Many Manhattan women bewail the death of chivalry. “The men here are all complete assholes, none of them can be bothered to show the slightest bit of manners or courtesy, they’ll only do something nice if they’re trying to sleep with you, etc. etc.” I honestly haven’t given the topic much thought (that last one seems pretty obvious- the fact that Joe Lothario is buying your drink or opening your car door because he harbors some sexual agenda is hardly rocket science) but after living here a while I’ve realized that I completely disagree with this theory. Chivalry is definitely still alive and kicking. The problem is that legions of disenchanted women seem to be searching for it in the wrong places. It’s no surprise the swaggering Page Six braggart in the Armani polo with a “flipped” collar slammed the Bungalow 8 door in your face without so much as an “excuse me.” Or that the bitter misogynist I-banker demanded you pick up the entire first date check because he’s “sick of chicks expecting that I’ll pay just because my year end bonus was more than twice their salary.”

But be not deterred, chivalry does live in Manhattan - in fact, it flourishes like rats in Staten Island, just not necessarily in the expected places. Take the subway for instance. I have a theory that a small group of men have formed a secret sect that does nothing but roam the subway stations looking for old ladies, mothers with strollers and female lawyers with absolutely no coordination or fine motor skills to rescue. I’ve had multiple near-dismemberments on mass transport, (seriously - if you doubt this, read June 7 post “Full of Grace”) and there always seems to be some knight in shining cargo shorts to lift me off the slippery train floor or free my ankle from its imprisonment in the 4-inch gap between the platform and the car. These men never ask or expect anything in return - though they may just be in a hurry and don’t want the whole line delayed because some girl lost a foot when the train pulled out.

And sometimes the absolute least likely candidates for chivalry will turn out to be true saviors. The other day I was late to an appointment and fled the office laden with a laptop case, papers and books. Figuring traffic would be impossible and cabs scarce, I plunged into the flesh-searing inferno of the New York subway in August. That’s no exaggeration, I think I actually witnessed a woman’s face melt into a liquified pool on the platform the other day, it was a true George Lucas experience. After a minute of gasping for smothered oxygen and willing my clothing not to ignite, I saw the train pull up and joined the tidal wave of rank, sweat-marinated commuters flooding the air-conditioned cars.

After maneuvering my way into a sliver of open space, I shifted on my blistered feet (damn all slingbacks, my feet are a constant oozing mine field) glanced around the car and was shocked to see it - an empty seat! Thank God, I must have done something seriously good in the karmic scheme today. I lunged for the rush hour jackpot and was about to drop into blissful relaxation when I saw the trash. Some philanthropist had devoured an entire bag of White Castle mini-burgers and discarded the slimy glutinous remains and their packaging on my intended seat, where they now rested in a pool of congealing grease. In the adjacent seat hunkered the single most frightening man I have ever seen. He was a shoe-in Rob Zombie extra - shaved head, browning teeth, giant gnarled hands that could easily have spent the past 2 hours breaking the necks of collies, a tattoo of a bleeding dragon engulfed in flames encircling his neck and creeping onto his lower face. He glanced at me, the clumps of sweat-sodden hair sticking to my streaming face, laptop case biting into the skin of my shoulder, feet like raw ground chuck, and saw that I was eyeing the soiled seat with dismay. My creepy new hero then turned, gathered the trash into a ball, tossed it on the floor next to him, removed his sweatshirt (he must be immune to scorching temperatures) and used it to carefully wipe all traces of lard from the now-empty seat. Then he turned to me and said, “Excuse me miss, would you like to sit down?” I could have hugged him, though I remained aware that he could easily break me in half. “Thank you so much, thank you.” My feet also shouted their appreciation as I sat down, not caring in the slightest whether any remaining traces of burger lard clung to my skirt. Just try finding a guy who’ll do that at Bungalow 8.