Deadly encounters

I know this is supposed to happen to everyone living in big cities: you long for the anonimity of the metropolis, basking in the illusion you'll never bump into unwanted acquaintances. And then: BAM! The person you LEAST want to see is standing next to you on the underground. On an elevator. In a queue for the latest Jake flick.

I know it, yet when it happened today I was FURIOUS. In a city with 14 million inhabitants, with some 20,000 restaurants, how on earth could the following happen??

We decided to meet our glorious resident S at Jing Fong, a cavernous dim-sum place in Chinatown. S has been waiting for some 20 minutes in front of the entrance, where an escalator is regurgitating tens of people who have been fed and relieved of a few dollars, while another escalator is sucking new cutomers back into the very seats the first lot have vacated.

We have a number: 172. When they call us, we can ascend to dim-sum heaven.

168... 169... almost there...

And then I see this figure, clad in a coat, descending the escalator. I have one of those double-take moments, when you recognise someone, but can't quite place them in your mind. He has the same look in his face, but he recognises me almost instantly, and I can see his eyes look quickly in every direction to see if he can escape.

He can't, nor can I. I am standing at the bottom of the escalator, he's rolling slowly towards me and before I know it, he's standing next to me.

My cousin. The one whose wedding I snubbed in favor of an epic drive with Tot V and Tot T down the peninsula. The one I always found a complete and utter fake, a master of spin, a lazy and spoiled brat who somehow managed to talk his way out of every situation and charm everyone on his way to success. He somehow managed to fool pretty much everyone on his path, but I never fell for his tricks. And he knows this very well, which is why he feels a mixture of envy and resentment towards me. I suddenly remember someone telling me he had moved to NYC after marrying a the rich heiress, but I had logged that notion in the back of my brain, convinced the unspeakble would never happen, despite my frequent visits to the Big Apple. I was, of course, wrong.

He is standing next to me and all we can do is smile insincerely at each other, kiss and hug pretending we're ol'time mates. S and T are glancing at the scene with bemused expressions. I don't think they've ever seen me hide my displeasure so badly. Soon enough, his heavily-pregnant wife rolls out next to us. I am introduced to her as E's brother, a first time for me. I am sure she knows perfectly well who I am. The look of distrust and curiosity in the heiress' eyes are very obvious.

In that very moment the restaurant people call out 172. S is already on top of the escalator, happy to escape the family reunion in favor of some nice dim-sums, while I am forcing T to write down my cousin's number, and already thinking of reasons not to meet in the forthcoming week.

We part waving energetically. The escalator transports me up to the immense banqueting room, where trolleys laden with dim-sums slalom between tables. I sit down, still shaken. S and T's look is worth a million dollars.

I need to find a bigger city. New York is clearly too small. Maybe Cairo?