23. Brown paper bags.

As they walked, she chattered nervously. "My parents were hippies--but I grew up here, so I've seen just about everything."

The avenue they were walking down was a carnival of activity and they weaved between other people, young and old. He had been here before. He matched his pace to hers.

She continued to speak. "I guess every now and then the hippie wins out and I see someone I want to help, you know? But you've got to be so careful in this city. Are you from here?"

"No."

"Huh. Talkative. So why Buddhism? I mean, if you want to get into a rant in Union Square, why not Bush, or racism, or the rights of the American worker?"

Here again he paused. She was becoming accustomed to this. It was as if he wanted to carefully think through everything he said, or as though he was consulting an inner council on each word. After the pause, and the weaving around people, came his answer. "I wanted to reach them, with a story."

"I was into Buddhism and all that stuff in college, but after a while, it just felt too much like I was turning into my parents." She stopped in front of a tiny storefront, crowded with people. "This is the place."

They waited in line. When they reached the counter, she placed her order, then looked at him, then placed his order as well, and paid for both. They walked out with their little brown paper bags.