You leave that place a foreigner, exhaling an expanding cloud of scorn, long strides. The shaded streets are nearly deserted and my equilibrium begins to return. Brownstones, exotic dogs, expensive cars parked unmolested - if students live in this neighborhood, you think it's safe to say they're not here on work study. You turn a corner and think you hear spare rich echoing notes blown from a saxophone, but there is something so ethereal about the sound you can't be sure it's real. Another block and you find the source tapping his left foot, keeping time, eyes closed, playing to an audience of zero.
What is it about this sound, this man, this moment that makes you forgive everything?