I’d hardly begun before 2 teenage girls walked up and put money in my case, but they refused to dance. A 30-something man from California gave me a buck. I told him I had just come home from L.A. where my daughter had given birth. “Your dawta?” he repeated. “Now I know I’m in New Yawk.”

Marcel came by with Maggie the dog. While we chatted, I circled around the G major chords, G-G7-C-Cm-G-D7-G. A young boy gave me a quarter. A Chinese girl wanted a picture. “You’re busy,” said Marcel, picking up Maggie and continuing their walk.

A man got off the bench and gave me a dollar, saying, “Thanks for the music.”

A man stopped with 2 girls and wanted a picture. He was from Cherry Hill, NJ. His daughter reminded me that she had danced the hula with me last year. This year her friend and her dad joined in. A pre-teen French girl watched, then danced her own hula when the Cherry Hill gang had gone.

A family of Michiganders stopped to listen. The dad was particularly interested; he had just taken up the uke. “Do you know ‘Ukulele Lady’?” I played him a verse while his family walked to the edge of the plaza, where they found some shade.

A Spanish man and his daughter danced next, followed by a pair of Argentine girls, who walked away. A photographer caught the whole dance from a distance, then gave me a dollar.

Another photographer was taking pictures of the fountain, moving his tripod a few feet, taking another, etc. It took him a few minutes to move through my space. I tried to stay out of his way, for which he rewarded me with a buck.

Despite the heat, a cool breeze gave relief. At the end of my set, my heart, as well as my pocket, was full.