One day only. We are predictable and take train no. 7 (Express) to Manhattan.
Our destination is MoMA, an undisputed highlight. But MoMA doesn’t open until 10:30 and, being jetlagged, we’re early. That almost never happens.
To fill up the time, we take a stroll in Central Park. We’re struck by how well-cared for it is, and chat to a friendly, open-faced woman who is part of a group of volunteers busy trimming and tidying. After a while, we pause on a bench near the pond. We feel contented. All is well with the world.
The robed Buddhist monk who approaches us with a smile increases our sense of peace. He strikes up a conversation of a kind; his English is a basic but he does manage to tell us he is from Taiwan. We want to tell him about our own connection with Buddhism, but out of the blue, he takes hold of my arm, then Ewan’s, and slips a wooden-beaded bracelet on each of our wrists, muttering ‘gift, gift’.
We are perplexed; we are not in need of a bracelet (as we are trying to shed rather than acquire stuff). A little tussle ensues (‘no, no, thanks, thanks’ – ‘yes, yes’) which he wins, and as we surrender (remembering that loving kindness is one of the heavenly abodes), he shoves a lined page with names and amounts (ranging from $ 20 to $ 100) onto my lap. The message is clear: look what others give, you must do the same.
Our feeling of harmony has been replaced edgy sense of feeling manipulated – something we don’t respond well too. I feel a little dazed and confused as the smiling monk puts a pencil in my hand and gestures pointedly.
Our friendship with the monk is short and not very sweet, and all three of us know it. To put a stop to it, Ewan reluctantly digs up a $20 note, asking for $10 change. The monk hastily throws us five dollars and turns away. We watch him go, marveling at being such easy prey.
A small illusion poorer, we head for MoMA, which restores our spirits within minutes.
