It’s been more than a week since my last trip to Central Park. In that time, all the bulbs have been grubbed out of the beds. The chestnut blossoms have shriveled, and the catalpa blossoms have just started to form. For most of the walk to Bethesda Fountain, the park was a monochromatic green, broken by the occasional pink rosa rugosa.

At the fountain, Jim the bubble man was packing up his buckets and ropes. “What’s going on today?” he asked. It was a hot, humid day; people quickly crossed the plaza to get from one shaded spot to another. “Nothing today, absolutely nothing,” he shrugged. “Maybe the heat, maybe the holiday weekend.”

Meta wasn’t there. She doesn’t play in the heat because she can’t keep her harp in tune. John Boyd and his crew had also taken the day off, for the first time in memory.

I set up in center stage. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

“I don’t, but he does,” said a woman walking with a small group, all dressed in black tee shirts. She pointed out a rather large man. He said he was from California, not Hawaii. The woman, perhaps not wanting to disappoint, took a lei and said, “I’m ready when you are.”

A pregnant mom stopped to let her toddler dance, a slow, precise waving of arms. “Only in New York,” said the mom, handing a dollar to her daughter for me. A boy, walking by, put another dollar in my case. A young couple sitting by the fountain watched the show. When they got up to leave, I offered them a hula, but they weren’t interested. Then they stopped, the man’s back to me; a discussion, rummaging in pockets and backpacks, soon produced $3.01.

A Chinese teenager approached with a dollar in his hand. “This is from the 2 ladies over there,” he said, pointing them out in the shade. I tipped my hat. “I’ve started to learn the ukulele,” he told me. “I hope someday to be here too so I can attract girls.”

A large school group from Killington found time for a dance. “In what grade do they teach the hula in Vermont?” The kids howled. “How about skiing?” Not that either. The kids dumped an unknown quantity of change in my case.

I had thought that after 30 minutes in the sun, I’d move to the shade, but I was doing so well, I kept postponing the moment. With only 15 minutes left in my set, I stayed put, singing my songs pretty much to myself. A random young man or old lady gave me money, a smile, a hula-lite hip waggle. I had a $16.16 day, proving that the hula is mightier than the bubble.