The sweep of the plantings on the north side of Womens’ Gate goes something like this: lantana backed by fuschia, cleome, more cleome backed by roses, more cleome. The skinny pink and white petals don’t have much color, and the spooky green-bean-like pods below add nothing, if not an unpleasant arachnid element. The wisteria on the pergola hasn’t bloomed in years, and the easternmost branch of the chestnut tree is turning brown with blight.

In the dappled shade of Strawberry Fields, however, the white asters, what we call in our house Michaelmas Daisies, line the paths. The purple variety was in bloom on the roadsides the day we were married.

It was hot. I considered walking down to the maple and playing in the shade, but center stage was too alluring. An English woman gave me a dollar. “It’s too hot to hula,” she said. I told her I loved people from England; they liked the ukulele and understood the wordplay of the lyrics.

A group of high schoolers in white tees congregated in the shade across from me. Their leader told me there was no time for a hula today. There was time enough, however, for a couple of the kids to put together 2 dollars and change for me. The young man who brought it over was from Barcelona, and was on his way to Wisconsin for a lengthy stay. “Are you spending the winter there? Good luck.” He returned to his friends. I wondered if they all were destined for Wisconsin.

A flamboyantly dressed man in granny glasses gave me a dollar. “Thanks, I enjoyed the show.”

A shaggy biker dude of 50 or more, dressed in black, walking with his presumptive wife and son, passed by. We exchanged looks. I said, “Aloha.” They walked to the water, then stopped on the way back and put some change in my case. He was a magician from Baltimore, who busked, from what I heard or imagined, up and down the northeast. He was well versed in the laws and regulations of various locales. I told him how I got a permit from the police to busk in Provincetown, which I still carry in my wallet.

“And are you the magician’s assistant?” I asked his presumptive wife. The boy of 12 or 13, bored, embarrassed or both, sat on the edge of the fountain a fair distance away. She nodded. “Does he ever make you disappear?”

“Just let him try it,” she said, her role no longer in doubt.