I’ve left MoMA after a film screening and am walking down 6th Avenue toward the subway station at Rockefeller Center. It’s the coldest night of the year so far – well below freezing and windy, half-a-foot of crusty snow on the ground. I’m in a foul mood despite having liked the film – someone accidentally walked away with my favorite scarf, and now I’m keenly aware of the cold air blowing down the front of my jacket. At the corner of 50th Street a tourist stops me. She’s staring intently at a map, seemingly oblivious to the cold, and she asks me in Italian-accented English if I know how to get to the C train station at 50th Street. ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘it’s two blocks that direction,’ and I point her west and start to walk away. ‘But… we are here,’ she says, indicating a vague spot on the map with her gloved hand. ‘Right,’ I say, and repeat my directions. This still fails to satisfy her. ‘Show me where to go on the map,’ she says. ‘Is it this way?’ She pushes the map toward me, expecting me to use my gloved finger to indicate to a microscopic point on the Manhattan grid. ‘Look,’ I say, my patience exhausted, ‘you have to go that way, like I said. I have to leave now, I’m sorry.’ I push the map back toward her and march off, leaving her standing holding her unfolded map at the windy corner.