Friday can bring bad behavior to the park. Marching around Bethesda Fountain, a swing quintet, consisting of 3 saxes, clarinet and drums, sucked all the oxygen from the space. Dressed like clowns in hardhats, they spun from the south end, playing to the balcony, counter-clockwise to the north, where Arlen packed up his dulcimer. Meta waited for him up the path. They were moving over to the boathouse.

I set up under my maple and opened with “I Wonder Where My Little Hula Girl Has Gone.” A toddler approached and I pretended to cry for the lost wahini. Some teenagers broke into a spaz-dance. A conservancy worker in a golf cart said, “Aloha,” as he drove by. One of the guys who tend the rowboats did a little hula. The day was developing splendidly.

A bride and groom strolled pleasantly down the path, their photographer close behind. She was in a tropical print, he in a dark Nehru-like suit, no collar or lapels, open over a collarless white shirt. “Would you like to hear the ‘Hawaiian Wedding Song’?” I asked. They seemed intrigued by the prospect and before they could think about it, I put a white lei on the bride and a purple lei on the groom. The photographer put a dollar in my case and started taking pictures. The bride did a creditable hula, but the groom could only manage to shift his weight from foot to foot and smile for the camera. At the end, however, as blue skies of Hawaii smiled on his wedding day, he gave his bride a big kiss, and me a fiver.

A large group of middle-schoolers, according to their leader, had no time for a hula. “Where you from?” I asked the kids walking by.

“We’re Canadians,” said one. “From Canadia,” said another. This elicited peals of laughter, doubtless an inside joke, and two more dollars, US, in my case.

I left after an hour with $9.50. The swing band was still playing, although they’d taken off their hardhats and were sitting in the shade.