Except for the cleome and roses, and a few pathetic lantana, the park has very little color. It’s a beautiful day. The picture takers at the Imagine Mosaic were undeterred by the police tape surrounding it, and the sign that said it was undergoing routine maintenance. I wove my way through the crowd and made my way to center stage.

The big bubble man was in front of the arcade, and the cowboy crooned near the path to the boathouse. “What time are you quitting,” I asked him.

“Noon.”

“You know it’s after noon now,” I said.

“Oh, okay, give me a minute.”

I sat by the fountain, set up my stuff and quietly tuned my uke until he was done. Before I got to the end of my opener, “Making Love Ukulele Style,” a man walking by dropped a buck into my case.

A trio of women ranging in age from 25 to 55 needed a little convincing, but soon enough they danced the hula. One of them gave me $2, then the others also kicked in. It seemed an auspicious start, so, a few minutes later, when I put leis around the necks of 2 teenage girls from Charlotte NC, and started singing “The Hukilau Song,” I didn’t expect them to walk away.

A young girl from Holland came off the bench, where she had been sitting with her parents, and asked to hula. As she danced, the sun glinted off her braces.

“Can you play ‘Tiny Bubbles’?” a heavy-set man in black shouted out. I played it for him; he gave me $2 then sat down with his wife to hear more.

After a few numbers, they got up to leave. “You guys from New York?”

“Toronto.”

“Oh, the movie version of New York.”

I took in a single here, a single there. Down the path came a Chinese bride and groom, along with their photographer. I immediately started singing “The Hawaiian Wedding Song,” as is my custom, although in all the years I’ve been busking I’ve never made a dime for doing so. This, however, as the song says, was “the moment of sweet Aloha.” The photographer gave me $2; as he posed the couple by the fountain, I put leis around their necks. When they were done, the photographer put the leis back on my case and inquired about my CD. The price was right; he gave me a 10-dollar bill, asking, “All ukulele?”

“100%”

At the end of my set, I stuffed $21 in my pocket. A 50-something couple from San Francisco watched as I packed up. We chatted, comparing the relative wonders of our two cities. “Can you play a little something for us?”

I took my uke out again and sang, “I Wonder Where My Little Hula Girl Has Gone,” for which the man gave me 2 more dollars.