It was a slow start on Wednesday. Although hot, the humidity was down. Over the lake, the towers of the San Remo on Central Park West stood out clearly against the blue sky. Almost an hour went by before I got a lei around the neck of a young German woman, who danced to “The Hukilau Song,” both verses, before thanking me and walking off. My first dollar materialized a short time later, when a hulking 30-something tossed it in without breaking stride.

A girl of 5 or 6, with long wavy red hair, grabbed a blue lei and danced up a storm, skipping, jumping and waving her arms from one side of the path to the other. She struck me as a theatre kid, born to play Annie, full of self-confidence, and just a little bit annoying. When we’d finished, she tossed the blue lei back into the case and pulled out a white one. “Different color, different dance,” she said, this time cavorting to “My Little Grass Shack.” Her father, who had been proudly watching the performance, peeled off a fiver and took her by the hand, preventing her from showing us her orange lei inspired hula.

A large woman in a red dress stopped to dance. She moved languidly, her arms undulating like gentle waves washing the shore. Next came a pre-teen boy who would not dance, but dumped a pocketful of change into the case to show his appreciation. A woman walking two small dogs showed some appreciation too.

The crowds were thin, the weather hot, time to bring the act to a close. A group of Germans stopped to listen to me sing “Honolulu Eyes,” then put a few dollars in my case. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“Already did,” said a Fräulein, putting in her buck. It was the young woman who started things off today, returned to make things right.