"One Indian summer day we dressed in our favorite things, me in my beatnik sandals and ragged scarves, and Robert with his love beads and sheepskin vest. We took the subway to West Fourth Street and spent the afternoon in Washington Square. We shared coffee from a thermos, watching the stream of tourists, stoners and folksingers. Agitated revolutionaries distributed antiwar leaftlets. Chess players drew a crowd of their own. Everyone coexisted within the continuous drone of verbal diatribes, bongos, and barking dogs.
We were walking toward the fountain, the epicenter of activity, when an older couple stopped and openly observed us. Robert enjoyed being noticed, and he affectionately squeezed my hand.
“Oh, take their picture,” said the women to her bemused husband, “I think they’re artists.”
“Oh, go on,” he shrugged. “They’re just kids.”"
“Oh, take their picture,” said the women to her bemused husband, “I think they’re artists.”
“Oh, go on,” he shrugged. “They’re just kids.”"
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