Jerry Footlick is a newcomer to Westport. At the urging of his daughters Robbyn (who lives here) and Jill (who lives nearby), he moved here from North Carolina after his wife died.
The other day, he had a “Westport experience.” He wanted to share it with “06880” readers, in his new home. It’s a great story. Thanks — and welcome, Jerry!
A few evenings ago I attended an event in Manhattan. As I boarded the train back, I found that I had carelessly allowed my phone battery to go dead. The conductor shrugged, and chose to believe I really had a ticket hidden on that phone.
When I got off the train in Westport, I realized I had no way to call a taxi, an Uber, or my daughter.
No taxis in sight. But the tale has a happy ending.
In the parking lot, I asked a likely-looking gentleman where I might find a taxi. You’re on the wrong side, he said. After I had walked under the tracks, I discovered that all the bars and restaurants, where I might have called a taxi, were closed,
My plan, such as it was, was to hope for the arrival of a taxi or a police cruiser. Then the gentleman who had guided me pulled up; he had driven his car around to where I was standing.
“Where are you going?” he asked. I told him. He said, “I live near there. Hop in!” He trusted me. I trusted him.
I noted his British accent. He said he had been raised in London, and his name was Simon. I said I had a son-in-law who lives in Westport, had been raised in London, and whose name was Simon.
I said I had spent a fellowship year in London at the London School of Economics. He said he attended the LSE.
He said he had had a flat in Richmond, which led us to “Ted Lasso,” its real-life pub, and its real-life restaurant. As we arrived at my residence, he said he had a friend living there and to give her his love (I did).
By that time we seemed like old pals.
I don’t know if I was just lucky, or if Westport is really a friendly town.
