After living in Manhattan for about two years (minus holidays and summers), I’ve come to the conclusion that there are three kind of people who wander around this island every day: the people who live on the island, the people who work on the island but don’t live here, and the people who neither live nor work here but are visiting for a specified amount of time. Whoever came up with the idea that New Yorkers are rude and inconsiderate must have only met the people who don’t live here.

The commuters are perhaps the most unpredictable people on the planet. Maybe it’s because they have to spend a large majority of their day stuck inside their car or public transportation. Or maybe it’s because they know no matter what happens during the day, in the end, they are going to have to get off the island at night. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re jealous of the natives who get to stay here and enjoy 24-hour Chinese or movie rentals at 1am or the ability to buy a knock-off Prada bag and a falafel from the same guy on the way home from the bar.

Whatever the reason, I’ve noticed that despite a few bad seeds (what town doesn’t have a set of crazies?), Manhattan-ites are actually the nicest people in the world. Yes, outward appearances can be deceiving. But if you had to walk past at least four homeless people, two closed shops, and a kid trying to sell you candy on you’re way to the pizza parlor on the corner, you’d develop a hard shell too. But that shell can be easily broken, too.

Last spring, I was walking with the toddler I baby-sit from time to time. Well, actually I was walking. She was sitting pretty in her stroller. It was a typical spring day in the northeast: inexplicably cold and cloudy. But, upon the insistence of her mother, a breath of “fresh” air was always necessary (I don’t how fresh the air is from the 5^th Avenue busses, but nevertheless…). On my way to the park, I got the sensation that people we’re looking at us. And I was right. Everyone, from businessmen on cell phones to traffic cops to Park Avenue madams to lost tourists would look at the 35-pound ball of fun I was pushing around and smile.

People love babies. Something about the fact that they can’t talk back to you or steal your purse or curse or ask for money makes them the most respected New Yorkers. People are always willing to help you on the bus when you have a baby or open doors or pick up things the kid drops. It’s a way for people to connect with reality. To do something nice for someone without expecting anything in return. It is the ultimate unselfish act to smile at a baby. And if sometimes I get caught in the crossfire of the smiles, then it’s all right with me. I might even smile back. But I’ll still hold on to my purse pretty tight. You never know with those commuters.