It was last Saturday night in the Big Apple. My daughter, daughter-in-law and I had left the hotel a bit late to hoof it to the theatre. The afternoon mist that had shrouded the Batman-like skyscape had escalated into earnest evening rain. We noted earlier in the day that it's easier to hail one of the taxis in bright yellow streams that cheer Gotham's gloom than it was during visits in more prosperous times. Yet in this Saturday night downpour there was no taxi to be had, not even making use of the two young ladies' charms (imagine Claudette Colbert in the hitch-hiking scene in It Happened One Night).

So when an insouciant kid pedaled up on a pedicab, the goofy contraption with a bicycle in front pulling a rickety bench for passengers in back, hollering "Taxi, taxi, taxi!" in a voice that hadn't quite changed yet, we threw scruples and caution to the wind. The scruples didn't dawn on us until later, when a friend who lives in the city opined that pedicabs turn humans into beasts of burden. But we were clutching $200 worth of tickets to "White Christmas" and curtain time was in 15 minutes, so we agreed:

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20 bucks to deliver us a few blocks to Times Square. Aboard we clambered, our driver zipping a clear plastic covering around us. Off he shot like a runner off the mark, tinkling his cowbell, careening through red lights, weaving through dozens of stalled cabs. My daughter placed one haunch on my right knee and the other on my daughter-in-law's left, hoping balance might keep us from tipping over. Only the plastic cover separated us from the tons of steel we seemed destined to crash into, our terror evidenced by helpless giggling, compulsive picture-taking and entreaties to Jesus. Our driver pedaled furiously up an incline, hauling 400 pounds of white Iowa lass while calling backwards "OK, ladies?"

"OK," we gasped, still weighing our options: theatre or death. We chose theatre.

"Where from?" he caroled.

"Iowa," we hollered back. "You?"

"Iran."

"Have you ever taken three passengers before?"

"One time I take four!"

It crossed my mind that as matriarch, I would have some 'splainin to do if we all wound up in the ER. When the traffic was so bottlenecked that even our driver couldn't penetrate it, we hopped off, skedaddling to the theatre. The show was merry, but our repast afterwards more so. If there's anything better than sharing food and drink with those you love after being snatched from the jaws of death, I don't know what it is.

The experience led us to debate whether pedicabs represent exploitation of the poor or capitalism at its finest. The kid certainly didn't seem downtrodden, and maybe being out seeing how the world works and making his own money better builds his character than what many of his American counterparts were likely doing that same evening -- playing violent video games while moodily munching junk food supplied by their parents.

For us, it was a micro lesson in economy, ethics, urban living and immigration. Later I learned that of 1,000 pedicab drivers in the city, only 5 percent are licensed, and many don't have insurance, seat belts or emergency brakes. A conundrum, and yet I feel thankful to live in a country where people come from all over the earth to make an imperfect but better life. I envision our driver many Thanksgivings from now -- grown sleek and prosperous, presiding over a table surrounded by children he will send to college, their table groaning with dishes from his homeland mingled with turkey and pumpkin pie.

Christian, a former Dubuquer, is a Des Moines writer whose e-mail address is rebecca.christian@mchsi.com.