It is easy to spot a tourist in New York, amongst other possible give a ways, they are the ones taking pictures of the squirrels. New Yorkers weigh in differently on the creatures’ appeal, but I see few, if any, stopping to take the furry creatures’ photographs.

However, this is not to suggest that New Yorker’s are indifferent to wildlife. The other day, perched atop the head of a statue in the western part of Central Park, was a young red-tailed hawk. Keeping a respectful distance from this exquisite avian was a slew of local enthusiasts. They were chatting amiably amongst themselves, standing by their tripods and cameras equipped with enormous zoom lens.

“May I take a look through your camera?” I asked one of the gentleman. He somewhat hesitantly said yes.  I approached the camera resting on a sturdy tripod and through the powerful lens I could see almost every feather on the hawk’s head. The hawk looked directly at me. “He’s looking right at me!” I excitedly said. The man clicked the cord connected to the camera and took multiple shots.

“You see this crowd? We all know each other. We know his favorite spots and meet up .” The man explained.

I still find squirrels cute and charming, but it was the sight of the red-tailed hawk that I continued to think of throughout the day.

Last night I was riding my bicycle along the west side of Manhattan. There is a scenic bike path that follows the river and I was looking for an entryway from the street above. I noticed a very long flight of stairs, but the weight of my bike discouraged me from carrying it down.

I headed over to the sidewalk for a better view, but still saw nothing. Just then, a man and woman were approaching me. They were well-dressed, speaking amiably to each other. Both were in wheelchairs.

“Excuse me, do you know if there’s a ramp to get down to the river?” I asked. They stopped, and the woman replied as she pointed..”Yes, just on the other side of that tree. The ramp’s a bit tough for us, so we use another one a bit further on, but it should be fine for you.”

From my position the ramp was obscured. “Just there? I don’t see it.” I sheepishly said. ” “No, you can’t see it from here, but if you go on the other side of the tree you will,” the man joined in. I thanked them, and followed their directions. The ramp was there.

I looked back and noticed that they had lingered. I gave a wave and thanked them again. They waved back with smiles and continued on.

It’s ninety-two degrees outside and I have a jacket in anticipation of frigid air-conditioned interiors. (Certain subway cars are more suitable for transporting meat than live flesh.) And I am not alone. There are others, mostly women, wearing or carrying extra garments too.

This particular subway car however, is comfortable. The crowd inside is undoubtedly raising the temperture. There is a small group of tourists standing near me. Their guide book is prominantly displayed while they chat in a foreign tongue. The doors at my stop open and I get up to leave.  The tourists are leaving the car too. It is then we all notice a yellow sweater has slipped to the floor.  They gingerly step over it, clearly unsure of what to do. I snatch it up. The doors of the car close behind me.

At that moment I am wondering if taking the sweater was a wise idea. “Who does it belong to? How can I return it?” I quickly look around and see a woman in a summer dress walking up the stairs. Fortunately, at that moment there are very few women ahead of me. I assume it is hers and do my best to reach her. The station is crowded. My progress is slow. Upstairs is another subway line and the woman is turning to enter the awaiting train. While still making my way up I give out a cry, ” Hello! Hello!” She turns! “Is this yours?” I say while showing her the sweater in my hand. Her eyes show surprise. She smiles wide and says. “Yes, yes. Thank you. Thank you very much!” I hand her the sweater as she dashs into the subway car.

Whatever the temperature awaiting her, she was well prepared.

Poverty, homelessness and hunger are serious concerns for many residents of this city. Over the years I have tried to assist those in need by giving to reputable charities and other means.

It is not uncommon for me to take a too-ample portion home from a restaurant. If I encounter someone on the street asking for something to eat, I will tell them what I have and ask them if they would like it. The gesture is often appreciated and the food is accepted.

Yesterday, I left a restaurant with a hearty meal’s worth of food for the next day. I passed a man sitting by a storefront. “Do you have money so I can buy some food?” he asked. “I have here some vegetables and rice, if you like.” I showed him the neat paper package in my hand. He looked at me, then vigorously shook his head. “I don’t eat leftovers.” he said. 

I had the leftovers today for lunch. They were delicious.

I had arrived at my appointed dinner date about fifteen minutes early. The restaurant, given the early hour, before six, was empty. “I am waiting for someone. He should be here shortly.” I explained with a smile. The hostess recommended that I wait at the bar. It was a beautiful summer’s evening and the air conditioning inside was excessive. I had chosen this restaurant because of its spacious, tree-lined backyard. “I’d prefer to wait outside in the garden, please.” I said. The hostess replied, “We do not seat incomplete parties. You’ll have to wait at the bar.” Expressing my discomfort with the cold, she grudgingly led me outdoors.

About thirty tables were situated outside. They were all empty. “You can sit here.” she said and pointed to a small bare bench by the door. I imagined it as the “time-out” spot for unruly diners. I again scanned all the empty tables and asked, “May I sit down at a table?” “Not until your party is complete.” she replied. She showed no signs of appreciating the absurdity of her directive.

Undeterred, I offered a compromise. “Perhaps, I can sit at a table now, and should you need it, I’ll be happy to move and wait on the bench.” She gave my suggestion a moments thought and reluctantly gave in.

When my dinner companion arrived, the tables around us were empty still.

Manhattan, although an island, rarely exploited its coast nor waterways except for commercial reasons until recently. The Circle Line, a boat that circumnavigates the island for tourists is a noteworthy exception.

Over the past twenty years or so, the island particularly the westside, continues to develop its parks(including one with a trapeze school), walkways, bikeways, various landscaped oases, and bountiful scenic piers. Riding my bicycle over to a pier the other day I saw dozens of kayakers paddling in the Hudson River for free, people playing miniature golf, adults sipping cocktails on a docked sailing vessel converted into a restaurant, and others engaging in numerous pastimes.

“How’s the fishing today?” I asked two young park employees at a free fishing kiosk on the same pier. They were providing poles, bait, lessons and sharing their appreciation for ecology and conservation. “We caught some sea squirts, and a dead shrimp with eggs still attached to it.” The woman replied with genuine enthusiasm. “But no fish today.” she added. She took a sea squirt from a large jar with water to show me how this tiny sponge (an amorphous creature) squirted like a water gun when squeezed. It was very impressive. Unfortunately her second squeeze was overzealous. She accidentally squished the tiny creature to an even less blob-like form than it previously maintained. “Oops, poor thing. But look, now we can see its guts inside. That’s pretty cool.” she added. Her demeanor quickly transformed back into being upbeat and cheerful. Seeing the internal organs of the sea squirt was admittedly pretty cool. Even the dead shrimp with eggs attached to its body was cool too.

I hope to come back and visit the pier again soon. Maybe I’ll even try fishing.

I always thought of riding a kick scooter as an unbalanced form of exercise. Everyone favored one leg. The other leg consistently remained motionless, supporting the weight of the body, but doing nothing more. I imagined the rider’s active leg getting muscular and strong, while the other remained slim and weak by comparison.

But there he is. A man, of a certain age, on his scooter, making one kick, two kicks, three, then switching sides to repeat the routine, one kick, two kicks, three with the other leg. He repeats the motion again and then again. He is making his way down the road at a steady speed, using both legs.

“It’s nice to see you using both legs.” I say while riding my bicycle along side him. “I am using both legs,” he replies clearly having misunderstood me. “Yes, exactly.”  I add. He continues, “Of course, otherwise my body isn’t balanced.” I readily agree. He continues, “Twenty years ago, when people saw me, they said these things were for kids. They laughed at me. I made them anyway and started selling them. Now look. Everyone’s riding them.”

I ruefully admitted, ” Not me.”

We chatted a while longer, primarily about the transportation gliding smoothly beside me.

I slowed down to make a right, we said our goodbyes, and the man continued down the road with one kick, two kicks, three.

Eating meals in the dining hall gave me the chance to speak with those I shared workshops with and those I didn’t. Sylvia and I hadn’t spoken until our last day at breakfast. After introducing ourselves with questions, she began to tell me of her time studying in New Haven years before.

“I came to Yale in 1976 with affirmative action, because I am Chicana (She has Mexican parents but raised in the US.). They had sent recruiters out to fill quotas and one of them ended up at my high school. I found out later that someone said, “Don’t waste your time they’re all Mexicans.” My English teacher standing there suggested to the recruiter that he drop by to meet her students. He came fifth period. If it had been fourth period or sixth, or any other time I wouldn’t have been there, but I was. I had a friendly,  but competitive relationship with one of my classmates and he said. “I dare you to apply.” “Only if you do too.” So we both did and I got in.” “Did he get in?” I asked. ” No” she replied.

“My school was in a poor, small town in Texas where I was an A+ student, but I didn’t have the academic skills to survive here. I spent my four years at Yale just trying not to drown.”

” What grade were you in when they recruited you?” ” I was a senior.” “That didn’t give you much time to prepare.” I added.  Sylvia said, “It was tough competing with kids from Phillips Exeter and other top schools. My mother kept telling me I was too far away and that I should come home, but I stayed. Back home meant watching my mother prepare twelve enchiladas, on a good day, for our family of six. My father ate first, my older brother already six foot three, would eat seven of them, leaving two more for the four of us. There were days my mother who always ate last, had none.” ‘Was your brother ever told to leave more for the rest of you?” ” No, he’s always been my mother’s favorite.” she replied. “I began accepting the fact that I wasn’t going to be getting A’s or B’s. I mostly got C’s–but, nobody ever asks me how I did here, saying I went to Yale is enough–although it took me years to regain my self-confidence after those four years. It also didn’t help that I fell in love with a woman.”

“Do you have any regrets on having studied here?” I asked. “I found a job publishing Spanish textbooks in Boston where I worked for thirty-five years. Back home I would have been expected to get married and have a family. That’s not what I wanted. No, I have no regrets. My education gave me the life I never would have had.”

“I can’t shut my mind off.”
The cashier in the dining hall, at a university where I am attending a two week workshop, was talking to her co-worker.
I joined in with, “I love to shut my mind off.” as she swiped my card for entry.

“You can shut off your mind?” she asked me in earnest, then added,”My mind never stops even when I’m in bed. I start thinking of this and that. I can’t shut it off. I’m going to get high blood pressure. It’s no good.”
“Have you tried meditation or yoga?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I friend of mine told me.”

I went to get my food and initially thought,”Working as a cashier is stressful? But she has no work to take home.” As an educator for decades with nightly lessons to prepare and papers to grade I assumed any job without take-home work was a breeze. But I came to my senses. There are always bills to pay, family responsibilities, and so much more.

The next meal I saw her and gently chiding her said. ” So, did you try meditating or yoga yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well I might pester you until you do.” I added.
We both smiled.

But I didn’t pester her. I just said hello each time I dined, and asked how she was doing. “I can’t complain.” was her reply

Leaving the dining area one day, I hadn’t seen her.

“Have a wonderful afternoon, beautiful.” I turned around and there she was darting out then darting back into the dining room.

A police officer who was walking a few steps ahead of me turned and said, “Thank you.”
I couldn’t resist going back in and jokingly ask. “Were you calling that hunky guy beautiful or me?”

“What hunky guy? Where?” her colleagues excitedly chimed in.
“No, I was saying it to you.” she responded.

The barrier as strangers dissolved in our laughter.