In Washington Square Park these days, at the foot of Garibaldi’s statue and across from the fountain, there is oftentimes a set up where a smiling man sits, slapping casually on a bongo drum. Out before him are spread about a dozen brightly colored hoola hoops, there for whomever may feel inspired throughout the day. On this particular crisp and chilly afternoon I walked out of the library and towards Fifth Avenue, crossing the park and listening to Neil Young on my ipod. In the air was the distinct and unique wisp of breeze that signals the onset of autumn. As I passed the bongo drummer by I noticed that, for the most part, his hoola hoops lay unused, rings of color against a gray and dying day. There was one hoop however, that was in use, and this one by a very willing participant. Her bouncy blonde curls blowing in the late afternoon breeze, a little girl was hoola-ing ecstatically, giggling as she moved to the drumbeat. In that moment, still walking along on my way, against the backdrop of my college campus and the sound of Neil’s Harvest Moon floating up into my ears, I saw myself in her smile.