Saturday, November 27, 2010


Life is change, the Buddhists say. Which makes New York feel quintessentially Buddhist. Where are the whores who just a few years ago plied their trade along lower Third Avenue? Where are the crack addicts who stored their stolen goods in an abandoned building on East Fourth Street? And most sadly, where are the Andean pipers and drummers whose melancholy mountain music once wafted surreally through every urban landscape from the bowels of the subway to the spires of the skyscrapers? They've taken their wooden flutes and their brilliant serapes and their glossy black butt-length braids—and vanished.

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