I was in New York yesterday. On the A train, I was sitting between two women, and across from their young sons. I was on my way back to Midtown, coming back from the Cloisters. The women and their sons were going to the orthodontist.

The women, both well-groomed, tall, and White, were talking across me; they were discussing the lottery. (The jackpot is up in the improbable range, once again.) I had been part of a transit conversation about the lottery on the bus in Philly the day before, so it felt like the same conversation to me. 

The women tried to explain to their eight-year-oldl sons why not all the money is given away in prizes, and I interjected “Senior citizens.” In Pennsylvania, the ads for the lottery always say that the proceeds from the lottery “benefit senior citizens.”

Just like that, the women were chatting with me as if talking to strangers on the New York subway was allowed. One of them was actually from Pennsylvania–Bethlehem, north of Philly–and the other was from “here,” she said. I told them I go to Manhattan once a month. “That’s nice, you get some culture,” said the New York resident, as if Philadelphia doesn’t have any culture.

I wasn’t offended. “I went to college here, Barnard, a long time ago. Sometimes I go to Bryant Park and just watch people.” I didn’t say sometimes I just get on the subway and watch people like them. I didn’t say I dropped out of Barnard and graduated from the oldest art school in the country in Philadelphia, where we have an absolutely fiendish amount of “culture.” Not necessary.

Three young men got on, and announced they would be doing their act. They turned on their boom box, and two of them started dancing.

Part of why I go to New York is the performances, honestly. The buskers on the subway, the classical musicians and guitarists who camp out in Grand Central Terminal, and also the people who are barely getting by as they stride through the crowd, wearing tattered regalia. I enjoy the performances of the foreign tourists in their small groups near the Metropolitan Museum, looking at New York as if through a big pane of thick glass and discussing it in German, Swedish, or French. I have my own presentation; I present an elderly lady drifting around by myself in the big city, amiably naive.

At first the women and I kept talking over the performers, but then a whole body revolved in midair in front of me. I said, “Hey, this is better than usual.”

We all stopped to watch. The young sons of the tall ladies were watching the guys open mouthed, because the performance was acrobatic in the extreme. The guys were dancing, playing juggling games with hats, and turning somersaults and flips using the overhead bars, without hitting any passengers. 

When they were done, I pulled out a $5 bill and put it in the hat they were bringing around, because I always have a little change on me for buskers. The guy collecting money fist-bumped me, gently.

Now one of the little boys was scowling at his mom. “I didn’t have any money to give them,” she said to him apologetically.

“It’s okay. I gave them money for you. That’s why I gave them so much,” I told the boy. It was worth the $5 to see the little boy smile. I had made his day, at least for the moment.

I got off at Port Authority and walked underground to the Times Square–Grand Central shuttle, because I hadn’t been on it in a long time, not since I was in college. The shuttle was a little cleaner than in 1968. I got some dumplings in the basement food hall at Grand Central, and ate standing up. Then I sat in Bryant Square a while and went to catch my train home.

I was out of cash, so I had to use Venmo for the brass band playing cheerful swing outside the train station. I stayed for three songs.

It was a particularly good day for seeing shows.