I’m humming the dopey song by Katrina and the Waves, Walking On Sunshine, after my encounter with a Real New Yorker earlier today.  I say “dopey” because it’s hard for me to reconcile the blaring optimism of its major chords and feel-good lyrics with the 4/4 beat of bad vibes coming from the Eurozone, Washington, and Mitch McConnell’s disingenuous “Yertle the Turtle” mouth.

But the song had to be sung, after my meeting with an African gas station attendant today.  I drove up, got out of the car and asked for $40 dollars worth.  Today’s sun was warm, and felt good on my bones, so I stretched and smiled.  He laughed, and he stretched too.

“Such a beautiful day,” he said.  “A gift.”  I agreed.  He turned to the expanse of Van Cortlandt Park across the street.  The leaves were turning, the air was cool and fresh.  A team of workers tended the Park’s athletic fields, a vast carpet of green worn after a summer of hard use by kids from around the City.  The weather reports for the rest of the week were for sheets of cold, wind-driven rain, but today was superb. 

“I plan to take a run after work,” he said.  “I will either run the cross-country course in the park, there, or perhaps down the East Side along the river, from my block on 116th Street to South Street and back.”   

I nodded in agreement. “Such a day is too beautiful to waste,” he said in his accented English.  I looked down the block and saw two school teachers leading a gaggle of pre-schoolers towards the park.  They were all laughing and in high spirits, these little kids, as they held onto their leash/tow-rope.  Some of them were actually skipping.  Imagine that!  Such a miserable world and these kids were skipping.
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I looked up at the sky.  It was Boulder blue.  I suddenly felt calmer.  My gas station guy, from Cote d’Ivoire, did the trick, along with the kids.  The problems, they will be there tomorrow.  They always will.  But today is a magical day, to be savored, appreciated, revered, lived.

Some say that The Real New Yorker believes that there is no place for positivity, when a sour disposition will do just fine.  A sunny outlook?  Ha, that’s for the rubes in smalltown America, right?

Wrong. Sometimes, even New Yorkers have to bop along with Katrina and the Waves.  It’s not mindless.  It’s mindful — of the gift of life, which can be snatched away in the blink of an eye.