New York City. I emerge from underground, look up for the sun and find the skyscrapers instead, then mutter, apparently aloud, something about assorted temples to various American gods. Then they’re your gods too, a man says. Me? You’re American, ain’t you? Well, it’s not that easy: way I see it, I might be from somewhere or nowhere, or as far away as everywhere, pretty much anywhere, really, give or take here and there. He disappears: I’ve failed some test of faith or naïveté, or both. Is that even possible? A few blocks further I give a dollar to an old Chinese man playing an erhu in the park, because though I’ve never been to China, his music reminds me of home.