A Slip of the Tongue

Earlier this week, dear reader, you read of the trip to South Station.  

The trip from Grand Central Station to the Best Western Seaside (definitely the best place to stay if you like walking along the water while you view the bridges crossing the East River) -- that trip was a bit different.  Lucky enough to pick up a cab right out side of Grand Central, Marash Girl and Marash Boy settled in, calling out, "Best Western, Peck Slip". The cabbie, a fellow with a slight accent though Marash Girl didn't recognize the accent at all and therefore did not strike up a conversation --  the cabbie headed out with great assurance.

"We've arrived,"  he said.

"But this isn't the place!"

"You said Peck Slip!"

  

"But this isn't Peck Slip.  Wait a minute.  Let me get the hotel on the phone," said Marash Girl, concerned that she had given the driver the wrong address.

  

"No, it's on the corner of . . . ." the hotel assured us.

"I took you where you said you wanted to go," the cabbie insisted.  "Peck Slip."

"But the Best Western Seaside is not here."

"It is here that you told me to take you, to Peck Slip," said the Cabbie.  

"No, it's not."

 "This is Peck Slip," said he said.  

"But this is not the hotel," said Marash Girl.  

Finally, with the help of the Best Western Seaside Inn (Downtown Manhattan) on the phone,  it got sorted out. The driver, not a native English speaker, (but perhaps a native filcher,) had (or had he?) heard Pike Slip when Marash Girl had said Peck Slip; he had dutifully driven us directly to Pike Slip, assured that he, and his passengers, were in the right place. 

What a difference a vowel makes.