"Do you have any change?" I was quite startled, and with one hand still on the leash thrust some dollar bills at her. I had to ask: "Where are you from?"

During more than ten years spent living in New York City, this once foreign place has virtually become my hometown. Even when away on travels, I go out of my way to find somewhere selling The New York Times airmail edition, because in over ten years I must have read that newspaper every single day.

There are many such daily activities that I do without really thinking about. Life would appear to be much the same wherever you find yourself. The one big difference from living in Taipei though, is that English is universal here. But one even gets used to that. I do not recall when, but the habit that I had at first of listening intently and feverishly translating in my head eventually faded away. These days I dream only in English, even if I dream of having a row with someone. It seems that my home has not been "over there" for a long while now.

In recent years I have become quite blase about things that would have once seemed odd, as if nothing can surprise me any more. For instance, the sight of New York's ubiquitous street people has never shocked me. In the subway stations, in the parks, and on the streets. Maybe sitting or lying down, some dragging their belongings, some holding out a hand for money - they are everywhere. Were I to fish out a little change to help each one that I see, it would not be long before I had nothing left. So instead, I do as the typical New Yorker does, well practiced in the art of looking but not seeing. I pass on by with an impassive stare, only clutching my own cash more tightly.

There are exceptions of course. It was in late summer that I rode home by taxi one evening after a long day at work, not feeling like taking my usual walk back. As the cab turned into my street I caught a fleeting glimpse of a girl with long hair sitting on a black case under a streetlamp. I assumed she must be waiting for someone.

Back at home I changed out of my suit and washed my face. Even with the air-conditioner on full blast it was still hot. I didn't really have an appetite for supper, but finally decided to pick up some sushi at a nearby Japanese restaurant, and take the dog for a walk on the way. Coming out of the apartment block I was surprised to see the girl still sitting there. Only as I drew nearer could I see her face, and realize that she was oriental. I relaxed some. She certainly couldn't be a vagrant. Street people can be any age, male or female, black or white, but in all these years I hadn't yet come across one who was oriental, let alone such a normal looking girl as this. As I led the dog past her, she suddenly looked up and said in English:

"Do you have any change?" I was quite startled, and with one hand still on the leash thrust some dollar bills at her. I had to ask: "Where are you from?" She carefully counted the money, folded it away into her pocket, and replied blankly:

"I don't know." For a moment she seemed to think about it, then pointing at my dog began to laugh. Her English was not perfect, but I couldn't tell what accent she had. Could she be Chinese? Korean? Vietnamese? Her laughter made me feel awkward, and not wishing to pry any further I let the straining dog tug me around the corner into 3rd Avenue.

Waiting in the restaurant for my order to be wrapped up, I speculated on the girl's past, and on her mental condition. She had not looked much over twenty. Her clothes were not worn out, and she didn't stink, being altogether cleaner than the average street person. The only peculiarity was that she had rouge smeared thickly over her cheeks, almost like some figure in a Peking Opera. I suddenly began to wonder: was she an overseas student suffering mental problems? Had she been brought here by her family then abandoned? Might she be a newly arrived immigrant, unable to adapt? I paid and rushed outside, thinking that I ought to find out and at least help her to find a place to stay if necessary. But by the time I returned to the spot there was no sign of the girl. I stood for a while trying to make up my mind whether to go and look for her. Then a native New York instinct prevailed: keep to yourself, mind your own business. I got the dog home, sat in front of the TV. and enjoyed the sushi. After all. I had an excuse. There was nothing I could have done to help her anyway. My getting involved might have brought on complications. How would I have explained it if as a result she felt reliant on me, a single Chinese man?

I finished up the meal, and as usual tidied away a few papers brought back from the hospital. I called my girlfriend in Boston to see how she was, but without mentioning anything out of the ordinary. Then off to bed. As soon as my head touched the pillow, this modern, unsentimental man was asleep.

In the following days I often looked around on my way in and out of the building, half hoping to see the girl - so as to clear up my doubts about her - and half hoping she had moved on for good, so that I shouldn't have to think of her again. And she never did reappear. In the months since then, the sight of a homeless person on the streets still reminds me, and I cannot help feeling a slight sense of guilt. Was there not anything that I could have done for her? But as I turn the corner, she is already forgotten.

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(Photo by Arthur Cheng)