About 4,000 years ago I visited New York City on a J1 visa. Early on, I made an attempt to secure a job in a field I knew something about. It transpired I had to first talk to the union that represented the relevant workforce. It would not be overstating it to say the lady I encountered could hardly have been more helpful if I had revealed myself as a long-lost grandson. “You came all this way without a job?” she breathed. “Let’s see what we can do.”
After half an hour of general advice, pointers to alternative employment and the passing on of endless useful phone numbers, she sat back and gave me a warm look. “Now, don’t let anyone tell you New Yorkers are rude,” she said.
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