I had no idea what to expect. As it turned out, unlike Grand Central Terminal, where a militarized police patrolled in large numbers, Central Park was free of guns. In fact, the park was beautifully free of crowds altogether. Center stage was mine. An elegantly dressed woman started me off with a dollar, followed closely by a young man in a tee shirt. Neither had time for a hula.

A group of 5 girls collected 5 quarters; one of them walked them over to me and dropped them in my case. Two young women smoked on the bench directly in front of me. The park is a no smoking zone, but, except for one old lady who routinely tells tourists to snub out their butts, or stands in front of bicyclists on the path to make them dismount, no one enforces the codes. First one smoker came forward with a dollar, then the second.

“Have you got time for a hula today?”

“No,” said the man walking by, “I’m not drunk enough.”

As I packed up, a twenty-something woman handed me a buck. “Thanks,” she said, “I really enjoyed your music.”

“How about a hula?” I asked, holding up a lei I was about to put away in my case, but sobriety was to reign all day.