If you travel on the F train in the evening, you may see a woman playing an accordion on the subway platform. Her hair I recall was dark brown, but now it’s blonde. The color suits her.

The other evening the forecast predicted rain and the musician stood with her back to one of the wide station pillars wearing shin-high rubber boots and thigh-high knit socks under a flouncy miniskirt and a dark fitted jacket. A tattoo peeked out from under one sleeve. Her eyes gazed down as the fingers of her right hand fluttered across the keyboard while the fingers of her left hand alit fluidly upon small round buttons. Her arms spread and folded around the instrument like a bird seeking flight.

The arrival of my train was delayed. I listened to her play as the music melded from jaunty to mournful. Her eyes never looked up. The music transported me to a distant land: perhaps folk tunes from her Eastern European hometown. Her look had a foreign air.

I went to put some money in a box that lay by her feet and when she came to a long pause, I asked where these songs came from. In a distinct New York accent she replied, “Oh I’ve been playing some Satie, Johnny Cash, Springsteen.” I expressed my surprise. “Everything played on an accordion sounds as if it comes from somewhere else.”

I readily agreed and thanked her for the journey before getting on the train.

There seemed to have been a decades long lull that has come to an end. Subway cars are once again a common site for seeking funds and hearing, “I’m so sorry to bother you.” or “It’s show time folks.”

The stories and the approaches differ, looks of need vary, but the request for money does not.

A young man, husky in build, wearing chinos, baseball hat, and sports jersey entered the car. A few moments later he announced to those around him that he would sing  “The Wizard of Oz.”   While he sang, “We’re off to see the wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz, because, because, because, because, because of the wonderful things he does….” his arms swung in wide arcs back and forth and his feet managed a simple two-step flowing with the movement of the train.

He sang loudly and off-key. There were no requests for an encore.

Then he walked off the car without another word or gesture.

I was not alone in my surprise that he had offered his performance for free.

Walking with a child in hand on Flatbush Avenue, a main thoroughfare, was a woman wearing a hijab.

What caught my eye was not her conservative attire, but a balloon aloft between them. The peace sign was prominently displayed on each side.

Was it a gesture to demonstrate their sentiments or to garner protection from those who confuse evil intent with a religion?

Like a concerned parent, K. provided me with a handwritten note to show the bus driver. She had arranged for me to attend the party of her friend, a Japanese artist, during my stay in her Kyoto home, decades ago.

Upon my arrival, I met S., also a friend of the artist. Her English was perfect. Her wide smile, curiosity, intelligence, warmth, infectious laugh, and her bold exclamations enthralled me. We instantly became friends. She showed me Kyoto, took me to her home and that of her parents. She taught me how to apply the bright red lipstick that I had admired on her never still lips.

Years later, S. and her husband stayed with me in NYC. We talked incessantly, toured the town, and tried to stifle our amusement when her husband moved awkwardly from his first sunburn.
But somehow time, distractions, responsibilities, and distance took their toll. I lost touch, if not the memories of our friendship and her smile.

Last night, I dined with a mutual friend T. We too had shared wonderful times. We too, until now, had let that connecting cloth unravel. A wave of nostalgia had prompted me to seek S. and T. out a week before.

T. assumed I already knew. I didn’t.

The past two years S. had been tormented with debilitating depression.

Her extraordinary, beautiful, vivacious spirit could not, did not, save her.

This season reminds me of a stroll I took, years ago, along 11th Ave in Manhattan.

The street was fairly empty, but there was a couple heading toward me about a block away. Just before our paths crossed, a man stepped out from an apartment building. He was conservatively attired in a suit, and his face was painted green.

The couple looked at the man and I overheard the woman say, in an accented English, “Oh, it must be Halloween.”

“No, I thought, just a typically, atypical summer’s day in New York City.”

Needing to stop off en route to a friend’s home, I was grateful to meet an amiable taxi driver who did not object to a quick detour and short wait. My companion went inside to purchase some items and I had time to hear his tale.

“I came from Pakistan twenty years ago. I got my MBA here, had a good business, got married, then things went bad. The business failed, my marriage failed. Now I drive a cab, but I am healthy, thank God, and happy.”

The man in his forties would intermittently look at me in the rearview mirror, but mostly gazed straight ahead.
“My father’s first business was selling fruit from a cart. He asked if he could park his cart in front of a store. Soon, he bought that store and then a few more. He was a very successful man. He had a wife, ten children. All of us went to school. My father was very strict and I came here to be free. But I remember the things he told me.”You make a decision and you stick with it. If it turns out that it’s not the right decision, then you make it right.” After my father died the family lost everything. There was the politics, the violence, hard times. I was already here. But they are okay now. Not like before, but okay.”

“I’ll start another business some day. I am sure.” he added.

We were soon setting off and arriving at our destination. We wished each other well.

I thanked him for his kindness and sharing his father’s sound advice.

While installing my works for a show at a Lower East Side gallery a man came in and asked to look around. His English was halting. He seemed to have less difficulty understanding English than speaking it. Kazuo, from Japan, was in New York for a few weeks to visit museums amongst other things.

His card stated his three professions: artist, architect and priest.

He generously asked how he could be of assistance. Given his artistic eye, I asked if he might assess the way I chose to hang my work. He began looking, I got busy, he had an appointment and had to go. I invited him to the opening in two days time. We said goodbye.

At the opening, the room was crowded. I noticed him nearby. We warmly greeted each other and I introduced him to those I knew.

I became engaged in conversation with others and sometime thereafter he urged me to come over.

He handed me a sketch drawn in blue and red ballpoint pen. On it were several arrangements of the way my work could be hung and the way that he liked best.

The art vendors on Fifth Avenue, just steps from the Met, selling paintings, photographs, magnets, Russian dolls, and souvenirs are a common sight. I usually glance at the items for sale, but rarely do anything more. But the other day a Polaroid of Coney Island’s Wonder Wheel. caught my eye. I was in a nostalgic mood and Coney Island is a place I’ve always held dear.

The artist, standing in front of dozens of matted prints all neatly displayed in boxes, wore impenetrable dark sunglasses. He explained, with a Japanese accent, his technique of printing Polaroids while showing me other images I might prefer. But I continued to prefer the saturated colors and grainy framed image of the Wonder Wheel.

After the purchase was made, I inquired where the artist was from.

“Tokyo,” he replied. “How long have you lived in New York?”  I asked. “Long enough.” he answered. I smiled, said goodbye, and thought of the many ways I might interpret his response.

“Hey there, where do these clams come from?” I asked the extraordinarily deft shucker at a Coney Island food stall. “Right here.” he replied. His grey bushy moustache barely moved as he spoke, while his hands continued with graceful and swift motion.

In each smooth gesture he took a clam from the pile of crushed ice, opened it with the knife, glided the blade underneath its flesh separating the meat from the shell, then placed an entire clam, one after another, on a plastic plate. I looked over to the ocean on my left and silently questioned its cleanliness. “Do you know Brooklyn?” he asked. “Born and live here.” I replied without hiding my pride. “They come from Gowanus actually.”– Anyone who knows anything about Brooklyn knows the waters of Gowanus are as toxic as they come. I looked at him with my best, “I don’t believe you” expression. “No, they’re shipped fresh from Rhode Island,” he conceded with a visible smile.

“You’re a master at shucking these clams.” I continued. “My two cousins are neurosurgeons.” he replied. His hands never stopped moving. “Well, dexterity runs in your blood. If you ever get tired of this, you can always join them.” I said. “Yeah, I’ll just need to go to medical school.”

We chatted about Coney Island. He spoke of the must-sees, never diverting his attention from his work. But I had taken enough of his time and wished him well. “Next time, give the clams a try. They’re really delicious.”

I have no doubt I will, and they are.

His aim of each ball was precise and the power of his throw broke the plates one after another–CRASH, CRASH, CRASH, CRASH. A perfect sequence.The sounds from the game booth resounded over the screams of delight and terror from the rides, and caught my attention. The prowess of the tall, young man won him a large plush SpongeBob doll. He displayed no bravado. He smiled shyly, taking the prize in his hands, while his friends applauded. It was a hot Saturday in Coney Island. Luna Park, the ocean, and sea breezes, attracted a crowd of all ages.

A woman, pushing a stroller with a young child inside, approached the young man holding SpongeBob and said, “Excuse me, would you mind doing that again? I’d like a doll for my baby. I’ll pay for it of course.” He paused for a moment, then agreed. He was handed four balls. He looked a little ill at ease, but focused. Although one may have argued that the stakes were not high, the sense of expectation was palpable. He threw a ball. It missed. Then CRASH, CRASH. And another miss. He quietly accepted a small green frog and passed it on to the woman. She said with a smile, “Oh, thank you. That’s nice.”

She was giving her child the frog, when the young man handed her SpongeBob. “Here, take this instead.”