I am in New York City in the midst of an extended trip that will ‘mix’ business with pleasure. [Not really: these are two completely distinct items. I don’t expect a lot of pleasure in the business portion of the trip.]

The previous weekend was marred by an unfortunate mishap with a shopping cart.

Flashback: Carteret, New Jersey, 1960. After helping his Mom bring groceries to the car, Danny returned the shopping cart to the store. Adventurous, Danny lifted himself onto the handle and allowed the cart to coast down the gentle slope to the store. During the approach, the cart increased its speed, but nimble and quick, Danny skidded to a stop and twirled the cart directly into the queue.

I wanted to relive my youth, but I neglected to consider several rather important items:

• Switzerland doesn’t have gentle slopes.
• There are only two steer-able wheels (the front ones) on American carts. All four wheels are steer-able in Switzerland.
• I am not as nimble and quick in 2006 as I was in 1960.
• Swiss parking lots are not as smooth as the newly resurfaced lot in Carteret in 1960.

However, I remain adventurous. The picture of poise and smoothness, I lifted myself onto the handle of the Swiss cart and allowed the device to swiftly careen down the precipitous incline over the rough and bouncy terrain of the flower store parking lot. Everything was in complete control – of gravity. A nearby black hole, activated when the left cart wheels unexpectedly sunk into a crevice, caused the shopping cart, which was carrying me, to, eh, shift balance. The wheels ceased contact with the planet. Seeing my life flash before my eyes, I tightened my grip on the handle. As a result, when the cart crashed to the ground, the fingers on my left hand conveniently padded the impact – making sure that the handle was not damaged. Friction between fingers and pavement, together with compression caused by the weight of the rest of my body, resulted in some discomfort. I alertly used my left elbow to drag everything to an (eventual) stop. Nazy, hearing the crash, shouted.

“Darling! Are you all right?”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me,” I replied.

“You were moaning.” Nazy retorted.

“I was not moaning. I was, eh…”

“What happened?”

I thought about describing the black hole while touting my nimble quickness. But, shoving the cart away (with my right hand), I decided on a different approach.

“This stupid shopping cart is defective.” I explained.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Nazy replied as she ran to provide assistance. (She was careful to not step on the pieces of fingers that I had left on the asphalt.)

“I’m fine!” I said, dripping blood onto the pavement. “These carts are badly designed.”

At home, Nazy poured antibiotic on my fingers (and elbow). She bandaged my wounds and continued to ask questions.

“I just don’t understand how that could have happened.”

‘There was a crack in the road.”

“But why didn’t you let go and walk away?”

“Because my feet weren’t touching the ground,” I thought. “It happened so fast, my dear,” I said.

By Monday, my hand had healed enough for me to make my ‘important and critical’ trip to London. (I couldn’t bend the fingers on my left hand, which was swathed in bandages, but I could, at least, carry my briefcase.)

While en route to London, my ‘important and critical’ meeting was cancelled. The next day I flew to Amsterdam for a reunion meeting with ING. As I have come to expect, the travel division had made a mistake. Avis gave me a BMW instead of the customary Micra. In this case, I decided to eschew my normal complaints.

On Thursday, I flew from Amsterdam to New York for two ‘important and critical’ business meetings. [One was cancelled while I was over the North Atlantic.] Luckily, since HP had paid for the flight, I still had a reason to be in New York.

My supply of sterile pads and adhesive tape was gone, but luckily my fingers had healed so quickly that I only required band-aids. Even better, I was able to purchase them at the sundries store in the hotel lobby. The next morning, after getting dressed for my ‘important and critical’ business meeting, I discovered that the hotel’s band-aids were purple. (Readers with good eyesight or a magnifying glass may see the ‘Neon Colors’ sign on the Band-aid Box.)

In fact, while the costumes were wild and the music loud, the participants weren’t nearly as obnoxious as the Street Parade Crew.