Summer time and freedom, a perfect recipe for an inquisitive girl like myself. I was in my fifteenth year, I believe and Greenwhich Village was where it was all happening. I mean poets and musicians roamed the streets by day, painters set up their easels, offering quick sketches for food money. Panhandlers, like myself prayed upon the generosity or guilt of passersby, to eke out enough money for subways and some food.
Mini skirts, madness, worn out jeans, anti war posters, and just regular folks in their finery on the mainstream treadmill of life all criss crossed through Washington Square Park.
As I had left the swank restaurant the night before, where my parents did their best to pawn me off on my grandparents, I now had to face another day wandering the streets. I was achy and crumpled having slept on the subway, the best I could. Again, I would go to my parents apartment after they had gone to work, packed upon a few more things, and some change, setting out for a day of adventure. Since it was the sixties, a runaway kid could easily blend in with all the other hippies in torn jeans, heck, I looked much better than many of them.
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