the west village is for lovers

TRY to find a more beautiful place than the west village
at this very moment- just at the end of a rain storm,
at sunset, it was glowing with possibility.

The 'way west village' is a tree-lined, quiet collection of houses that have been
houses since the 19th century, and are still houses. Even the breezes are polite
and soft. On a summer Sunday evening the churches expand with music,
and the cafes are full of debates among friends and tearful arguments between lovers.
It is well past nine and the restaurants along Hudson near the lush little Abingdon Square are still seating.
There are decadent pastries and coffee at Tartine on Eleventh St. and a canopy that keeps out the rain just past
the ankles. The air is misty.

"Hello?" the gentle voice of a West African breaks open the curtain of rain. It's soft and rude at the same
time, pleading for a quarter. The thin French proprietress wearing a green t-shirt and indignation appears
out of nowhere on the cafe stoop and crosses herself. "I have told you a thousand times you may not
harass our customers. I tell you this week after week. Now go or I will call the Police." His persistence is
impressive. "can I have a glass of water?" "No!" she says with her feet, which turn to the door.