until I reach my stop; sometimes I mention that I’m a diplomat. Then, just before I leave, I tell them that I think they are beautiful.”
“Just like that?” I asked, astonished.
“Just like that. They can’t stop me. I have immunity.”
He looked relieved. The subway doors opened; he darted out without a goodbye.
