New York is tuned out. Or, is it? I climb over hills on Lexington Avenue. My feet have turned flat from carrying a two hundred pound frame. Only beautiful music playing through a transistor radio heals me.

For hours, I sit in Washington Square Park, telling myself not to make the same mistake again. Do not end up sleeping on the subway or on the beautiful grass under trees in Central Park. Park benches and concrete sidewalks are hard on the body; they take their toll.

Looking around the city, I see the less fortunate, the crazies, the speed freaks, people economically deprived in this land of ours, pill poppers, Blacks brake dancing before me with money collected in a box, Jews who have beards and twirled hair, wearing dark clothes, Hispanics celebrating life in this new land, the Chinese displaying delicious ducks and roasted pigs in the windows of their shops in Chinatown, businessmen and beautiful people looking ahead, not down nor at you. They are immune to this place known for welcoming all, and here I am, wondering where to go, the first step in my new town.

I take notes. I listen to WNYC and WKCR. I eat egg rolls and wontons, falafel, and lamb with rice from street vendors, hot dogs, and slices of cheese pizza washed down with coffee in a blue cup with Greek letters on it saying, We Are Happy To Serve You.

Classical music runs through my head as I fall asleep in luxury. A hotel room costing four hundred a night with firm pillows and clean sheets. I dream in peace.

Some people never learn their lesson. For tomorrow I will be broke again. A hundred to my name. Back to normal.