When I was 18, I spent 6 weeks traveling through England and Europe (France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and The Netherlands) on my bicycle. On the way home, my flight from the Netherlands was late, but I tried not to stress because I figured if I missed my flight from New York to Los Angeles, I'd just get a later flight.
When I finally arrived in New York and made it through customs, I had two dollars in my pocket and I was exhausted. I'd been awake for more than 24 hours. I had my luggage to contend with (not much, since I'd been traveling by bike) and a huge box for my bicycle. When your bike is in a box, it no longer rolls, it drags. I made it to the counter with 15 minutes to spare, only to be told that I was at the wrong counter. My flight was leaving from a different terminal, and I had better hurry because it was the last flight.
As I dragged my box behind me, trying to find the right terminal, I started to cry. I was never much of a crier, but this seemed like a great time to start. Some man said, "What's the matter?" I explained my problem while doggedly dragging my box. He "tsked" me and picked up my bike and carried it to the next terminal for me, all the while lecturing me on the importance of asking for help. I didn't mention that it never occurred to me to ask for help in New York. New York, after all, Has A Reputation. His accent placed him firmly in the New York area.
I made my flight without further problems, and got home safe. Even now, 28 years later, I remember that stranger that helped me make my flight. I said thank you at the time, but I want to say it again. Thank you for helping that crying girl make it home again. Today's gratitude post is to all Good Samaritans.