Abandoned roads - Jos Lammers

Pity. I think, when I sit here over thirty years later at
one of four wobbly little tables that defy the sloping paving
stones outside this little Italian bar around the corner
from where we’re staying in the East Village. Warm
wind along the facade, carafe of white wine on the iron
table. Local residents that look just as worn down as the
buildings and streets around us. An older man at the little
table besides me reads in his book for an hour over just
one cup of coffee. The woman who owns the place smiles
and puts a new glass of water in front of him.
Earlier that same Sunday afternoon we strolled with,
it seemed, every other New Yorker, through Central Park.
The weather was hot, people were barely clothed, dozing
off in the grass, making music, twirling around on their
skates, swaying to music that, through a tiny wire, reached
only their own ears. On one open spot, five big black guys
danced, making the public laugh and collecting money in
oversized garbage bags. “If you think five bucks is a lot for
a show like this, we say: you can do better. If you think
ten bucks is a lot, we say: get a job man.” They gave a lifelike
impersonation of a crab, jumped without any visible
effort over each other (‘don’t try this at home, kids, try it
at school’) and hopped on their hands up a wide, majestic
staircase where they said good bye, accompanied by loud
cheering. I laughed and applauded for the New York that
my eyes then, after five years of Divine Light Mission,
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