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In front of the homes, coach upon coach were parked one behind the other, in a narrow, one lane cul de sac. Out poured hundreds of Asian tourists led by flag-waving guides screeching Cantonese, Mandarin and Japanese (so far as he could recognize), all storming into this little home as though they were charging onto a Cathay Pacific plane on its first boarding announcement.
This brought further tears to his eyes, wondering what it would feel like if they overran his old home in Ellington Park.
Back at the memorial, someone stepped on his toe. "Oh, so sorry." A young Chinese woman, walking backwards into him apologized in a thick accent. She was taking a photo with her iPhone of her friend contorting her body to one side to get herself, the whole of the mosaic and the footpath leading to it, all in one shot. And, of course, as in virtually every photo shoot he had witnessed across Asia, the girl was conjuring up a 'V' sign over the inscription ' Imagine".
He looked up at the sky. It was darkening and he was late returning to the hotel and his expectant family.
Entering their suite, his wife was taking a shower. In the sitting room, the boys were playing Civilization on their laptop, evidently enjoying the day's break from sightseeing.
Apparently, no one had missed him. "Hurry up. We're late," he said in a huff.
Bundled up and sweating in their winter garb, they charged out of the hotel and, this time, turned right towards Bloomingdales, an hour before closing time on Christmas Eve: he, his wife and their two sons.
Halfway to their destination, he stopped dead in his tracks staring into a shop window: the name H*Y*M*A*N K*A*P*L*A*N stared back at him like a flashing neon sign.
"You guys go ahead. I'll meet you there."
The Argosy Book Store on 59th Street reeled him in, not with a siren call but with the only book title that would have drawn him like iron filings to a