“True generosity whispers in private, far from applauding crowds.”
Farnam Street Blog
"Life is so rich."
Those four words from Professor Scott Galloway end most of his blog posts, and they've been rattling around my head since a Tuesday evening in Tribeca when a complete stranger handed me a hat off his head.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
A few years ago, Galloway shared an observation that's stuck with me about parenting and time. He likened each summer with your children to different vintages of wine. Same vineyard, same vines, same soil - but each year brings its own weather, its own character, its own irreplaceable flavours.
That analogy has grown sharper each summer I spend with my three kids. This past summer felt particularly bittersweet - watching my daughter, now twelve, roll her eyes at activities that captivated her last year, while my youngest still believes in the magic of collecting shells and sea glass. Each stage precious, each one fleeting.
As the dog days wound down, I found myself echoing what I hear from other parents - relief at the prospect of returning to routine. Structure. Normal life. After weeks of constant togetherness, we were all ready for school schedules and familiar rhythms.
It's with that sentiment - eager anticipation of "normal life" - that I found myself standing in the sub-basement of our Manhattan building, wearing a head torch in complete darkness, being told by an electrician: "If anything happens to me when I take this panel off, kick the ladder and run."
"Come again?" I managed.
"If I get electrocuted, kick the ladder away and get out of here!"
For the briefest moment, I was lost for words. I hadn't signed up for this. Neither had he, I'd guess.
The path to the basement had begun two days earlier, Labour Day Monday, 6pm. After a few weeks away, coming home to non-functioning lights wasn't entirely surprising. What I thought would be a simple fix - checking the panel, maybe resetting a breaker - turned out to be naively optimistic.
When I flicked the slightly foreboding black switch from off to on, a mini explosion accompanied by a sharp pop told me something far greater was amiss. The shrieks of surprise and despair from my wife and kids confirmed my suspicion - we had a proper problem.
That small pop had killed 40% of our lights and, more problematically, our oven, stove, fridge, and washing machine. Welcome back to city life.
Twenty-four hours later, an electrician finally arrived - visibly tired and drained from what had obviously been a brutal first day back after the long weekend. His initial investigation revealed the likely culprit - a failed breaker from the main electrical supply. But to confirm it, we needed to access the building's master panel.
Hence the basement. Hence the head torches. Hence the morbid safety briefing.
Standing there in the dark, no mobile signal, with someone essentially asking me to be his designated witness should he accidentally kill himself, I couldn't help but think about my eagerness to return to "normal life." Apparently normal life included a non-zero risk of death by electrocution.
He wasn't electrocuted. Neither of us died. After ninety minutes of investigation, panel removal, and replacement, he confirmed what he suspected but delivered news I hadn't expected, namely that he wasn't qualified to actually fix the problem. We'd need a specialist.
His expressions of remorse and apology contrasted starkly with my feelings of relief and gratitude. Him, because he couldn't complete the repair. Me, because we'd both survived what seemed like an unnecessary risk.
Back in my apartment, as he packed his tools, I asked what I owed him. His response was a mixture of shock and self-reproach "Nothing. I didn't actually do anything."
I couldn't believe it. Here was a man whose time is his living, whose expertise had just spent ninety minutes diagnosing my problem - risking his safety in the process - and he felt he deserved nothing because he couldn't provide the final solution.
This wasn't something I could let pass. Grateful I'd visited the ATM earlier, I pressed two crisp hundreds into his hand despite his protests. His time, his knowledge, his willingness to help - these things had value, regardless of the outcome.
My basement adventure had made me late for dinner with my wife. As we sat at a tiny outdoor table at a Greek restaurant in our neighbourhood - tables crammed so close together that we were practically dining with our neighbours - I found myself doing a double-take at the man next to us.
What caught my eye was the distinctive number 7 logo on his hat, with a smaller CR7 logo on the side. Cristiano Ronaldo's brand. The favourite footballer of both my sons, much to my dismay and confusion given we’re a Liverpool family!
Because our tables were impossibly close, he caught me staring. Feeling obliged to explain my interest rather than seem rude, I mentioned the hat and my boys' inexplicable devotion to Ronaldo.
He lit up, eager to understand why they loved the Portuguese superstar so much. In turn, he explained that he was actually from Madeira - Ronaldo's birthplace - and had bought the hat just days earlier at the Ronaldo Museum there ahead of his vacation here in the US with his partner.
As our single-serving conversation reached its natural conclusion, he did something completely unexpected. He pulled the hat off his head and said, "This is the first time I've worn it, but I would like you to have it for your sons."
Even in my shock, I protested immediately. But he wouldn't hear it, insisting I take it with a warmth that caught me completely off-guard.
Two strangers. Two moments of unexpected generosity within hours of each other.
The electrician who took a call he didn't need to take, risked his safety, and then felt embarrassed to accept payment for his expertise and time.
The Portuguese tourist who gave up something meaningful to a complete stranger based on nothing more than an inquiring look and an embarrassed explanation about football-mad children.
Perhaps it was the universe responding to my insistence that the electrician accept payment - some cosmic rebalancing of generosity. Or perhaps it was simply what happens when we're open to connection instead of rushing through our interactions.
Both men saw beyond the transaction. The electrician valued helping over profit. The tourist valued joy over possession. In a city that can feel transactional and rushed, both chose connection.
Sitting there in that cramped restaurant, holding a hat I'd never expected to own, I thought about Galloway's wine analogy. These weren't planned moments or curated experiences. They were the unexpected gifts that emerge when we're present enough to notice them - when we engage with the strangers whose paths cross ours instead of hurrying past them.
My eagerness to return to "normal life" had assumed normal meant predictable. But the best parts of city life - like the best parts of any life - are often the unscripted moments when someone chooses generosity over convenience, connection over efficiency.
The lights are working now. The specialist came, fixed the breaker, and normal electrical function resumed. But I keep thinking about those two encounters, about how quickly profound moments can emerge from mundane frustrations.
My sons were thrilled with the hat, of course. But more than that, they were fascinated by the story - by the idea that a stranger would give up something he'd just bought simply because it might bring joy to children he'd never meet.
As this summer's vintage settles into memory and autumn routine takes hold, I'm reminded that the richness Galloway writes about isn't just in the planned moments - the holidays, the milestones, the carefully orchestrated family time.
It's also in the Tuesday evening when an electrician risks his safety for a problem he can't even fix, and a tourist from Madeira decides that spreading joy matters more than keeping a souvenir.
Life is indeed so rich. Sometimes you just have to be willing to kick the ladder when needed and accept the hat when offered.
