Last night Alison and I discovered a new NYU dining hall. This one allows the diner to collect unlimited amounts of food. Being the glutton that I am, I didn't realize I was full until I found myself halfway through my third plate of food, my innards bursting with dull, painful agony. At that point I decided the rest of my food would be more useful to others than it would be to me.

So I brought the rest of my tofu teriyaki to Tariq. It was my second time bringing him food. I felt determined to please him, after watching my first food delivery crash and burn. Once again Tariq was talking to some friendly people I'd never seen before when I plopped down next to him and eagerly put the styrafoam container in his lap.

"What did you bring me this time?" he excitedly drawled.

"I got you some tofu; it's good," I said. I gave him the fork I'd taken from the dining hall.

His simple response made me feel truly appreciated: "Man... you cool. And he brought a fork!"

Then, "Ay, you got a dollar?"

I wasn't sure how aghast to be. "Man, I just gave you some food and now you're gonna ask me for money?" I not-really-jokingly jibed him.

"Yeah man!" he volleyed back.

"What are you getting with this money?" I asked.

"Some beer, man!"

Then I realized I was squabbling over a dollar with a homeless man who'd accepted me at some level just minutes after first laying eyes on me. He'd opened my eyes to another social dimension of this park that I otherwise would have blinded myself to.

Still, there was something that bothered me. Tariq turned back to the people he'd been chatting with when I arrived. Sitting on his other side, I could see how it would be a bit awkward for him to talk to all of us at once. But I suddenly felt passé, like I was the exciting new guy but not anymore. Like Tariq has been living on the streets for decades, and he's seen my type come and go -- the open-minded, middle class white guy who feels cool, urban and gritty for hanging out with relatively happy homeless guys. Tariq directed a story at the others about some rich girls who had summoned him excitedly to the street one night and bequeathed him a trunkful of leftover, gourmet catered food. It sounded grand. I stood up, bid him farewell and walked home.

I got to the park late tonight, about 10 minutes before its midnight closing. I scanned the crowd of new characters huddled around the music, finally feeling at home again when Tariq emerged and cheerfully greeted me.

Tonight was less idyllic than other nights have been. There was another "nut", according to Tariq, but he was a lot less appealing to me than Steve or Harv. In very little time, I found myself breaking up a fight between him and an exasperated regular.

A police van rolled up to disperse our crowd just as the two men's tempers subsided. The nut asked a fellow hobo for a sip of his drink, and was turned down. All I remember is what rang out into the dark, empty night as I walked away from the smattering of stragglers.

"No one ever gives me anything, and you wonder why I fuckin' do heroin! Look at my arm!"

"I don't know their life story, I don't know their personal shit, but I know how they treat me. They treat me good. Now that's some shit to write about."


Steve gesticulates at nobody. Every now and then he lets out a fleeting, sing-song yelp or a melodic whistle -- his form of participation in the homeless people's singalong which brings life to Washington Square Park every night.

"I've known Steve for a while. He's a nut. You know there's the village drunk, the town fool -- Steve's the nut," says Tariq. Tariq has been around for many years. His gray, wizened dreadlocks and upbeat spirit attest to that. "Everyone says there's something wrong with him, and there is. But I've noticed there's one thing he always does. He always wants to share with people. You know, he comes up to people with a drink, he offers you the straw -- people can't accept that shit! People don't understand him 'cause they don't know him. And I get it! People have their fears. But he's completely harmless. I've never once heard of him yelling or cursing, getting in fights, nothin'."

"He's so well put-together," I say, marveling at his tidy goatee and matching, fitting outfit.

"Oh you like his uniform?" Tariq says. "He wears that thing every day. But it's the strangest thing -- I've never smelled his body odor. Hey Steve! Come over here, I want you to meet my new friends!"

Steve looks over, his feathered hat whipping around with his attentive glare. He steps a few feet towards us and abruptly launches something at me as if it had just bitten him. "Yuhwahmuhshuht?" he earnestly offers as I bend down to pick it up.

"No thank you," I awkwardly stammer, taken aback despite Tariq's unforgettable warning. I hand the t-shirt back to him and he throws it right back in my face.

"Thanks, but it's your shirt!" I insist.

This time he accepts, clutching the rag to his chest, where he already holds an armful of folders overflowing with haphazard messes of paper. He jabbers incomprehensibly for a bit with an explanatory look in his eyes. Words mix seamlessly with flatulent bursts of air shoved through his pursed lips. I back away, cautious of his raining spittle. But there is none. Steve walks away, urgently gesticulating.

Life's a beach?

Yesterday I returned ''home'' to Guadalajara after a three-night getaway to Puerto Vallarta with ten Oberlin friends. Our twenty-five person group had fragmented over the weekend, with the eleven of us going to the renowned party city on the Pacific shore, and eight others going to Barra de Navidad -- a relatively quiet beach town 1/30th the size of Puerto. Our group had put fiesta over siesta, and to a certain extent we got what we'd come for.

The day before we took off, a few friends and I went to a local bookstore to copy down useful information from a guidebook on Puerto Vallarta. Even we were scandalized to read the opening line of the section on Clubs & Nightlife: something to the effect of ''In Puerto Vallerta at night, teenagers and 20-somethings like to get trashed and dance on tables.'' Seriously. It turned out that the reality was not so spectacular -- vacationing's low season sent exports of primarily middle aged American turisticos, partiers past their prime. At a loss for the crowd of international teens so often in season there, our group turned within -- and I think we really bonded.

On Friday we went to Boca de Tomatlan, the beach pictured above (not my picture). ''Boca'' means ''mouth'' in Spanish, and indeed the beach was a picturesque sandbar nestled in the curve of a vast, n-shaped, lush green mountainside. We spent several hours frolicking in the water with a deflated volleyball and lounging in the sun. At some point I saw a trio of young Mexican boys around age ten approach Carey, one of the girls in our group. They handed her what appeared to be a stiff, life-size iguana with a short string tied around it. In awe she turned it around in her hands, as our group of gringos quickly descended upon the spectacle. We soon learned that it was in fact a real iguana, scared shitless into a state of live rigor mortis not long after the boys had found it somewhere in the nearby forest. Soon it came my turn to hold the precious creature, whose ribs and organs I could feel through its finely scaled, majestic skin. After passing it around a bit more, the ringleader of the Mexican niño dropped it callously on the ground and planted a stake in its makeshift leash.

A few minutes later young Dr. Doolittle and his friends approached my friend Jose and me and challenged us to a game of beach fútbol. Now I'm no soccer player but I often find myself a restless reserve of kinetic energy, and this was one of those times. About 45 minutes later I was starting to grow weary of beating up on the little munchkins when goalie Jose split the crotch of his bathing suit going for the ball. The kids collapsed, erupting in laughter. The game was over, and it was about time to head back to the hotel.

More about the Puerto trip later, but events happened today that I have to write about. Today I was fortunate enough to witness a startling, stupendous human moment. After school today I was sitting on a bench in a plaza, resting my legs and catching some shade with my friend Sarah. At some point a haggard, hunched over man approached us. His forehead peeled dried blood, and bits of food peppered the stubble around his mouth. He leaned over us, saying he needed help and just wanted two pesos. Two pesos is a pittance -- no more than fifteen cents -- and yet for some reason I hesitated, then rejected him. I told him we were students and didn't have money. I guess I just wanted him out of my face, and my revulsion at his appearance blocked any charitable impulse I may have felt. Disgustedly, he said ''I don't think I can believe that,'' and hobbled away to the next bench.

Less than an hour later, we were walking back to the bus stop to go home, when we witnessed a scene of human holiness. A homeless man dressed as a street clown, with a dirty face and a set of juggling props strapped to his back, walked past another homeless man who kneeled helplessly in the middle of the sidewalk, his legs folded under his enervated body like two flaccid tentacles. The circus-less clown walked a few steps past the supplicant man, then decisively turned back and bent down, dropping a handful of change into his previously empty tin dish.

That miraculous moment will stick with me for the rest of my life. But will I learn from it? I used to give change to homeless people on the street. When did I become so callous? What right do I have to drop down in a semi-destitute country, eat its delicacies, learn its language and leave a month later without giving something back? Every morning on my bus to school I see an old, toothless man walking inbetween cars at the same red light, peddling cheap packs of gum for five pesos each. How does he survive? How does he wake up before dawn every morning and raise the courage to hobble smiling through rush hour traffic after a full life of labor? Almost every day I see a grungy man or woman selling some piddling product with one or two toddlers in tow, because they have nowhere to leave their youngsters while they scrap for pesos all day. Seeing a five year old with a head full of greasy, disheveled hair and unattainable dreams is one of the most heartbreaking things I've encountered on this earth. But what can I do about it?