“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.”

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.