As I turn into the park I’m greeted by the usual mix of bicycle rickshaws, hot dog vendors, tour groups getting return bus instructions, button salesmen. A second crop of roses and cosmos are budding behind the benches. It’s another hot one; I don’t even think about center stage.

Four Chinese teenagers stopped to watch. One of them asked to play my uke. He worked out a few chords and they all started singing. It was a Russian tune, or so I was told by the New York couple who leaned lazily against the fence and proudly watched the Chinese kids totally take over my gig. The couple were hosts for a program called “Impact,” one goal of which is to explore the world in the spirit of spontaneity and creativity. “You’re perfect for our purposes,” the woman told me. Retrieving my uke, I didn’t let them leave without a hula.

The candy boys from Jersey City were out again today. One of them shook his fist, as if shaking dice, then rolled 76 cents into my case. For the rest of my set, whenever they walked by hawking candy bars, one or more would give me a high-five or fist-bump.

A Brazilian woman danced the hula, then walked away. This is not surprising behavior; there is no tradition of tipping street artists in Brazil. A more common walk-away are the people who assiduously avoid eye contact, then, as soon as they pass and can no longer see me, joyfully hula down the path, as if invisible.

Two kids did the hula. “Look, mom, look,” they called, but mom was leaning into her cellphone, her back turned. Dad took a picture, but, by the end of the first verse, all enthusiasm had evaported, so I brought the “The Hukilau Song” mercifully to an end. The parents turned and walked away, the kids running after them.

At the end of my set, I squatted to count out $7.76 in my case. Someone came running up to me. The girl who could not get her mother’s attention had managed to get a dollar for me. Aloha.